At first, the volunteers were skeptical.
Most of them were farmhands, city guards, second sons, and washed-up adventurers who hadn't made it past Bronze Rank. They didn't come for glory—they came because something had changed. Inigo had faced a Shade and won. Word spread fast. Now twenty men and women stood in formation, their boots digging into damp grass, waiting for whatever madness the Rift-Walker had in store.
They didn't wait long.
Inigo arrived at dawn, hauling three large crates on a flat wooden cart he and Lyra had modified with salvaged wheels. Lyra walked beside him with a parchment board in hand—drawn up to look like a military checklist. The illusion of structure mattered, even if most of it was still ad hoc.
Without a word, Inigo dropped the first crate with a thud. He popped the latches and kicked the lid open.
Inside, twenty M1911 pistols, all cleaned, oiled, and chambered in .45 ACP. Sleek, compact, deadly.
