The industrial rattle of the underground vault became a background hum as the final preparations for the smuggling run reached a fever pitch. Syndicate members were moving in tightly choreographed patterns, hoisting the last of the heavy merchant crates onto the reinforced wooden wagons. Because of my elevated status as Luke Granhart… the legendary apprentice who had just pulled off the impossible escape from the Dodorant Citadel… my assigned position was at the very apex of the convoy: the lead carriage. This was the exact vehicle where Don Anthony himself sat, his imposing figure draped in heavy merchant cloth that failed to fully mask the jagged, glowing magma-infused weapon resting against his knee.
I began making my way toward the front of the column, the stolen wooden Tommy gun hanging loosely from its strap against my shoulder. Before I could step up onto the driver's bench of the lead carriage, a burly logistics guard carrying a heavy iron clipboard intercepted me. He gestured toward a dark corner of the staging bay where a final, highly specialized shipment was being prepared.
"Hey, Luke, before you get comfortable up there with the boss, do some heavy lifting, carry those crates of mining explosives over to the auxiliary carriages. The Don wants them distributed evenly across the center of the convoy so we don't blow up the entire payload if we hit a rough patch of road."
"Got it," I replied, maintaining Luke's casual, slightly arrogant drawl.
I walked over to the designated stack and gripped the handles of the first wooden crate. The moment I lifted it, my internal sensors calibrated the weight and density of the contents. These weren't standard low-grade blasting powders used by common highwaymen. As I loaded them one by one into the middle carriages, concealing them beneath layers of mundane merchant fabrics and burlap sacks, I counted them carefully: ten full crates of high-end, military-grade dynamite.
I stared down into the open lid of the final crate, tracking the pristine red cylinders tightly packed in sawdust. A calculated thrill rippled through my internal processor. A genius tactical plan materialized in my mind, shifting the entire geometry of the upcoming border operation.
The strategy was flawless in its simplicity. I would not launch a premature, suicidal assault against an army of 100 automatic weapons here in the fortress. Instead, I would allow the convoy to safely reach the isolated Eastern border village. We would proceed with the transaction exactly as planned. We would hand over the reverse-engineered Tommy guns, the toxic tear gas canisters, and these ten massive crates of high-end dynamite to the rogue criminal syndicate waiting for us. The moment they handed over the staggering payout of 20 gold pieces to Don Anthony, the trap would spring.
I would detonate the dynamite right in the middle of their exchange camp, turning the weapons deal into an absolute, apocalyptic ambush.
The execution of the detonation required zero physical fuses, zero matches, and zero visible triggers that could alert the syndicate's high-level sensory guards. How would I explode them? Through the absolute, lethal mastery of my Blood Manipulation magic.
While the surrounding guards were thoroughly distracted checking the carriage wheels and securing the horse tethers, I leaned over the open crate as if checking the security of the ropes. Feigning a careless nick from a splinter on my finger, I drew a precise stream of my own highly dense, mana-saturated blood. With surgical control, I guided the crimson fluid, threading it invisibly beneath the wooden slats and imbuing it deep into the chemical cores of the explosive cylinders.
My blood became an internal, metaphysical blasting cap woven into the very fabric of the dynamite. Because it was an extension of my own arcane biology, it bypassed any traditional detection. Distance would not matter. Physical barriers would not matter. With a single, silent mental command… or a dramatic, auditory snap of my fingers… the mana within my blood would violently destabilize, triggering a catastrophic chain reaction that would instantly vaporize the ten crates of high-end explosives, the criminal buyers, and the 100-man vanguard of the Yellow Flower's oppressors.
The tactical preparation was complete. I closed the lid of the final crate and smoothed the merchant cloth back over the top, a cold, unreadable smile playing beneath my hood.
My entire arsenal was primed and ready for a massacre. Beneath my cloak, my high-tier, customized Death Chant Shotgun rested against my ribs, waiting to unleash its devastating, close-range spread. In my hands, I held the cheap, reverse-engineered copy of Maine's Tommy gun, loaded with a full drum of elemental mag-rounds that I could use to maintain my cover or paint the battlefield in chaotic crossfire. And woven into the heart of the convoy itself was a ticking, crimson bomb waiting for my signal.
I turned on my heel, walked back to the front of the line, and climbed up onto the lead carriage. I took my seat just a few feet away from Don Anthony, looking out into the dark, yawning cavern tunnel that led toward the Eastern border. The stage was set, the pieces were moving, and the countdown to the 20-gold graveyard had officially begun.
