The desert sun hung low in the sky, bleeding amber light across the dusty expanse. Erron Black leaned against a crumbling stone wall, one boot propped up behind him. His revolver spun effortlessly around his gloved finger, the metallic clink a comforting rhythm.

A group of scrappy Outworld bandits approached, their leader barking orders as they dragged a bruised merchant behind them. Erron didn’t move, just tipped his hat a bit lower.

“Thought you said the road was clear,” one bandit sneered, his grip on the merchant tightening.

Erron didn’t answer. Instead, he flicked his wrist, and the revolver snapped into his palm. The next second, he fired without looking, the bullet grazing the bandit’s cheek and planting itself in the ground.

“Road’s clear,” Erron drawled, his voice low and gravelly. “Your brains might not be.”

The bandits hesitated, eyes darting between Erron and their bleeding leader. One brave fool reached for a blade. Another shot rang out. This time, the bandit’s knife-hand hit the ground before he did.

Erron straightened up, blowing smoke from the barrel. “Now, either you leave, or I start shooting things that don’t grow back.”

Without another word, the bandits scrambled, dragging their wounded leader away. Erron glanced at the merchant, who was still trembling.

“Next time, don’t walk alone,” he muttered, holstering his gun.