Kevin lowered the hammer of his revolver with a soft, mechanical click and tucked it back into his holster. He offered a polite, stiff-backed nod—the kind of greeting one might expect on a London street corner rather than a muddy forest.
"My name is Caoimhín Dhu (means Kevin Black in elder speech)," he said, the Elder Speech rolling off his tongue with surprising naturalness. He paused, tasting the ancient phonetics. "Though, I find the Common tongue much more efficient for day-to-day business. Please, call me Kevin."
The scarred elf traded a look of disbelief with his companions. "A brother who prefers the tongue of the dh'oine? Truly, you are a strange one, Kevin. Did you fall out of a merchant's carriage or a nobleman's dream?"
Kevin ignored the jab and adjusted his top hat. "A fair question, but one for another time. I find myself somewhat... geographically embarrassed. Is there a settlement nearby? And where, precisely, am I?"
The leader gestured vaguely toward the rising sun. "Travel East. There is an elven settlement there—refugees mostly, those who haven't yet taken up the bow. As for your location, you stand in the No Man's Land between the North and the South. The empires of the Northern Realms and the Nilfgaardians play their games of chess across these fields."
The elf's expression darkened, his hand tightening on his bow. "A warning, 'Kevin.' Watch for Redanian patrols. They do not care if you wear a fancy coat or carry a small pipe. To them, you are a rabbit to be skinned. If you see them, do not speak. Just kill them."
Kevin noted the visceral hatred in the warrior's voice. He didn't yet understand the deep-seated politics or the history of the pogroms, but his scientific mind recognized a high-risk variable when he heard one.
"Kill on sight. Duly noted," Kevin replied, checking his pocket watch. "Though I generally prefer a more diplomatic approach, I am a firm believer in the law of self-preservation."
The Scoia'tael faded back into the foliage like ghosts, leaving Kevin alone in the silence of the woods. He looked East, then down at his map of the Continent. Redania, Nilfgaard, Temeria—the names were just ink on parchment for now, but he could feel the weight of the war-torn world pressing in on him.
He began to walk, his polished boots crunching over the forest floor. He needed a forge, a laboratory, and a steady supply of sulfur and saltpeter. If this world was as violent as the elves suggested, he was going to need more than just six shots and a top hat.
******
Kevin moved through the dense undergrowth with a speed that felt like cheating. His new elven physiology was a marvel of biomechanics—low-friction joints, heightened fast-twitch muscle fibers, and a sense of balance that made the uneven forest floor feel as level as a chalkboard.
Through the trees, he spotted them: a squad of twelve Redanian soldiers. They were clad in gambesons and iron caps, their silver-and-red surcoats stained with the dust of the road. They had a small group of elven refugees pinned against a rock face—elderly men and wide-eyed women clutching meager bundles.
"We are just travelers!" one of the elder elves pleaded in Common. "We have no quarrel with the King!"
"Save it, Squirrel," a soldier spat, unsheathing a notched arming sword. "A non-human in the woods is a guerilla in training. Commander says to clear the 'vermin' from the No Man's Land. Easier to execute you here than march you to a camp."
Kevin felt a cold, sharp heat rise in his chest. It wasn't just anger; it was the logical rejection of senseless waste. His British sensibilities recoiled at the lack of due process, and his elven blood boiled at the cruelty.
He didn't shout a warning. He didn't offer a speech. He simply stepped from behind a tree, leveled his brass revolver, and let the laws of physics do the talking.
BANG.
The lead soldier's head snapped back as a lead bullet found its mark with mathematical precision. The noise—a sharp, violent crack unlike anything this world had ever heard—echoed through the valley.
The soldiers panicked. They looked for a mage or a ballista, but Kevin was already moving. He thumbed the hammer back in a blur of motion.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Three more fell before they could even raise their shields. The "strange small pipe" spat fire and lead, delivering kinetic energy that iron helmets were never designed to stop.
Kevin's hands were steady, his mind calculating windage and drop as if he were solving a simple equation. When the cylinder clicked empty, he didn't hesitate. He flicked the release, dumped the spent casings—which tinkled like tiny brass bells against the stones—and slid six fresh rounds home from his satchel.
The remaining soldiers tried to charge, but they were fighting a man who saw the world in slow motion.
BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG.
Twelve shots. Twelve headshots. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the thin wisps of acrid smoke drifting from the revolver's barrel.
Kevin tucked the gun back into his holster and straightened his silk top hat. He stepped over the bodies, his polished boots clicking as he approached the trembling refugees.
"Terribly sorry about the noise," Kevin said, his voice calm and undeniably British. "Are you all right? Is anyone injured?"
The elves stared at him—this strange, well-dressed kinsman who carried lightning in his pocket—with a mixture of terror and awe.