Maine walked directly to the reinforced iron railing, leaning his weight against the rusted metal bar while gesturing down toward the roaring production line below. We were standing on a narrow maintenance catwalk, still a few feet away from the direct trajectory of the pouring molten metal, but the sheer thermal radiation washing over my disguised face was intense enough to make my stolen blonde hair feel brittle. The roar of the furnaces below provided the perfect acoustic cover, drowning out our conversation from the rest of the busy laborers working on the warehouse floor.
Maine cleared his throat, his bloodshot eyes reflecting the blinding orange glow of the liquid iron as he began proudly explaining his reverse-engineering process.
"Listen closely, Luke, because this is where the real alchemy happens, first, the automated cranes dump the raw, liquefied iron directly into the custom Tommy gun-shaped molds. But standard iron is just dead weight; it can't channel a damn thing on its own. That's where the magic comes in." Maine shouted over the mechanical din, pointing a stained finger at the automated assembly line.
He leaned further over the railing, his vanity completely taking over as he detailed the true secret behind the syndicate's bootleg weaponry.
"Once the liquid metal fills the mold, we inject a highly specialized, highly volatile mana stone. These aren't your standard elemental crystals you find in the local markets… these are rare, synthetic mana stones found exclusively within the internal mechanisms of genuine Death Chant artifacts. That specific stone is the absolute catalyst. It's the entire reason why a wielder's raw life force can be pulled from their body and instantly converted into physical, high-velocity bullets. It taps directly into the soul. Whatever your innate magical affinity is, the stone recognizes it, channels it through the weapon's silver circuit linings, and fires it out as a conceptual payload."
Maine watched the white-hot liquid bubble inside the casting tray before continuing the breakdown.
"After the mana stone is perfectly embedded into the molten core, the entire mold is moved to the cooling chambers. It has to sit undisturbed for at least a full day until it completely solidifies and the magical circuits bond permanently with the hardened iron structure. Once that twenty-four-hour curing cycle is complete, my engineers take the core and manually attach the conventional mechanical components: the rifled barrels, the firing pins, the heavy-duty recoil springs, and the cycling gears. Finally, we give it the cosmetic touch by layering the polished wooden panels over the chassis to cut down on weight and hide the crude ironwork. And just like that… boom. A mass-produced, element-shredding Tommy gun is ready for the black market."
I stood perfectly still beside him, my single eye tracking the exact trajectory from where he stood to the churning, white-hot surface of the molten metal vat directly below. He was completely focused on his own genius, his hands waving in the air as he finished his explanation, entirely unaware that he had just handed me the complete blueprint of his operations… and that he was currently standing on the precipice of his own execution.
I stood perfectly still, my hand hovering just inches from the rusted iron railing. Below us, the blinding orange glow of the churning molten iron cast deep, dancing shadows across Maine's ecstatic, manic face.
My single eye tracked the precise trajectory of the drop. A sharp, sudden shove would plunge him straight into the liquid metal, incinerating him before he could even scream. But as I glanced around the vast, echoing warehouse, I noticed several workers and forge engineers adjusting the conveyor belts nearby. If I acted now, someone would catch the movement out of the corner of their eye. The alarm would sound, the entire facility would seal down, and my opportunity to thoroughly execute Don Anthony and claim his head would blow up in my face.
I needed to buy time. I needed to keep him isolated, talking, and completely off-guard with seemingly useless, casual questions until the surrounding workers rotated their shifts or looked away.
Digging deep into the memories the real Luke Granhart had shared with me back in the depths of the Citadel, I recalled his true motivations. Luke and his twin brother, Luck, had only joined the arms trafficking syndicate because their previous organization, the Yellow Flower Guild, had been entirely destroyed. Left destitute and desperate, the brothers were forced to turn to the mafia to make good money. But Maine's enlistment into this dark enterprise had always been an anomaly… he had just appeared one day and joined the faction with no questions asked.
