The Man Without Name appeared at the edge of the town, the Old West wind lifting his poncho high into the air.
Walking calmly, he lit a cigarette, his spurs echoing steadily along the road.
As he entered the town proper, he was finally greeted by a group of bandits.
—Stop right there. Hand over everything you have, or you won't see the sunlight again —they said, their pistols resting at their sides.
—You must be new around here. Even Billy the Kid doesn't touch the town of New Amster without paying tribute —he replied calmly, watching his cigarette burn down before exhaling a plume of smoke.
—Tribute? Ha! And who would we pay, you stupid man? —one of them sneered as his revolver came up, aimed at the Man with No Name.
The bandit's head exploded before the Man with No Name could respond.
—To the town, idiot —he said, already walking away, not bothering to look back as the remaining bandits fled for their lives into the desert.
He continued inward until he reached the edge of the town's water tank and spoke aloud.
—How's it going, Joe? Nothing to do, or are you on watch today? —he said, adjusting his hat into the shade.
In an instant, a short man appeared, holding a Winchester rifle still smoking, a telescopic sight mounted on top.
—You know, it wouldn't be bad to run into some new bandits. You know… for trade —Joe said cheerfully, lighting a cigarette of his own.
—They were smart this time. Ran as soon as their leader's head blew off —the Man Without a Name replied, watching his cigarette burn out.
—Well, we already have the locals. As long as they follow the rules, it's fine. But this is the third time you've come this week. Something happen? —Joe asked as his rifle fully cooled.
—I'm here to deliver a gold stone to the Apache chief. Insurance against the Green Demon —he said without concern as the cigarette extinguished.
—Ha! Don't tell me you still believe in fairy tales, one-arm —Joe scoffed casually.
—Watch your tongue, friend. That idiot bandit you shot got off easy compared to what would happen if you said that in the chiefs' territory. Besides, those damn wendigos swarm like flies when I go chopping wood at night —The man with out name said, a trace of worry in his voice.
—Ha, don't be ridiculous. Why didn't you kill them when you had the chance? You could've made a fortune —Joe said, whistling for his horse.
—I like keeping my revolver fully loaded. You should always be sure of the shots you have —the Man Without a Name chuckled before continuing on.
Joe mounted his horse and called down from above.
—Take good care of that gold nugget, friend.
He froze for a moment as an idea struck him.
—Ah, right. Judy's Bakery has new pies.
Even those old shamans like them. Might be good for you. Ayoo!
With that, he rode off toward the outskirts of town.
The Man Without a Name instead walked calmly toward the municipal bank.
—Mister Nobody, what a surprise to see you these days —said a sheriff in dark clothing, speaking with familiarity.
—Sheriff Mackenzie. I'm surprised to see you out of your office. Usually that only happens for a bounty hunt, doesn't it? —he replied, glancing at the poorly concealed wanted poster in the man's vest.
—It's truly bothersome to ask this of you, Mister Nobody, but this one burned down the county church while trying to rob it, and nearly angered a tribal chief. Seven thousand, dead or alive. Sounds like a good sum, don't you think? —the sheriff said with a smile.
—Hmm. Tell me how much time I have, and I'll tell you if I can take it —he said calmly, lighting another cigarette.
—I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. As long as it's within three weeks and you bring proof of death to calm things down, that'll do —the sheriff said, rolling up the paper and handing it over.
The Man Without a Name took it without hesitation.
—I'll see you in two weeks. If anything urgent comes up in town —he said, glancing into the distance— make sure there are no problems afterward.
—Ha! In New Amster, even the stones keep quiet. Travel safely —the sheriff said, tipping his hat as he walked away.
He entered the bank. A stunningly beautiful receptionist spoke calmly.
—May I have your bank registration slip?
The Man Without a Name pulled a folded paper from beneath his poncho, bearing a fingerprint and a signature that read: No Name.
—Withdrawal or deposit? —she asked, examining it with a magnifying glass.
—Withdrawal —he replied calmly. A radio played faintly in the background, too low for him to recognize the tune.
—Amount?
—One gold piece, one hundred grams, and six hundred ninety dollars.
She lowered her glasses, surprise flashing across her face.
—Well… it can be done, but members of Black Mountain are drinking at the bar today. Why not withdraw tomorrow? —she said with concern.
He smiled, chuckling softly at her honesty.
