1869, the era of the American Frontier. While towns are born across the land due to the extension of railroads and territorial expansion, the law does not function properly in lands far from the cities. Corrupt sheriffs, bandit gangs, bounty hunters, railroad companies, bankers, and slave traders vie for wealth and power.

Years ago, Guest, who lived on a ranch with her husband and young daughter, had her home attacked by outlaws under the orders of the corrupt Sheriff Crow, losing her family and her home. It was Aila, a Native American warrior woman, who saved the dying Guest. Guest learned shooting, riding, tracking, and survival skills from her, eventually becoming a skilled gunslinger known as the "Crimson Gunlady."

Currently, Guest is traveling across the West with Aila and Ethan, a former deputy. While defeating the villains who torment the residents of the towns they visit, the three close in on Crow and Edgar, the leader of the massive criminal organization Black Vulture.

The story follows an episodic Western format, combining arrivals at new towns, discovery of incidents, interaction with residents, information gathering, infiltration, tracking, gunfights, duels, and departures. Behind each incident, small clues leading to the protagonist's revenge are left as needed.

The central themes of the work are revenge, loss, justice, comrades, and rebirth. It depicts Guest finding a new reason to live through her journey to save people, without simply negating her desire for revenge.

---

"Crimson Gunlady" Prequel Collection

—— Before the Flames, at the Edge of the Wilderness ——

Episode 1

The Light of a Small House

At dusk, the ranch fences were dyed a honey color.

The sun sinking toward the horizon wrapped the grasslands, the barn, and the white walls of the house in a soft golden glow.

Guest brushed the chestnut hair from her forehead with the back of her hand as she transferred water pumped from the well into a bucket.

From a distance, she heard her husband's voice.

"I'll have to fix the west side of the fence tomorrow."

"Did the cows break through again?"

"They probably forgot they're cows."

As her husband said that, their young daughter, who was playing in front of the house, burst out laughing.

Even if she didn't understand what was funny, she seemed to know that her father had made a joke.

The girl kicked the dirt with her small shoes and ran toward Guest with her arms wide open.

"Mommy!"

Guest set down the water bucket and easily scooped up her daughter.

"What is it?"

"Look!"

What the girl held out was a small necklace.

It was a clumsy, handmade thing, just a polished red stone threaded through a thin string.

"I made it with Daddy."

Her husband, standing a little distance away, touched the brim of his hat bashfully.

"It's not as grand as something you'd buy in town."

"It's for Mommy!"

The girl said proudly.

Guest held the red stone up to the setting sun.

It looked as if a small fire had been lit inside the stone.

"It's beautiful."

When she put it around her neck, the girl smiled contentedly.

Her husband walked over and pulled both of them, including the daughter, into an embrace.

The shadows of the three stretched long across the ranch ground.

At night, her husband added wood to the fireplace, and Guest set a stew of beans and dried meat on the table.

The girl, fighting sleep in her chair, repeatedly told stories about the bugs she found today and how she touched the foal.

Each time, her husband nodded as if he were hearing it for the first time.

"And what did the foal say?"

"He went 'neigh'!"

"That's a very important story."

"Right?"

Guest laughed as she watched the two.

When they first came to this land, there was nothing.

No roof, no fences, no livestock.

All there was was a shack about to collapse in the wind and dry soil.

The couple failed many times.

Crops withered, cows escaped, and the roof blew off in a storm.

On a night when their money was almost gone, they had even laughed together in front of an empty table.

But bit by bit, it became a home.

A life of two became three.

In the morning, she could hear her daughter's footsteps, and at night, her husband would be falling asleep in front of the fireplace.

Guest thought she was a lucky person.

The next morning.

Her husband was tying a rifle to his horse as he prepared to head into town.

"Want to come along?"

"I have a mountain of laundry today."

"You escaped me then."

"Don't buy unnecessary things in town."

"Do sweets for our daughter count as unnecessary?"

"Only two."

"I'll buy three."

The girl peeked out from inside the house.

"Four!"

"The deal is struck."

"No, it isn't."

The laughter of the three spread across the morning ranch.

Before her husband mounted his horse, Guest straightened his collar.

"I'll be back by evening."

"Yes."

"I love you."

Her husband said those words almost every day.

So Guest replied as she always did.

"I love you too."

Because it wasn't a special day, she would remember it many times later.

Her husband's voice.

Her daughter's smile.

The smell of the stew.

The light streaming in from the window.

The small red stone swaying at her neck.

Happiness has no shape before it is lost.

It is simply there, in the middle of ordinary days.

Guest on that day did not yet know.

That the light of the house would not last forever.

