Plundering Worlds: I Have a Shotgun in a Fantasy World-Chapter 66: Distance

[The Training Grounds - Sector 4 - Late Afternoon]

The impact echoed across the empty yard.

Kael’s fist drove into the wooden post. The entire structure shuddered, splinters burst outward, and a crack spread up the grain, slow and deliberate. He pulled back, reset his stance, and struck again.

The wood groaned.

His knuckles were raw. Blood seeped from the splits in his skin—not fresh wounds, just old ones that refused to fully close. The flesh had hardened over the past month. Calluses layered over calluses. Bone pressed closer to the surface.

He drove his fist forward again. Another strike. Another crack. The post leaned. He shifted his footing and struck again.

His body had changed. He stood above most men now, his shoulders pulling at the seams of his coat, sleeves riding short along his forearms, leather straining when he bent his arms. His old boots pressed tight across the top of his feet. The weight in him had settled deep and compact, packed close beneath the skin.

When he stepped forward, frozen snow cracked under his heel. Stone gave back a dull echo through his legs. When he struck, the impact ran through wood, down his arm, and into the ground beneath the slush.

Griggs had once said he looked cut from rock. He’d heard it before.

He struck the post again. The crack split wide.

The oak groaned under the blow. The post was as thick as his thigh, a solid trunk driven deep into frozen earth. The fracture ran hard along the grain, then tore across it. Wood burst apart with a sharp, splintering report. The upper half wrenched free and crashed into the snow, scattering heavy shards across the stone beneath.

Footsteps approached from behind—several sets, steady and familiar.

"Captain."

Kael lowered his fist and turned. Griggs, Kogan, Silas, and Bren stood at the edge of the yard, weapons hanging idle at their sides. They had come to watch, nothing more.

Bren spoke first. "It’s been a month. Dawn and dusk."

Silas gave a tight nod. "Every day."

A gust of wind swept across the yard, carrying loose snow through the splinters at Kael’s feet. Along the far stone wall, timber lay stacked shoulder-high—split oak piled in rough layers, trunks shattered down the grain, posts cracked clean through or torn apart by repeated blows. The heap stretched nearly the length of the wall, fresh pale wood standing out against older, darkened pieces. More than a hundred posts lay there, the remnants of a month’s work. The newest trunk rested broken at Kael’s boots, still shedding chips into the snow.

Griggs glanced at the pile, then back at him. "We’ve hauled in cartloads."

Kogan’s gaze dropped to Kael’s hands. "You’ve broken every one."

Blood traced the thick ridges of Kael’s knuckles and fell in slow drops onto the white ground. He flexed his fingers once, stepped past the fallen oak, and looked at them as if the yard were empty.

"Bring another," he said.

"This has gone far enough," Kogan said, voice low but steady. "The numbers didn’t match the report. We prepared for one kind of fight and walked into another. The fault doesn’t rest on you alone." He kept his voice even. "You’ve been at this since the funeral. Dawn to dusk. Every day. Let your hands close."

Snow shifted under Kael’s boots as he turned to face him.

Bren shifted his weight. "Captain, no one saw it coming. They were merchants. We all thought—"

"I caught the scent of blood on him. I ignored it."

"Jarek is dead." His voice carried no rise or fall. "Nothing I do here brings him back. This isn’t about him." He flexed his hand once. "It’s about the next man who doesn’t have to die because I was slow."

Kogan drew a slow breath and stepped back.

"I misjudged the field. I let confidence outrun caution—and I correct my own mistakes."

Bren frowned. "You’ve broken a hundred posts in a month."

"And I’ll break a hundred more."

Kogan studied him. "You think this will change anything?"

"It changes me," Kael replied. "Next time, I want the strength to end it before it turns." The wind moved through the yard, stirring loose splinters along the wall. "I don’t train for the fallen. I train for the next fight."

Snow scraped across the stone. The broken oak cast long shadows in the fading light.

Silas cleared his throat. "He said he’d buy the first round.... We’ll take that drink. For him."

Kael looked at him, then at the others. "Go. I’ll come later."

Griggs lingered. "Captain—"

Kael turned back to the shattered trunk, picked up the larger half, and set it upright. The wood was still sound.

"I’ll join you later." 𝐟𝐫𝕖𝗲𝘄𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝕧𝐞𝚕.𝕔𝕠𝐦

The sun had dropped below the western wall. Shadows stretched long across the yard, and the temperature had fallen with the light, but Kael’s skin was still warm. Sweat cooled on his neck.