—Relax, miss. The money won't leave New Amster. If anyone tries, they'd better take good care of their heads —he said calmly, smoking.
She sighed, went to the vault, and returned with the gold and cash.
Before taking it all, he slipped her a ten-dollar bill.
—You're new here. Keep it up. Honesty in a bank is worth more to a saver than gold in their pockets —he said, briefly touching her hand.
He exited beneath the bell's chime and headed toward a building marked with an Apache headdress.
He reached it and knocked calmly, three slow and deliberate knocks, before speaking a phrase.
—The eagle crosses the skies while one watches the coyotes fight over bones —he said in a dry, steady tone.
A young, growing voice spoke even before the door moved.
—What colors are the bones to the eagle above?
The sound of a revolver being cocked followed.
The Man Without a Name did not flinch at the sound of the weapon. To him, it was as natural as birdsong. He replied with the same calm, his words directed at the closed door but meant for those listening within.
—Red, for the blood of wars we do not wish for. Blue, for the calm of the skies we seek. —He paused almost imperceptibly, letting the third color's meaning settle.— And green… for the peace that must grow, not just for some, but to fill everyone.
The hammer of the revolver inside stopped abruptly. A heavy silence followed.
Then the door opened fully.
The old guardian stepped aside respectfully.
Standing in the doorway, holding a disassembled Colt Single Action Army revolver in one hand and a cleaning cloth in the other, was a young Apache. He could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen. His long hair was tied with a red bandanna, his face sharp and serious, his eyes bright with curious, defiant intelligence.
This was Nantan—the youngest grandson of Broken Knife and, according to rumor, the tribe's finest shot. He was also a student of wasichu customs, particularly those he found useful—such as the maintenance of firearms.
The young man assessed the Man Without a Name, his gaze dropping to the holsters, the hands, the pouch faintly visible beneath the poncho.
—The eagle speaks wisely of colors —Nantan said, his voice now controlled.— But words are feathers the wind carries away. What weighs in the eagle's hand is what matters in the Chief's tipi.
It was another layer of ritual. Good intentions were welcome, but tangible tribute sealed the pact.
From deep within the room, the voice of Chief Broken Knife rolled forth, heavy as stone in a dry canyon.
—Let the eagle enter, son. And close the door. The dust of the town carries wandering ears, and not all of them belong to coyotes.
Nantan nodded and stepped aside, gesturing for the Man Without a Name to enter. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a spark of respect in his eyes. The man had passed the first verbal trial without hesitation, even with a weapon cocked as backdrop.
The Man Without a Name crossed the threshold.
The interior was exactly as he expected: simple, functional. Animal hides covered the floor. Weapons lined the walls—bows and spears alongside modern rifles. The Chief sat beside a small ceremonial fire that produced no heat, only aromatic smoke.
The door closed, sealing off the outside world.
The Man Without a Name approached the Chief, but his gaze briefly met Nantan's. The young man gave a slight nod—a warrior's acknowledgment—before resuming the reassembly of his revolver with quick, practiced movements.
The true negotiation was about to begin.
And this time, it would not be decided by proverbs alone, but by the weight of gold, the value of information, and the unspoken promise that when violence came, those in this room would know where their bullets would fall.
—Does this child not recognize the one who brought his father back? —the Man Without a Name asked calmly, addressing the Chief, who was inspecting an Apache knife in his hand.
—Unbreakable Eagle, do not look at a great diviner that way. He loses himself in the details of the future so deeply that he forgets the past —the Chief replied after a calm pause.
—Ha. Old Bloody Knife, the world treats us like old monsters simply for remembering the past —the Man Without a Name said, glancing toward a five-shot revolver resting at the back of the room.
—What brings you here, Unbreakable Eagle? —the Chief asked calmly, irritation from his grandson echoing faintly in his thoughts.
—A gold stone to end a monster… and some ancient feathers to glimpse my future —he replied evenly, his gaze briefly shifting toward the young man at the back of the room.
—You have slain the Green Demon many times before. You only seek our protection in case things unfold beyond your expectations —the Chief said, the knife ringing softly with each stroke of sharpening.
—I have a guest in my home. So why not ease the burden on a troubled soul by removing one of its weights? —the Man without a Name answered.
The Man Without a Name did not hesitate.
First, he placed the canvas pouch containing the gold nugget into the Chief's palm. The weight of the metal settled with a soft thud.