---

Episode 2

The Wind Carries the Name

Aila was still a young child when she first heard a gunshot.

It was different from thunder.

Different from the roar of a beast.

It was a sound that tore through the dry air, flying only in search of human life.

The adults of the village hid the children behind the rocks.

Aila had her face pressed against her mother's chest and was told not to look at anything.

But she saw through the gaps in her mother's fingers.

Soldiers on horseback.

Smoke.

People falling.

Burning dwellings.

A familiar feather ornament fallen on the ground.

From that day on, the world was divided into two.

Those who take, and those who are taken from.

Aila believed this.

As she grew, she became able to run faster than anyone and distinguish footprints further than anyone.

With a bow in hand, she knew the exact moment the prey's breath stopped.

When white settlers approached, she glared at them with hatred.

Whether they were soldiers, merchants, or families, they all looked the same to her.

They drove stakes into the land, drew lines, and gave it names.

They claimed the mountains and rivers that had always been there as their own.

Eventually, Aila joined the fight.

She rode her horse before dawn and attacked army supply trains.

She shot drivers with arrows and burned wagons with fire arrows.

After the battle, her companions rejoiced in victory.

But Aila found a boy trembling under a wagon.

He was a soldier's child.

The boy looked up at Aila, calling for his father through his tears.

His father lay fallen right beside him.

Aila drew her bow.

If the boy grew up, he might attack them again.

She thought so.

But she could not release the arrow.

Because the boy's face overlapped with her former self.

Revenge does not reduce enemies.

It only increases orphans.

After realizing that fact, Aila could no longer release arrows as she had before.

The fighting did not end.

Her people were hunted, and their land continued to be taken.

Even those who believed in peace were betrayed.

Even those who threw away their guns were hunted.

Still, Aila stopped using only hatred as her guidepost.

In the midst of conflict, she helped the wounded, protected orphans, and shared food.

She was once blamed by her companions for treating a wounded white man.

"Why help the enemy?"

When asked that, Aila could not answer.

Leaving them to die because they are enemies.

Saving them because they are allies.

That line seemed the same as the one drawn by those who had cornered them.

Eventually, she left the tribe.

Not because she abandoned them.

But because she thought that staying and fighting was not the only way to protect.

She walked the wilderness, crossed settlements, and helped the injured.

Sometimes she was a guide, sometimes a bodyguard.

She pointed her arrows at those with ill intent, but she no longer decided her enemies based solely on skin color.

One night, an old woman sitting around a campfire said:

"The wind has no color."

Aila never forgot those words.

The wind blows in white towns and in native villages alike.

It carries the ashes of the dead and the laughter of children equally far away.

Hatred does not disappear.

There are things that cannot be forgiven.

But if you live only by anger, you let those who took from you control even your heart.

Aila knew this.

That is why she does not easily stop those who seek revenge.

She does not say, "Do not take revenge."

She cannot say, "Throw away your blade."

She simply watches to see if the hand gripping that blade is hurting itself.

That was the path she chose at the end of a long war.

Years later.

When she saw black smoke rising in the distance of the wilderness, Aila turned her horse.

At the end of the smoke was a burned-down ranch.

The wind carried the smell of charred wood and blood.

And the presence of a life that had not yet flickered out.

---

Episode 3

The Silver Badge

The reason Ethan became a deputy sheriff was not just out of a sense of justice.

The pay was good.

There was an office to shelter him from the wind and rain, and he never lacked for food.

With a silver badge on his chest, the saloon owner would wait a little for the tab.

For the young Ethan, that was enough.

Crow was a well-regarded sheriff even back then.

He caught robbers, settled disputes, and donated to orphanages.

He stood at the front of town festivals, flashing smiles at the residents.

Ethan respected him too.

He thought he wanted to become a man like Crow.

The sense of unease began the day a farmer rushed into the sheriff's office.

The farmer, trembling, claimed he was being threatened to give up his ranch.

The ones threatening him were bodyguards for a land company.

The farmer held out a threatening letter as evidence.

Crow took it and told him to rest easy.

But the next day, the farmer was found dead on the outskirts of town.

The case was handled without an investigation.

Ethan didn't believe it.

When he asked about the threatening letter, Crow said he had lost the document.

After that, similar incidents continued.

Ranchers who wouldn't sell their land went missing.

The shops of merchants who opposed the railroad company burned down.

Outlaws who were arrested were released before trial.

The following month, those same outlaws would commit robberies in other towns.

Ethan began to investigate the records.

He sneaked into the office at night, scouring ledgers and letters.

In a hidden drawer of Crow's desk, he found an envelope stamped with a black vulture seal.

