Logan Mercer opened his eyes to the sound of distant wind that carried a strange dry smell like burnt grass mixed with old iron. The sky above him was pale and washed out with no sign of any city skyline or power line. He pushed himself off the ground and felt dirt scatter under his palms. He was supposed to be in his workshop in Colorado working on a custom firing mechanism for a client. He remembered a spark a loud crack then the world spun like a dropped coin. Now he stood in the middle of a wide open plain that stretched forever with broken stone pillars rising like the bones of some lost world.

His tool belt was still on him and that felt like a joke from the universe. Screwdrivers bits a hardened steel file and a thermal resistant cloth wrap hung from his waist like he was ready to work on guns in a desert dream. He checked his pockets and found a tiny coil spring and a spare firing pin. None of it explained how he got here. He steadied his breath and looked around until he spotted the shape of a small caravan rolling across the plain. Wooden wheels creaked under crude craftsmanship and the wagon was pulled by two thick horned beasts that looked like bulls made from stone.

Logan waved an arm. The caravan slowed then stopped. A man jumped off the back with a hand on a short sword that looked like something hammered together in a backyard. The blade was slightly bent the hilt wrapped with uneven leather. Logan noticed the flaws at a glance. The man could barely swing that thing twice without it snapping.

Who are you stranger the man asked his voice rough yet cautious

Logan lifted his hands not wanting trouble. My name is Logan Mercer. I was just working then I woke up here. I dont know where here is.

The man studied him then noticed the tools on Logans belt. You are a metal worker

Logan nodded. Something like that.

The mans worry shifted into interest. He waved for Logan to follow. Come. The plains are not safe. There are beasts that hunt noise and heat. The caravan can take you to Outpost Brinn.

The wagon smelled like old grain and dust. Logan sat near the back and watched the land slide by. The people in the caravan looked worn from travel and fear. Their armor was dented poorly fitted and patched with rope. Swords were chipped. Crossbow arms were warped. Even their helmets had gaps wide enough for arrows to pass through. Logan felt a strange twist in his chest. In his world these defects would never leave a factory floor.

After an hour the outpost came into view. It was a cluster of wooden walls barely holding together with towers that leaned as if tired from keeping watch. When Logan stepped inside he saw guards training with splintered spears and bows that creaked under tension. Every weapon looked like it was seconds away from falling apart. Logan rubbed his forehead. This was a dangerous place for anyone using such fragile junk.

A tall woman wearing rough plated armor approached him. Her helmet had a crack running down the side like it had survived a direct hit. She spoke with authority. I am Captain Rhea Varin. You are the outsider the caravan found

Logan nodded. Im not here to cause trouble. I just need to understand where I am.

You are in the Border Realm she said. A place between warring kingdoms. If you carry tools you will be working soon. We desperately need repairs. Our smith is old and our weapons fail during patrol.

Logan hesitated. He was a firearms engineer not a medieval weapons smith. But a blade was still metal. A bow was still tension. A crossbow was still a mechanical system. And all of these poor excuses for weapons were begging for someone competent.

He followed Captain Rhea to a small forge near the wall. The anvil was worn to an uneven surface and the tools were dull. The forge fire sputtered like it was dying. Logan felt as if someone handed him a broken toolbox and asked him to build a rocket.

Rhea pointed to a table cluttered with damaged weapons. Can you fix them

Logan picked up a spear with a crooked head. He aligned his eyes down the shaft. The grain of the wood was wrong the balance off center and the metal head barely attached. This would snap during combat and get someone killed. He sighed.

Give me time he said and rolled up his sleeves.

It felt strange to work with such primitive materials but his hands moved on instinct. He reshaped the spearhead cleaned the edge corrected the alignment and reinforced the shaft with a metal band. Rhea watched with growing disbelief.

How did you do that so fast she asked

This is basic work Logan answered. In my world this would be the bottom of the skill ladder.

Word spread through the outpost in minutes. Soldiers lined up with broken swords splintered shields and warped crossbows. Logan worked nonstop adjusting filing reshaping. It was not glamorous but it was a start. Every problem in these weapons was something he understood deeply and completely.

When he finished for the day Captain Rhea stood beside him. She lifted one of the repaired crossbows and tested the draw. The tension held stable without shaking. Her eyes widened.

You truly know metal and mechanisms she said. We have never seen work like yours. If you stay we will pay you. Our outpost will survive longer with your hands.

Logan looked at the tool belt still hanging on him. He thought about how he spent years buried in blueprints and metal dust dreaming of building something meaningful. Maybe this world dragged him here for a reason. Maybe for the first time he was needed.

All right Logan said. I will help.

Rhea nodded with a rare smile. Tomorrow then. The Border Realm will not fix itself.

Night settled over the outpost. Logan sat alone near the wall thinking about the strange new world. He had repaired weapons today but he had also seen opportunity. These people had nothing reliable. No stability. No proper engineering. If he introduced real weapon design here it would change everything.

He did not know it yet but that single thought was the first step toward becoming the most feared and desired arms dealer the realm would ever know.