Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 40: Three Days West

Kael’s eyes snapped open.

He gasped, chest heaving, cold sweat running down his face.

His hand shot to his side—reaching for the sword.

Nothing.

He blinked, vision adjusting.

The room was small. Wooden beams crossed overhead, darkened by years of smoke. The walls were earthen, packed hard and smooth, with cracks running along the edges where age had worn them down. A single small window let in pale morning light, the paper screen yellowed and torn in places.

The air smelled of straw and old wood.

He was lying on a rough mat, a thin blanket draped over him. To his left, a low table. To his right, a simple cabinet, its doors hanging slightly ajar.

This was a farmhouse. Rural. Poor.

"You’re awake, young man."

Kael’s head turned sharply.

An old man sat near the door, his back against the wall. His hair was white, tied back loosely. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, the kind earned through decades of labor under the sun. He wore simple robes, patched in several places, and his hands were gnarled, fingers bent from a lifetime of work.

He looked at Kael with calm, knowing eyes.

"A nightmare?" The old man’s voice was gentle, unhurried.

Kael sat up slowly. His body felt heavy, sluggish. He looked down at his hands. They were trembling slightly.

The old man stood with a soft grunt and walked to the table. He picked up a wooden bowl and brought it over.

"Here. Drink."

Kael took the bowl without thinking. The water was warm, plain. He drank it down in a few gulps.

The old man watched him quietly.

"Hungry?"

Kael paused, then nodded.

"Good. I’ll make something."

The old man moved to the small stove in the corner. He knelt down and began arranging kindling, striking flint to start a fire. The flames caught quickly, crackling to life.

From a clay jar, he pulled out a handful of millet and a few dried vegetables. They looked old—shriveled, discolored. The kind of food stored for months, rationed carefully.

He poured water into a pot and set it over the fire.

Kael watched in silence.

The old man stirred the pot slowly, adding the millet and vegetables. The smell of cooking grain filled the room. It was plain, almost tasteless, but warm.

After a time, the old man ladled the porridge into two bowls and brought one to Kael.

They ate together. The old man sat across from him, chewing slowly, his expression peaceful.

Kael ate without speaking. The food was bland, thin. But it was warm.

The old man set his bowl down and looked at Kael.

"You’re a traveler, aren’t you?"

Kael glanced at him, then nodded.

"Thought so." The old man smiled faintly. "You’ve got that look. The kind that comes from walking long roads and sleeping under strange roofs."

For a while, neither of them spoke. Outside, the wind brushed against the walls, stirring dust and dry straw.

"You look weighed down." The old man’s voice was quiet, thoughtful.

He stood and began rinsing the bowls with slow, practiced motions.

"Dreams like that usually have a root. Something the mind hasn’t put down yet. Things left unfinished. Moments you keep turning over."

He set the bowls upside down to dry.

"The road can carry a man far, but what he holds onto walks with him."

He glanced at Kael, letting the words settle.

"You’re still young. Don’t end up like me, stuck in one place your whole life."

---

Kael stood. The blanket folded neatly, the mat smoothed. He checked his belongings—simple, few.

He moved toward the door.

His eye caught something on the low table.

A book. Old, the cover faded leather, spine cracked. Pages yellowed and frayed at the edges.

Kael’s gaze lingered on it.

The old man followed his look. His expression shifted—just for a moment. Something distant entered his eyes.

"Ah, that."

He walked over slowly, picked it up, and brushed dust from the cover with a care that spoke of habit.

"A traveler left it behind. Long time ago now."

He held it out, but his fingers lingered on the spine before letting go.

"Take it, if you’d like."

Kael hesitated. The way the old man held the book—like something he’d read many times but could no longer bear to open.

"Are you sure?"

The old man smiled faintly. A sad smile.

"I’ve read it enough. Maybe it’s time someone else carried it."

His gaze drifted to the window, where morning light filtered through the torn paper screen.

"Besides, I’m done walking roads."

Kael accepted the book. The leather was worn smooth—not from age alone, but from being held. Often.

"Thank you."

The old man waved a hand, turning away. But Kael caught it—the way his fingers brushed the edge of the table where the book had sat.

Like saying goodbye to an old companion.

Kael tucked the book into his pack. He glanced around the small room one last time, then bowed—brief, respectful.

"Safe travels, young man."

Kael turned and walked to the door.

As he stepped outside into the morning light, he paused. His hand slipped into his pouch and pulled out a few silver coins—not much, but enough.

He stepped back inside, quiet, and set them on the windowsill, half-hidden behind the torn paper screen.

The old man would find them. Eventually.

---

The road stretched ahead, empty and quiet.

Kael walked alone, the book resting in his pack.

Three days.

He had been in this world for three days.

Every night, the dream came.

The same nightmare.

The five figures. The ghost. The tiger. And the final image, cut off mid-scene.

Every morning, Kael woke gasping, hands trembling—reaching for a sword that was no longer there.

---

Three days ago, he had woken in a brothel.

Silk curtains. Incense smoke. The scent of perfume and wine thick in the air.

He had opened his eyes to find himself lying on a wide bed, surrounded by women—three of them, still asleep, draped in thin robes.

His body had been his own. His face, his hands. But the memories flooding his mind were foreign.

Buyan Sect.

Once prestigious. Now fallen.

And he—Lu Zhihuan—was the Chief Disciple of the Buyan Sect.

The memories came in fragments, disjointed but vivid.

His master. The sect leader. An aging man with gray hair and tired eyes, still clinging to the remnants of glory.

Two junior disciples. Twins. A boy and a girl, no older than fourteen.

Four people. That was all that remained of Buyan Sect.

In Lu Zhihuan’s memories, the sect had been in decline for decades. But before that, it had stood at its peak—one of the strongest powers in the region.

Now, it was forgotten. Ignored.

---

Kael shook his head, pushing the lingering thoughts aside.

He had been on the road west for three days now.

According to the fragments left in his memories—and the rumors whispered along the roads—the west was where chaos pooled. Where Yaomo roamed freely. Where the law thinned, and the wicked survived longer than they should.

It was also where aether was easiest to come by.

So he headed west.

Away from the sect. Away from the remnants of Lu Zhihuan’s former life. Toward the places where Yaomo and desperate men gathered in numbers.

The road grew emptier with each passing mile. Villages thinned. Watchfires vanished. The land itself felt rougher, less tended.

He looked down at the book in his pack as he walked.

Bo’re · On Chivalry

He pulled it out, flipping it open. The pages were old, the ink faded in places. The handwriting was careful, deliberate.

A story.

He read as he walked.