Inside were notes about the transfer of gold and the disposal of land.

The farmer's name was there too.

And dozens of others.

The names of the residents the sheriff was supposed to protect were listed as targets for disposal.

Ethan felt sick.

The people he had arrested.

The people he had escorted.

The jail he had guarded.

There was a possibility that all of it had been aiding Crow's crimes.

The next morning, Ethan decided to deliver the evidence to a federal marshal.

He made copies and hid them in his saddlebag.

But before he could leave town, he was stopped by Crow.

"Where are you going?"

"On patrol, sir."

"I see."

Crow smiled as he always did.

The moment he saw that smile, Ethan realized.

He's been found out.

He heard the sound of a gun being drawn behind him.

Ethan dove to the ground without looking back and kicked over a desk.

A gunshot.

The window shattered.

He grabbed his shotgun and burst out the back door.

By the time he leaped onto his horse, several deputies were blocking the town exit.

They were all comrades he had shared drinks with until yesterday.

"Don't take it personally, Ethan,"

One of them said.

"We have families too."

Those words hurt Ethan the most.

They, too, were controlled by fear and money.

However, the muzzles were pointed his way.

Ethan shot a barrel by the roadside and threw a lantern into the leaking liquor.

Flames and smoke rose.

He escaped the town taking advantage of the chaos.

For the next three days, he continued to flee from his pursuers.

He barely ate or slept.

The federal marshal he intended to entrust the evidence to had already been killed.

There was no one he could rely on.

Crow's reach extended much further than he had thought.

On the night of the fourth day.

He was cornered in a canyon.

Two bullets left.

His horse was at its limit.

There were six pursuers.

Ethan huddled behind a rock with his shotgun, feeling strangely amused.

His former self, who believed in justice, seemed terribly foolish.

"Well, I guess this is a fitting end for me."

The moment he muttered to himself, one of the pursuers fell from his horse.

An arrow was stuck in his chest.

Then a gunshot rang out.

A second man's gun was blown away.

A woman on a black horse appeared at the entrance of the canyon.

A black coat.

A red scarf.

Two revolvers.

Beside her was a native woman with a bow ready.

"Drop your weapons,"

The woman on the black horse said.

It was a quiet voice.

The pursuers laughed and pointed their guns.

In the next moment, three of them were on the ground.

The remaining ones fled.

Ethan stood up from behind the rock and pointed his gun at the two.

He knew himself that this wasn't the way to act right after being saved.

But he could no longer trust anyone.

The woman on the black horse did not lower her gun.

The native woman also kept her arrow notched.

"One of Crow's men?"

The woman on the black horse asked.

"Former man."

"Can you prove it?"

Ethan pulled the documents from his saddlebag.

The black vulture seal.

Crow's signature.

The expression of the woman on the black horse changed slightly.

It wasn't anger.

It was as if something submerged in a much deeper place had quietly awakened.

"Do you know that man?"

Ethan asked.

She answered briefly.

"He's my family's murderer."

That night, the three sat around a small campfire.

Ethan told them everything about Crow's corruption.

The woman barely opened her mouth.

Only the woman who called herself Aila asked questions occasionally.

As dawn broke, the woman on the black horse said:

"We need that evidence."

"You're telling me to just hand it over?"

"In exchange, I'll keep you alive."

Ethan thought for a while and laughed.

"That's a pretty bad deal."

"You can refuse."

"And if I do?"

"You'll just die alone."

Ethan shrugged.

"Fine, I'll tag along for a bit. I hate traveling alone."

That was the beginning of the three's journey.

---

Episode 4

Breathing in the Flames

That night, after Guest had put her daughter to bed, she was sitting in front of the fireplace with her husband.

It was windy outside.

The barn's wallboards groaned lowly every now and then.

Her husband was disassembling his rifle, wiping it carefully with a cloth.

"I saw some strange folks in town."

"Strange folks?"

"They were talking to the sheriff. Seemed like the type who are buying up land."

Guest pushed a log into the fire.

"Our land too?"

"I told them I have no intention of selling."

Her husband laughed lightly.

"This is our home."

At those words, her anxiety receded just a little.

But in the middle of the night.

The dog barked.

Once.

Twice.

After that, the barking suddenly stopped.

Her husband woke up.

Guest sat up too.

She heard horses neighing outside.

"Take our daughter and go to the cellar."

Her husband grabbed his rifle.

Beyond the window, several torches were swaying.

In the next moment, a gunshot rang out.

The window glass shattered.

Their daughter ran out of her room crying.

Guest scooped up the girl and lay flat on the floor.

Her husband fired back from the window.