Then, deliberately, he reached beneath his poncho.
He did not produce bills. Nor more gold.
He produced feathers.
Three of them, bound carefully with thin leather cord.
A primary bald eagle feather—large, dark brown with a pale tip. A symbol of strength, vision, and connection to the divine.
A hummingbird feather—small, iridescent, catching the firelight and breaking it into emerald and sapphire flashes. A symbol of agility, joy, and access to paths others could not reach.
A small red feather, deep crimson, almost bloodlike. It did not belong to any common bird of the wasteland. Its texture was different. Its color so intense it seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it.
His gaze lingered on the red feather. His thick, graying brows furrowed.
—This one… is not of the wasteland —he murmured.— It carries the scent of… another place. A place where the rules are different.
The Man Without a Name neither confirmed nor denied it.
—It fell from the sky one night, when the air smelled of ozone and the lights danced. I saved it for a moment when I needed to see far —he said simply.
—Follow my grandson to the back courtyard. Protection against the Green Demon is assured. But while the joy of tomorrow's festival still burns, it may yet roam the forests —the Chief said calmly, storing the gold within a vessel carved with many symbols.
The Man Without a Name nodded. Nothing in the wasteland was absolute—not even a pact sealed with gold.
Nantan rose and gestured toward a low rear doorway draped with beads and feathers.
—Follow me, wasichu —he said, using the Apache term for "white man" without disdain, merely acknowledgment.
The Man Without a Name followed him.
The Man Without a Name followed him, passing from the Chief's intimate, smoke-filled space into the backyard.
It was an open area, surrounded by a low adobe wall. In the center burned a low bonfire, but its smoke was neither white nor gray. It was a dense, silvery-gray color, rising in straight columns toward the twilight sky without dispersing in the wind. Around the fire, drawn on the ground with colored sand, were symbols: wind, serpent, eagle, and concentric circles representing time.
It was a place of vision—an open-air altar where shamans and diviners communed with spirits and read omens.
The Man Without a Name stopped at the edge of the sand circle, breathing in the acrid, herbal scent of the special smoke. His eyes swept the area, pausing on a small mound of stones to one side, marked with faded feathers. A simple grave.
—It's a shame what happened to old "Vision of a Thousand Eagles"—he said, his voice lower, carrying a rare trace of genuine respect and something close to sorrow.—He still had a few years left to leave this world in peace.
"Vision of a Thousand Eagles" had been the former chief shaman, a man of deep knowledge and dry humor with whom the Man Without a Name had shared several useful—if occasionally unsettling—exchanges in the past.
Nantan turned sharply, his eyes shining with a mix of warning and superstition.
—Wasichu!—his voice was an urgent whisper, thick with fear.—Don't speak the old elder's name here! Not now, not in this place.—He glanced around, as if the lengthening shadows might be listening.—We don't want any vengeful spirit, or the echo of his soul, to hear it and return from the grave… or worse, rise as a wendigo.
The mention of a wendigo was not metaphorical. In the beliefs of the wasteland tribes, certain souls—especially powerful medicine men who died with strong attachments or violently—could become corrupted. Drawn by the sound of their name or by the energy of a place of power like this, they could return not as benevolent spirits, but as monsters of hunger and ice. A shaman transformed into a wendigo would be a nightmare of unimaginable power.
The Man Without a Name closed his mouth and nodded silently. He had committed a spiritual breach of etiquette. In the wasteland, not only bullets and gold carried weight—names and words did too, especially near the dead and places of vision.
Nantan seemed to calm when he saw his understanding. He knelt by the fire, took a handful of dream-bark powder from a small bowl, and tossed it into the flames. The silvery smoke flashed electric blue for an instant, and the scent of a distant storm filled the air.
—The feathers you gave… the red one speaks of a thread broken and rewoven—Nantan began, his eyes fixed on the flames now dancing unnaturally, reflected in his dilated pupils.—It speaks of a lineage that should have ended, but now… pulls at something greater. A stone princess in a nest of metal.
The Man Without a Name did not move, but every word struck like a blow. Princess. Broken and rewoven lineage. Nest of metal.
Nantan continued, his voice tinged with awe and fear.
—The hummingbird… it sees a heart beating in two worlds. One foot here, in the land of dust and blood… and the other… in a place of cold lights and numbers floating in the air.