"Maine, why did you actually join us and leave your old life behind? My brother and I joined this guild strictly to make money after the Yellow Flower Guild fell apart... but why join us? The other members have genuinely been worried about you." I said, leaning casually against the railing to mask my murderous intent, pitch-shifting my voice to perfectly match Luke's tone
Maine's manic smile completely vanished. The pride in his eyes was instantly hollowed out, replaced by a raw, haunted emptiness as he stared down at the bubbling, white-hot metal.
"You know the maid in the Flower Manor, Miera? I'm doing all of this... for her."
A violent jolt of genuine shock ripped through my internal processor, completely shattering my calculated composure beneath the Luke disguise.
Miera.
The name echoed in my mind like a thunderclap, violently dragging a flood of buried, agonizing memories to the surface. Back in my past life… back when I was a celebrated hero, a fierce guardian, and went by the nickname "Roxy"... Miera had been one of my closest, dearest friends in the Flower Manor. I knew her gentle laugh, the way she used to tuck vibrant flowers behind her ear, and the adoring, tender way she always looked at Maine, her absolute lover.
Suddenly, the horrific memory of that fateful basement flashed before my single green eye. I remembered the suffocating smell of iron, dust, and blood. I remembered the profound failure of trading my left eye and my right arm just to survive, while Miera's decapitated head lay cold and lifeless in the dark. I remembered kneeling in the damp, biting gravel of the Western District cemetery, weeping uncontrollably as the gears in my mechanical arm whirred in a frantic, mourning rhythm. I remembered Maine's shaky hand resting on my steel shoulder, his heart pulverized into dust, telling me through his tears that he was planning to give her a diamond ring on the very day she was murdered.
"You are going to find the men who turned that ring into a relic, you are going to avenge my Miera." Maine had told me that evening by her tombstone, his voice laced with a quiet, terrifying strength.
I stared at the broken, chemical-stained man standing right next to me. The grief that had once fueled our shared bond at her graveside had twisted him into a monster. In his desperate, mad quest to find vengeance or rewrite a cruel world, the grieving lover I once wept with had become the premier chemical weapon manufacturer for the most dangerous arms syndicate in Andromeda.
My hand on the railing tightened, the simulated skin of my glove straining against the iron. The man I was about to murder was the very same man who had wiped the tears from my cheek and absolved me of my guilt.
"I am doing this all for her," Maine repeated, his voice cracking slightly as he stared into the blinding, white-hot depths of the furnace.
The intense heat of the molten iron cast a harsh, unforgiving glow across his face, highlighting the deep, hollow lines of unhealed grief beneath his eyes.
"The world is cruel, Luke, the Bronze Coin took her away. The system let it happen. If the rules of this kingdom are built to let innocent people like Miera bleed in the dark, then I will use my mind to forge a new set of rules. Don Anthony promised me the resources, the power, and the network to tear down the old structures. With these Tommy guns and my chemical formulas... we're going to burn it all down. For her."
Maine muttered, completely unaware that the 'Luke' he was confiding in was actually the ghost of his past, the very hero who had failed to save his world. Hearing him speak those words… words born from the very pool of agony and guilt we had shared at her graveside… sent a sickening shiver through my calculated matrix. The tragic irony was suffocating. The grieving man who had once held my mechanical arm and told me to hunt down her killers had been thoroughly consumed by the darkness. In his desperation to avenge a relic, he had turned himself into a monster, building mass-market weapons that would inevitably create a thousand more funerals just like Miera's.
My single green eye drifted down toward the churning liquid metal below us. The workers nearby were still moving, adjusting the levers of the conveyor belts, their presence a constant ticking clock against my tactical window.
I forced my stolen face to remain completely neutral, a mask of cold, criminal understanding.
"I see, a motive like that... it certainly burns hotter than any fuel. But if you're doing this all for her, Maine, you need to make sure your work is flawless. Look down there at the primary pouring joint… is that slag buildup on the left side of the mold tract?"
Maine blinked, his manic scientific instincts instantly overriding his grief. He leaned further over the railing, squinting down into the blinding glare to inspect the exact spot I was pointing to, completely placing his balance and his life entirely into my hands.