Chapter 3:

Chapter 3: It’s Glocking Time

Reincarnated in Another World as the Gun Hero

"With my Glock, I’ll shoot straight to the top."
— Meisatsu Kanezuka

In the far reaches of the Asturian Kingdom, a land so vast its borders seemed to vanish beyond the horizon, there lay a humble town called Beetho.

This was the place Meisatsu Kanezuka called home.

Beetho was a town defined by open fields and wide skies. Rivers wound through the farmland like ribbons of glass, their surfaces shimmering under the afternoon sun. Neat rows of crops stretched as far as the eye could see, dotted with timber-framed cottages whose walls carried the warm scent of fresh-baked bread and wildflowers. Some families tended small private plots behind their homes; others owned fields so large they disappeared into the morning haze.

Life here was quiet—predictable in its own comforting way. Children ran barefoot between vegetable patches, merchants haggled over sacks of barley, and every evening the chimneys glowed gold in the dusk.

But for all its peace, Beetho was a place on the edge.

The town sat at the farthest border of the kingdom, closer to danger than any would admit. Just beyond the dense barrier of ancient trees and enchanted repulsion lay a dark, twisted land—the territory of the Demon King and his kin.

The Demon King’s Domain was a place spoken of in hushed voices. A land that birthed creatures from nightmare—monsters with claws like sickles and eyes that burned red in the dark.

To keep the kingdom safe, the ancestors of Asturia had erected a colossal magical barrier, a dome of shimmering energy that sealed the entire realm in a protective shell. Its source was a mighty pole crowned with a golden spire, embedded into the highest tower of the King’s Castle at the very heart of the kingdom. At dawn, it shone like a second sun—its power radiating outward to form the barrier’s perfect arc across the sky.

Yet for all its strength, the barrier was imperfect.

Every few months, when the magic fluctuated or weakened, gaps would appear—just wide enough for something to slip through. And when that happened, the people of Beetho would find their quiet fields invaded by things that did not belong.

It was an old fear—older than any living memory. And it never truly went away.

The morning air was still, filled with the scent of fresh crops and river mist.

Meisatsu lowered the Glock, his heart still beating fast from the last volley of shots. Spent casings glinted in the grass around him.

His eyes narrowed at the treeline—the same patch of brush that had rustled just moments ago.

“It’s still there…”

He shifted his grip on the pistol, steadying his breathing. Whatever was hiding hadn’t moved.

And he had the strangest feeling it was waiting for him to pull the trigger first.

The rustling grew louder.

Something—no, many somethings—were watching him.

Meisatsu racked the slide of his Glock with a crisp CHK-CHK, feeling the ominous weight in the air. He leveled the barrel at the bushes, breath steady, mind sharp.

“Whatever you are...you’re no deer.”

The leaves parted.

Seven creatures padded into view—foxlike, but nothing like the cute ones he remembered from home.

Each stood nearly four feet tall on slender legs. Their fur was a pale, deathly white, except for a thick band of swirling black aura encircling their eyes like a burglar’s mask. Along their backs, patches of the same sinister darkness replaced normal fur, writhing as if alive.

“Definitely nothing like the ones back home…” he thought grimly.
“…More like that one fox on the children’s show that loved to swipe stuff…”

He almost chuckled at the memory, but the foxes were already fanning out in an arc, growling in low, guttural voices.

Meisatsu’s heart raced. He glanced at his magazine. He’d already fired ten rounds. Eight left.

For some reason—despite being outnumbered by monsters straight out of a nightmare—he felt nothing but exhilaration.

A manic grin spread across his face.

“Heh…you monsters will make fine moving target practice.”

Before the creatures could lunge, he squeezed the trigger.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Muzzle flashes lit the field as he shot and reloaded with impossible speed, the motion so fluid it seemed almost instant.

Five of the foxes dropped where they stood, thick red fluid—most likely blood—spurting from clean holes in their temples.

Meisatsu leapt into the air, fist raised.

“WOOHOO! Headshots!”

The two surviving foxes stared up at him, jaws hanging open in an almost cartoonish gape.

“Grrrh???”

One of them snapped out of it first, dropping into a low crouch. In the blink of an eye, it zigzagged toward him with blinding speed, vanishing and reappearing across the field.

Meisatsu tracked it as best he could, eyes straining.

“So your buddies had speed like this? Why didn’t they use it before?”

He chuckled under his breath.

Just before the creature struck, he whispered,

“Gotcha.”

(Narration)
The fox was too fast for his eyes alone, but his mind processed every twitch of muscle, every shift of weight. Using analytical prediction, he pinpointed the exact angle of attack—straight from the left, right into the muzzle of his gun.

BANG.

The fox tumbled lifelessly across the grass.

Meisatsu exhaled, lowering the Glock. One left.

The final fox was the largest of the pack. It let out an enraged howl and leapt high into the air, black aura surging like a stormcloud.

Meisatsu took aim, finger tightening on the trigger.

And froze.

“One bullet left… I don’t even know if I can get more…”

He swallowed.

“Screw it.”

He pivoted, reared back—and hurled the pistol like a throwing axe.

“GLOCK TOSS!”

THUNK!