—He shuddered.—The eagle… the eagle feather shows shadows with swords seeking the red feather. And behind them… hunters made of ice and mist… and a serpent flying through the heavens, pursuing the red feather.
The only part that truly surprised the Man Without a Name was the serpent flying in the sky. In his mind, the image of a dragon rose, and he let out a heavy sigh.
Nantan's eyes snapped open, gasping as if emerging from a trance. The smoke returned to its silvery-gray hue. He looked at the Man Without a Name, his face pale.
—The future you seek to see, wasichu… is a storm. The red feather is the center. Your guest is the eye. And everything else… is the wind that will tear everything apart unless you find a way to anchor her—or cut the thread.
The Man Without a Name breathed deeply, the air thick with smoke and foreboding. He had come seeking a glimpse, and instead had been given a map of the perfect storm heading straight for his cabin.
Cutting the thread… meant handing Hui Cao over. Or killing her. It was the pragmatic, cold option—the one that would guarantee his continued survival in the wasteland without this unwanted celestial attention.
Anchoring her… meant protecting her, defending her, turning his refuge into a fortress against everything that would come: system demons, assassins, spectral hunters, and eventually—perhaps—a dragon made of imperial will and fury. It was madness.
He stood up, his joints creaking softly in the cold evening air. He looked at Nantan, still recovering, then at the vessel where the Chief had stored his gold. The deal was done. Apache protection against the "green demon" was secured. Against the rest of the storm… that was his problem.
—My thanks for your vision, and to your grandfather for listening—he said, his voice returning to its usual dryness, though now edged with fresh fatigue.—Tell the Chief the eagle will remember the agreement.
Nantan nodded, still too breathless to speak.
The Man Without a Name left the backyard, passing through the beaded curtain, through the room where Broken Knife now smoked his pipe in contemplative silence. Just before he exited, the old chief spoke.
—Eleven coyotes are gathering to end your life outside this building, Unbreakable Eagle. Does fortune walk at your side?—he asked with dry sarcasm.
—I counted six, so I must have misjudged—he replied calmly.—So, old Bloody Knife, will you grant me permission to borrow your old blood-soaked weapon for a bit of help?
—If the weapon accepts you without trouble, you may take it to stain it with blood once more. But it must return to its rest after the battle ends—he said pragmatically, before a puff from his pipe caused the five-shot revolver to fall.
The Chief raised the pipe to his lips and blew a sharp, forceful breath.
From the deep shadow in the corner where the revolver hung, the weapon slipped free of its peg. It did not fall. It was as if an invisible hand unhooked it and gently propelled it through the air toward the Man with No Name. As it touched his hand, a purple glow flared for an instant. It spun once, slowly—the rusted barrel and wooden grip glinting faintly in the dying firelight—before he caught it midair with his left hand.
The grip was perfect. The weapon was heavier than it looked.
He felt the residual energy of dozens of past deaths, of sealed pacts and punished betrayals. The revolver did not resist. It accepted him. To the weapon, he was simply another bearer,another chapter in its long, bloody story.
The Man Without a Name inspected it with quick, expert movements. Five chambers. All loaded. The mechanism, though ancient, was impeccably maintained. He nodded to himself.
Drawing another revolver from beneath his poncho—one that also glowed purple in his hand for a few moments—he said:
—It will return in a few minutes.
—Good hunting, Eagle—was all Broken Knife said before closing his eyes, withdrawing from the scene, trusting that the instrument of his past justice would do its work.
The members of the Black Mountain gang—drunk and even more greedy—armed themselves upon hearing about the man who had withdrawn a gold nugget from the bank, a sum tempting to anyone.
After seeing him enter the Apache building, they felt a twinge of fear at the thought of being hunted by the natives in their canyon, but they carried out the ambush anyway.
Two on the rooftops near the building, three in front, and three at each corner.
Kicking the door open as he exited, the Man Without a Name fired one revolver at a man on the roof and the other at one in front, then ran for cover behind a nearby wagon.
A hail of bullets tore into the back of the wagon. He calmly counted the seconds until the gunfire slowed.
He fired again, finishing off the last man on the rooftops and one at the corner.
He followed with a rapid burst toward the two behind the corner, dropping them with precision.
A bullet grazed his shoulder. Without hesitation, he swung his revolver toward the bandit who had hit him.
