Chapter One: A Stranger's Death
I always thought death would come quick. A bullet to the head, a knife in the dark, an explosion tearing the world into fire and steel. That's what you expect when you've lived most of your sixty years in uniform — Navy SEAL, soldier, fighter, a man whose trade was violence dressed up as duty.
But death has a strange sense of humor. Mine came slow.
We were knee-deep in dust and gunfire, some godforsaken strip of land in a country most folks back home couldn't point to on a map. It was supposed to be my last run, my last mission before they sent me home for good. Retire, they said. Live the rest of my days in peace, maybe spend it by the ocean or out in the country somewhere. But peace never found men like me. And I sure as hell never found it.
The crack of rifles echoed down the alleyway. My team scattered, returning fire from behind crumbling walls. I pressed my back against a slab of stone that smelled like old smoke and blood. My rifle was steady, but my hands weren't. Age had finally started to creep into me — the shakes, the slower reflexes, the weariness in my bones. I'd spent my whole life training to be unbreakable, but no training can stop time.
I remember the moment clear as day. A boy — couldn't have been more than eighteen — popped out from behind a rusted car with an AK in his hands. He was nervous, scared, and spraying bullets like a man drowning in his own fear. I lined up my shot, finger resting against the trigger, and for the first time in my life… I hesitated. Maybe I saw myself in him, some reflection of a younger Jack Evans who'd once believed in duty and honor. Or maybe I was just tired of killing.
The hesitation cost me.
A flash. A sting like fire ripping across my chest. Then another, lower in my gut. I dropped to my knees, the world tilting sideways, dust rising up in slow motion as though the earth itself had sighed. My rifle clattered on the stone. My hands went to the holes punched through me, hot blood soaking my fingers.
"Evans is hit!" someone shouted, but the words sounded like they came from underwater.
I fell back against the wall, staring up at a slice of sky so wide and blue it looked almost unreal. My breath came short, ragged. I knew enough about wounds to know these weren't the kind a man walks away from. I had minutes, maybe less.
Funny thing is, I didn't feel afraid.
I felt… relief.
I'd spent sixty years fighting other men's wars, burying brothers, carrying medals that weighed less than the guilt behind them. No wife waiting for me at home, no children to carry my name, no ranch or farmhouse to lay my weary head. Just years of service, and a body held together by scars and stubbornness. If God was calling me now, I was ready to answer.
I whispered a prayer. Not one for myself, but for peace. For forgiveness. For a chance, if such things were given, to live a life where I could put down the rifle and pick up something gentler — a plow, a hammer, a child's hand.
The firefight faded around me, sound draining out of the world until there was only the beat of my slowing heart and the cold weight of blood in my lungs. The sky dimmed, and darkness swallowed me whole.
But death wasn't the end.
The darkness shifted. It grew warmer, like being wrapped in a heavy quilt after a long march. I should've been gone, dust to dust, but instead I heard a voice — calm, steady, mechanical, like a machine whispering into my bones.
[System Initialization Complete.]
My eyes snapped open.
The sky above me wasn't blue anymore. It was white — white with snowflakes drifting like ash from heaven. Cold wind bit my face, and when I pushed myself up, my hands didn't feel like the gnarled, scarred tools of an old warrior. They were smooth. Strong. Young.
I staggered to my feet, heart hammering. My chest — whole. My gut — untouched. No blood, no bullet holes, no pain. Just breath pouring out in clouds into the frigid mountain air.
"What the hell…" I whispered, my voice deeper, steadier, unbroken by age.
[Welcome, Jack Evans.]
The voice rang in my head. Clear. Final.
[You have been granted a new life. This world will not be kind. To aid you, a Gift Box has been prepared.]
Before me, in the middle of the snow-covered ground, something shimmered into existence. A trunk, leather-bound, edges studded with brass. Steam rose off it like it had been waiting for me all along.
My hands shook — not from fear, but from disbelief. I dropped to one knee and flipped the latches. The lid opened slow, creaking like some ancient promise.
Inside, neatly arranged, were the tools of a new life.
A black leather satchel heavy with gold and greenbacks — $150,000, more money than I'd ever laid eyes on in either life. A polished Colt Single Action Army revolver, nickel-plated, pearl grips catching the pale light. Beside it, a folded deed stamped with a seal: Six Hundred Acres, Heartlands Region, New Hanover.
And then came the sound. A bark — deep, loyal, certain. Out of the white fog bounded a dog, thick-coated, dark eyes shining with intelligence. He skidded in the snow and pressed against my legs like he'd known me forever. I sank a hand into his fur, warmth seeping into my fingers.
A second shape appeared: a horse, proud and tall, dark bay coat rippling beneath the snowflakes. The beast snorted, shook its mane, and lowered its head as though bowing. A bridle hung from the saddle already waiting on its back.
And standing behind them — a man. Mid-forties, rugged, broad-shouldered, with a steady look in his eyes. He wore a rancher's coat and carried himself like someone used to command, but not arrogance.
"Name's Elias Boone," he said, tipping his hat. "I reckon I work for you now."
I stared at him, trying to make sense of it all. My head swam. Snowflakes hissed against my face. I was supposed to be dead, a broken old soldier fading in some alley. Yet here I was — young again, strong, armed, wealthy, standing on land I hadn't even seen yet.
"Where… where am I?" I asked, my voice rough.
Elias's smile was calm, knowing. "Welcome to New Hanover, Mr. Evans. You've got yourself a ranch to build."
The system's voice returned, quiet as falling snow.
[Additional Skill Granted: Wick Protocol.]
[Combat instincts enhanced. Reflexes sharpened. You will not falter.]
I clenched my fists, feeling it — the sharpness, the edge I'd honed over sixty years, now burning inside the body of a man barely twenty-three. My breath quickened. My heart pounded. The dog barked again, eager.
This was no heaven. No hell.
This was something else.
A second chance.