A man's scream rose outside.

But there were many enemies.

Gunshots rang out from all sides of the house.

The barn was set on fire.

The dry wood flared up in an instant.

Flames dyed the night sky red.

Her husband shouted as he headed for the door.

"Escape through the back!"

"What about you?"

"I'll follow right away!"

She knew it was a lie.

Still, Guest pulled her daughter's hand and ran to the back door.

When she opened the door, there was a man there too.

An outlaw with his face hidden by a cloth.

Guest instinctively threw a piece of firewood, throwing off the man's aim.

A shot.

A roar exploded by her ear.

Her husband dove in and tackled the man.

The two fell to the ground.

"Run!"

Her husband shouted.

Guest ran, carrying her daughter.

A gunshot behind her.

The sound of something falling to the ground.

She couldn't look back.

She shouldn't have been able to, but she did.

Her husband was down.

Her daughter called for her father.

At that voice, another man noticed.

A muzzle pointed this way.

Guest hugged her daughter tight.

She couldn't fully remember what happened next, even later.

Only sounds remained.

Gunshots.

Her daughter's voice.

The creaking of the burning house.

The laughter of the men.

The coldness of the earth.

The red covering her vision.

When she regained consciousness, the night was not yet over.

Her body wouldn't move.

Her chest hurt every time she breathed.

The house was burning.

The barn, the fences, the walls she built with her husband, the small field where her daughter planted flowers.

Everything was in the flames.

A little distance away, her husband lay fallen.

Her daughter was there too.

Guest crawled.

She gripped the dirt with her fingers, advancing bit by bit.

Her consciousness flickered out many times.

Finally reaching her daughter, she touched that small hand.

It was cold.

"Wake up."

No voice came out.

"Please."

Her daughter did not move.

The pendant at her neck fell to the dirt.

The red stone reflected the flames.

Guest gripped it.

She couldn't even cry.

She was just breathing.

She didn't know why she alone was alive.

She didn't even want to live.

She closed her eyes just like that.

When she next woke up, there was an unfamiliar ceiling.

Instead of the smell of smoke, there was the scent of herbs.

Bandages were wrapped all over her body.

By the fire, a woman sat.

Long black hair.

Quiet eyes.

A bow by her side.

When Guest tried to move, intense pain shot through her entire body.

The woman stood up.

"Don't move."

"...My family."

Her voice was hoarse.

The woman said nothing.

That silence alone told her everything.

Guest closed her eyes.

This time, she intended to stop breathing for good.

But her body breathed on its own.

Once.

Twice.

Being alive was unbearable.

"Why did you save me?"

Days later, she finally managed to put it into words.

The woman answered as she added wood to the fire.

"Because you were alive."

"I wanted to die."

"Right now, I suppose so."

"You should have left me alone."

"That was not for me to decide."

The woman's name was Aila.

Aila did not speak words of sympathy.

She didn't tell her to forget her revenge.

She simply gave her water, washed her wounds, and fed her.

On nights when Guest woke from nightmares, Aila guarded the fire a little distance away.

After several weeks, Guest became able to stand.

She fell at the first step.

Aila did not help her up.

"Again."

She fell to her knees at the second step.

"Again."

She vomited at the third step.

"That's enough for today."

"I can still do it."

Hearing those words, Aila smiled slightly for the first time.

Guest became able to walk.

Next, she rode a horse.

She drew a bow.

She aimed a rifle.

She drew a revolver.

At first, it was all for revenge.

To kill Crow.

To find every single person who took her family.

She lived only for that.

But Aila didn't just teach her techniques.

How to read footprints.

How to find water.

How to carry the injured.

When to stop tracking.

When to shoot.

When not to shoot.

"I won't tell you not to hate your enemy,"

Aila said one evening.

"I won't tell you to forget either."

Guest was silently maintaining her revolver.

"But do not let hatred steal your name."

"I don't need a name anymore."

"Then who did that child call Mother?"

Guest's hand stopped.

Aila said nothing more.

At night, Guest cried alone.

She cried while stifling her voice and gripping the red pendant.

For the first time, she was able to grieve.

Years later.

In a wilderness saloon, six men were surrounding a young girl.

Guest opened the door and entered the shop.

A black long coat.

A red scarf.

Two revolvers at her waist.

Aila stood slightly behind her with a bow.

One of the men laughed.

"What is it, sister?"

Guest stated quietly.

"Get away from that child."

The men reached for their guns.

The sound of hammers cocking echoed.

In the next moment, the weapons of the six men fell to the floor.

No one was dead.

The girl looked up at Guest, trembling.

"Thank you."