He was resetting his stance when he heard the second set of footsteps. Lighter. Measured. Deliberate.

He turned.

Elira stood at the entrance to the yard. She wore traveling clothes—plain wool and leather, suited for the road. No ornaments. Her hair was tied back.

"Captain."

Kael straightened. "Lady Elira."

She stepped a little closer, stopping short of the broken timber scattered across the snow. Her eyes moved to his hands, then to the cracked post behind him. "I was told I’d find you here."

He gave a small nod.

"May I..." She paused, choosing her words. "May I call you by your name?"

The yard was quiet but for the wind against the wall. Kael studied her a moment—no mockery in her tone, no presumption. Only a careful step across a line.

"You may."

Her shoulders eased, just slightly. "Kael," she said, testing it once.

He inclined his head. "Lady Elira."

She allowed herself the faintest smile. "Elira will do."

"Are you all right?"

The question hung in the air.

Kael wiped his hands on his trousers. The blood smeared but didn’t come off. "I’m fine."

Elira’s expression didn’t change. "You don’t look fine."

"I’m fine."

She waited.

Kael turned away, walked to the edge of the yard where his pack rested against the wall, crouched, and pulled out a folded bundle of dark wool. He returned and held it out.

Recognition passed across her face. The coat. She took it from his hands. "You didn’t like it?"

"It’s well made."

"That wasn’t my question."

"It’s too fine for me."

Elira’s fingers tightened slightly around the fabric. "You think I sent it to shame you?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"I don’t wear gifts I can’t repay."

"I didn’t give it to you to be repaid."

"I know."

"Then why return it?" she asked.

"It sits wrong."

Elira held the coat a moment longer, then gave a small nod. "All right."

Color rose slowly along her neck, then across her cheeks. The cold air only made it more visible. She lowered her gaze briefly, composing herself.

Kael watched her without comment. "Was there something else?"

Her fingers tightened around the folded wool. Then she reached into her cloak and pressed a small tin into his palm—silver, finely worked, the lid engraved with a crest too delicate for common trade.

"For your hands. Better than what Valen sends."

Kael glanced at the tin. "Valen’s is serviceable."

"This one heals faster."

She stepped closer. "It won’t leave scars," she added quietly. Her fingers brushed his skin for a brief second before she withdrew her hand.

The yard was still.

Kael closed his fingers around the tin. "Is there anything else?"

Elira shook her head. "No." The word came softer than before.

She adjusted the coat over her arm, turned, and headed toward the main compound. Her steps were measured at first. Once she passed beyond the yard and through the inner gate, her pace quickened. The hem of her cloak caught the wind as she crossed the courtyard toward the command building.

She did not look back.

The heavy doors closed behind her.

Kael remained where he stood, the small tin resting in his palm. The yard felt larger without her in it.

[Tavern - Night]

The tavern was loud. Crowded. Warm.

Griggs, Kogan, Silas, and Bren sat at a corner table. Four mugs. Two empty chairs.

Kogan raised his mug. "To Jarek." The others lifted theirs, drank, and set them down.

"Think the captain’s coming?" Bren asked.

Silas shook his head. "He said he would. But..."

"But he’s still at the yard," Griggs finished.

They sat in silence. The noise of the tavern filled the space around them without touching it.

Kogan looked at the empty chairs. He’d watched Kael work the yard for a month—dawn until the light failed, hands bleeding, posts splintering. Never rage. Never grief, at least not any kind a man could name. Just the yard, and the work, and the weight of something Kogan couldn’t reach.

He poured another round. "To the captain," he said quietly. "For keeping the rest of us breathing."

No one added to it. They drank.

The tavern door opened, letting in a brief rush of cold air and snow. Bootsteps crossed the floorboards. A shadow fell across the table.

Kael set a small pouch of coins down beside the mugs. The leather hit wood with a dull weight.

Kael rested a hand on Kogan’s shoulder once—firm, brief. "I said I’d come," he said. "This isn’t for mourning."

Silas blinked. "Captain—"

Kael pulled out the empty chair and sat. "Drink. Tonight we drink."

Bren stared. "You’re paying?"

Kael nudged the coin pouch toward the center of the table. "I am."

Griggs gave a short breath that might have been a laugh.

Kogan studied him. "And tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Kael said, reaching for a mug, "we train." He lifted it. "To Jarek," he added after a beat. "He still owes us a round."

The tension at the table shifted. Mugs rose again. This time, the sound was louder.