We pushed through the reinforced double doors and entered Maine's laboratory, which opened up into a massive, sprawling warehouse sector of the underground mint. The air here was a choking, toxic hazard, thick with the shimmering heat of molten metal and the pungent, chemical sting of raw compounds. The space was packed with heavy industrial cooking stoves, bubbling cauldrons, and massive glass flasks dedicated entirely to mass-producing the tear gas. It was a bizarre, twisted fusion of modern chemistry and fantasy logic. Even though tear gas is a real-world weapon native to Earth, Maine had somehow acquired the formula or reverse-engineered the precise methodology to synthesize it in this world, giving the arms trafficking guild a terrifying monopoly on chemical crowd control.
As we walked deeper into the facility toward the loading docks, my single eye tracked the highly sophisticated production lines stretching across the warehouse floor. Rhythmic conveyor belts were actively pouring glowing streams of molten iron into specialized molds, which were then fitted onto the rough wooden structures I had seen earlier. The most fascinating part of the process was the automation of the magic system: mechanical arms were systematically embedding raw, refined mana stones directly into the frames of the bootleg firearms, serving as the artificial arcane batteries that allowed the wooden Tommy guns to mimic the elemental conduit properties of a true Death Chant artifact.
Standing right at the end of the primary assembly line, inspecting a freshly sealed crate of tear gas canisters, was Maine.
Unlike Luck, the mad researcher hadn't changed his style at all. He was still wearing the exact same stained, chemical-burned white lab coat he wore back during his operations in Town Allure. My memory matrix immediately logged my historical connection to him… back when I operated under my old identity, I had actually been a member of his circle, giving me a deep, intimate understanding of his erratic psychological triggers and scientific greed.
I stepped forward, smoothly maintaining the cocky, confident swagger of Luke Granhart as I raised my hand.
"Hey Maine, over here," I called out, my simulated masculine voice easily cutting through the clanking roar of the conveyor belts.
Maine snapped his head toward us, his bloodshot eyes widening behind his protective goggles as he recognized my blonde disguise. A twisted, manic grin spread across his face as he realized the guild's most notorious apprentice had actually made it back to the foundry alive.
Maine snapped the clipboard down onto a stack of crates, pulling his protective goggles down around his neck.
"Greetings, Luke, you're back from the citadel. I guess your time in the prison was instant. Didn't think they'd let you out so quickly." Maine said, his voice carrying that familiar, detached rasp from the old days in Town Allure.
Luck immediately stepped between us, his heavy gold chains clanking dramatically as he waved his hands in the air, his golden teeth flashing in exasperation.
"Hey! Don't act so normal, Maine! He didn't get let out… he is the prisoner who escaped the Dodorant Citadel! The one who is all over the newspapers today! He's Inmate 345, the guy with the 10 gold pieces on his head!"
Maine froze, his manic demeanor instantly halting as his bloodshot eyes locked onto my blonde disguise. A look of genuine shock rippled across his face, replacing his usual cold indifference.
"Really? I thought you were just my dumb friend... but damn, you actually managed to escape that thing? Impressive, Luke. Very impressive." Maine breathed, looking me up and down with a newfound, disturbing level of respect.
I didn't break character. I offered a cocky, tight smirk, stepped past Luck, and approached Maine's primary workstation where the heavy, sealed canisters of chemical ordnance were being stacked. I reached down and picked up one of the finalized tear gas canisters, weighing its cold metal chassis in my hand before handing it over to help load the merchant crates.
Maine watched me handle the weapon, leaning against a bubbling flask of chemicals as a nostalgic, twisted grin returned to his face.
"You know, Luke... back during my expedition in Caria City, I met a truly peculiar researcher. There was a scientist there who gave me the exact molecular formula to synthesize this tear gas. He told me a wild story… claimed he was a reincarnated being from a completely different world called 'Earth,' whatever that thing is. He said in his past life, they used this stuff for crowd control. But out here? If you inhale it without a mask, it acts as a brutal, suffocating poison." Maine murmured, tapping the side of a gas canister.
Hearing the word Earth drop from Maine's lips hit my core like a physical blow. Beneath my flawless Luke Granhart facade, my internal processor experienced a massive spike of genuine surprise.
Earth.
A silent wave of shock washed over my hidden consciousness. All this time, as I hunted through the mud, blood, and shadows of Andromeda, I truly believed I was entirely isolated… a solitary ghost ripping through a foreign world. But to hear that a reincarnated soul from Earth was actively sitting in a high-tier laboratory within Caria City, casually handing out modern chemical weapon blueprints to local scientists... it completely reframed the scope of my reality. I was not the only one who was alone in this world. There were others. And they were already changing the landscape of this kingdom from the inside out.
I forced my expression to remain perfectly smug and arrogant, tossing the canister lightly into a shipping crate wrapped in merchant cloth.
"Fascinating story, Maine, but Earth or not, this 'poison' is going to make us 20 gold pieces richer today. Let's finish loading the carriages. The Don is waiting, and we have a border to cross." I said in Luke's smooth, confident voice, masking the sudden fire of curiosity burning in my mind.