The shot landed true, killing the man in front. The remaining four regrouped and opened fire. The Man Without a Name grabbed the corpse of the bandit who had grazed him, using it as a shield as he moved to the corner of the building.
Checking his injuries quickly, he found only shallow grazes on his legs and arms. He exhaled and fired both revolvers from the corner, emptying them completely.
The four men fell to the ground. He stored his revolvers in his inventory, but before reentering the building, he saw one of them still moving, reaching for his weapon.
Without hesitation, he drew a knife from his boot and threw it into the bandit's forehead, finally ending the firefight.
He pulled a small bottle from his inventory. The label read Mitchell and Company, 1880. After drinking it, his wounds began to close.
He looted the bodies calmly, leaving the weapons behind: "John and Green Chewing Tobacco," cigars with the John and Green logo, even some McGavin Candy mints.
After storing everything in his inventory, he pulled the knife from the bandit's head, wiped it on the body, and returned it to his boot.
He looked back at the Apache building and took out Broken Knife's revolver. This time, he simply went back inside.
Nantan looked angry at him, but the Man with No Name ignored it and placed the revolver into Broken Knife's hand.
—We'll see each other later, Broken Knife. And take some of the arrogance out of your grandson—it's a bad thing to have too much of that in these lands—he said calmly as he left through the door.
Broken Knife merely laughed, knowing that the man leaving was the only one who could criticize his tribe without facing any retribution.
As he exited, the Man Without a Name saw the town gravedigger approaching the corpses, hurriedly taking measurements for coffins.
Ignoring it, he continued walking toward the edge of town.
Reaching the outskirts, he noticed the pie sign to his left and entered, the bell chiming as he did. Inside, several people were browsing cupcakes and other desserts from Judy's.
Most were dressed in suits, with silk-like scarves, exuding an air of high society.
He examined the pies on display. Beside each one was a written label: Apple, Cherry, Butterscotch, Peach, Blueberry, and more.
Thinking of home, he looked at the pies again.
—Mrs. Judy still has the touch. The cinnamon and butterscotch pie is more heavily spiced—not bad, really—but I don't think that girl would like the bite of cinnamon. Let's go with something classic. Cherry. It's good, she might like it. And I should bring something for that dumb horse too—every time I come with a pie, he tries to eat me—
Decision made.
He rang the large bell at the counter. After a moment, a red-haired woman with freckles came out to greet him.
The Man Without a Name was slightly startled as he looked at the young woman's face—it reminded him of someone.
—What would you like, sir?—her voice was soft and calm.
He fixed his gaze on her emerald-green eyes before snapping out of his stupor.
—You're new here, miss. What happened to Mrs. Judy?—he asked calmly, lowering his hat slightly.
—Ah, so you've come from far away, sir. My aunt asked me to run the business a couple of weeks ago. I'm Janet. As you can see, business has been good. So, what can I get you?—her voice lingered in his mind.
—It's a lovely name. I'll take three cherry pies—he said, pulling money from his poncho and trying not to look at her too much.
He handed her six hundred eighty dollars. She immediately lifted his hat, making their brown eyes meet again.
—Isn't it rude not to look at someone when you're speaking, sir? Hee-hee. I'll bring them right out—she said, taking the money and heading into the kitchen, leaving him with a vague sense of dazed embarrassment as he adjusted his hat.
As he stared at the ceiling, waiting for his emotions to settle, a few ladies in the shop laughed softly at the interaction.
—Here you are. Three cherry pies. And as a bonus, since Christmas is approaching—she added, pulling out a small cupcake colored green and red, with a tiny heart on the side.
—A Christmas cupcake, so… come back soon, sir—
He looked at her bright smile, his heart pounding as he quickly took the basket with the pies and the cupcake, muttering his thanks in a rush. Janet laughed softly.
After he left, the system spoke calmly in his head.
"New cherry pie discovered. Upon consumption: +10 Strength, +50 HP recovery, and calm regeneration of 58 HP over 15 seconds."
"Temporary item discovered: Loving Christmas Cupcake. After consumption, if the user's HP drops to one, it will instantly refill to maximum. Grants +30 to all stats for 15 minutes. Duration: until the Christmas season ends. Consumption window: 24 hours."
He calmed down and slowed his pace, storing the pies and cupcake in his inventory before taking out the map.
Upon reaching the edge of town, he opened it, tapped on Home, and vanished into the air like a shadow.