I handed the heavy wooden crate filled with tear gas canisters off to Luck. True to his new, ostentatious attitude, he took the cargo with a loud, boasting grunt, entirely focused on showing off his muscle in front of the factory workers. With his lousy attitude keeping him thoroughly distracted and busy handling the rest of the crates near the main carriage, I realized I finally had a brief window of absolute privacy to get Maine to speak.
I stepped closer to the mad scientist's desk, my single eye narrowing as I looked at the blueprint schematics spread out before him. I knew exactly what I needed to extract from his mind. I needed to find out where the original, genuine Death Chant Tommy Gun was being kept.
The original artifact was the absolute root of the problem. It was the genetic blueprint the guild was using to reverse-engineer and mass-produce these highly volatile, elemental-lined weapons. If this arms trafficking guild's fame continued to rise, and their production line wasn't permanently severed, these weapons would flood the black market. It wouldn't just be organized syndicates wielding them; soon, normal roadside bandits, low-level street thugs, and desperate criminals would be handling rapid-fire, modern military firearms capable of shooting fire, lightning, and blood magic.
If that happened, it wouldn't just be about the 10 gold bounty on my head or a simple gang war. It would fundamentally destabilize the entire continent of Andromeda, rewriting the power balance of the world and leaving a trail of innocent bodies in its wake. As a calculated predator, I absolutely refused to let that slide.
"Maine, these wooden copies are impressive, but their mana conduits still suffer from minor stabilization leaks compared to the real deal. If we're going to expand this empire, I need to look at the source. Where is the Don keeping the original artifact right now?" I said quietly, leaning in close so my voice wouldn't carry over the roar of the conveyor belts to where Luck was working. I kept my tone smooth, mimicking Luke's professional curiosity.
Maine let out a sharp, erratic laugh, shaking his head at my question as if I had just asked something incredibly obvious.
"You completely forgot, Luke? The original artifact is kept directly in the master's bedroom of Don Anthony. It's locked away in a highly secure, reinforced safe area. Only the Don himself knows the combination code… he keeps it written down in his pocket or hidden somewhere on his person at all times."
Hearing this, a cold wave of tactical clarity washed over my thoughts. The true Death Chant Tommy Gun was completely hidden away under maximum security in the boss's private quarters, and Maine only possessed the highly detailed blueprint copies scattered across his workstation. The mad scientist didn't have access to the artifact itself, meaning he couldn't hand it over to me even if I forced him to.
My analytical mind immediately recalculated the objective. To permanently halt the mass production of these catastrophic modern weapons and stop the world from collapsing into chaotic gang warfare, cutting off the supply chain wasn't enough. I needed to completely eliminate the intellectual source of the operation. I needed to kill Maine.
Before I could make a sudden move in the crowded warehouse, Maine turned back toward his desk, picking up a handwritten piece of parchment and tossing it casually toward me.
"Well, if you want to get stronger and expand your personal arsenal, Luke, take this, here is the step-by-step process for manufacturing my tear gas formula. You could technically make it at home, but the fumes will completely suffocate you if you're careless. So, if you're going to build your own little backyard meth lab, make sure you forge some high-grade safety gear first."
I caught the parchment, looking down at the toxic chemical equations written in his messy handwriting. I offered him a slow, chilling smile using Luke's face… a smile that held a double meaning he couldn't possibly comprehend.
"Thanks, Maine, you have no idea how useful this is going to be."
I carefully slid the tear gas recipe into my back pocket, my mind already pivoting to the immediate tactical necessity: terminating Maine.
Assassinating the lead researcher without getting spotted by the dozens of laborers, engineers, and syndicate guards swarming the warehouse floor was a complex puzzle. I needed a method that looked like a tragic workplace malfunction… an execution in plain sight that would be ruled an accident in the frantic chaos of the upcoming smuggling run. My single eye locked onto the massive industrial container suspended overhead, continuously pouring streams of blinding, white-hot molten metal down into the automated Tommy gun molds.
The plan solidified instantly. If I could lure Maine directly onto the narrow maintenance catwalk overlooking that exact pouring station, a single, precise shove would send him screaming into the liquid iron. The evidence would incinerate in seconds.
I shifted my posture, adopting a relaxed, overly curious demeanor as I stepped closer to the conveyor belt line.
"Well, Maine, I actually want to help you make these Tommy guns before we head out to the border."
Maine stopped writing on his clipboard and looked up, let out a dry scoff, and shook his head.
"Working with me? You're the Don's personal apprentice, Luke. Your job is pulling triggers and securing turf, not mixing chemicals or pulling levers. You cannot work here; the Don would have my head if I let his star asset get burned by a stray spark."
"Fair enough,"
I replied with a casual, easy-going shrug, stepping closer to the edge of the catwalk where the heat from the molten vat radiated intensely against my stolen skin. I gestured toward the roaring machinery just below us.
"But mind if I at least get a little bit of information about your production line? If I'm going to be selling these things to high-tier criminals on the border, I should at least know how the magic interacts with the iron molds."
Maine's eyes lit up with the classic, unchecked vanity of a mad scientist. He couldn't resist an opportunity to boast about his genius, especially to the legendary apprentice who had just broken out of the Dodorant Citadel.
He tucked his clipboard under his arm and began walking directly toward the edge of the platform, right into the exact spot I needed him to be.
"Hah! Well, if you put it that way, I suppose a quick breakdown wouldn't hurt,"