I climbed onto the wooden bench of the lead carriage and slid into position, sitting directly between Luck and Don Anthony himself. There were only the three of us on the driver's seat.
The proximity was intoxicating to a predator. The kingpin of the underground arms empire was sitting right beside me, completely relaxed, his neck completely exposed. I could feel the mechanical gears in my hidden arm twitch with a violent urge… I could draw my blade and behead him right here, painting the wagon in his blood before he could even grasp his magma gun. And Luck, sitting on my other side, was so entirely oblivious that I could easily shatter his jaw, pluck one of his obnoxious golden teeth right out of his mouth, and sell it to the mint industry for a tidy profit.
But I suppressed the lethal impulse. A premature strike here meant fighting off a hundred automatic weapons in a enclosed space. Not yet. I would play the loyal apprentice until we reached our destination and the 20 gold pieces changed hands. Only then would I snap my fingers and trigger the crimson detonation. My goal wasn't just to take Don Anthony's head for the bounty; it was to completely vaporize his entire inventory of bootleg weapons and chemical gas canisters. If those weapons burned to ash in a glorious explosion, they would never spread to the low-level criminals of Andromeda. This was how the world would stay balanced.
With a sharp whistle and the crack of a whip, the convoy finally set off.
To hide our highly illegal cargo, the carriages had been transformed into elaborate traveling merchant wagons. The lead vehicle was incredibly colorful and vibrant, beautifully decorated with painted wood and draped fabrics… it looked exactly like a traditional kalesa, a horse-drawn carriage completely blending into the local culture. No one looking at this festive, bright setup would ever guess it held a ruthless mafia don, a reincarnated executioner, and ten crates of blood-imbued dynamite.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed through the underground tunnels until we finally emerged into the dimming light of the surface world. The kalesa rolled smoothly down the dirt roads, weaving through the outskirts until the massive, reinforced stone town gates loomed ahead of us.
The lead driver pulled back on the reins. With a loud groan of wooden brakes and the snorting of horses, our colorful carriage ground to a halt right before the heavily armed border guards. Don Anthony adjusted his merchant cloak, pulling the hood low over his face as the gatekeepers stepped forward to inspect our papers.
The heavy iron-studded gates of the town loomed over us as the lead carriage ground to a halt. A gruff, armored gatekeeper stepped out from the guard post, his breastplate gleaming faintly in the twilight. His nametag read Berlin Jol, and he carried himself with the lazy, corrupt posture of a border official who had long since sold his integrity for the right price.
Berlin Jol marched right up to the side of our colorful, kalesa-style carriage, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. He leaned in, his eyes scanning the three of us sitting on the driver's bench.
"Where are you merchants going?" Berlin Jol demanded, his voice thick with administrative boredom.
Don Anthony didn't miss a beat. He tilted his head down, keeping his face perfectly shadowed beneath his merchant hood, and adopted the smooth, humble tone of an honest trader.
"Well, officer, we are heading down the eastern roads to Caria City. We're delivering essential commercial supplies to the markets out there."
Berlin Jol didn't even bother checking the back of our carriage. He didn't lift the colorful fabrics, meaning he completely missed the magma-infused Tommy gun resting by the Don's knee, my own hidden shotgun, and the blood-imbued dynamite hidden just a few wagons back. Instead, his greedy eyes drifted past our bench, locking onto the massive column stretching out into the road behind us. He stared at the sheer volume of the vanguard… 100 heavily built "merchants," all sitting rigidly beneath their cloaks, clutching hidden automatic weaponry.
A slick, dirty smile spread across Berlin Jol's face. He turned back to Don Anthony, rubbing his gloved fingers together.
"Caria, huh? That's a long haul, but look here... since there is a whole lot of you, a hundred or so men, the standard processing fee isn't going to cut it. Give me 1 gold piece. Out here, 1 solid gold piece is equivalent to 100 silver coins… consider it a bulk transit tax for your massive crew."
It was a blatant, extortionate bribe, but to a kingpin carrying out a 20 gold piece transaction, a single gold coin was pocket change.
Don Anthony let out a soft, compliant chuckle. He reached into his wealthy silken pouch, pulled out a heavy, glittering gold coin, and dropped it directly into Berlin Jol's waiting palm.
"Of course, officer. We appreciate you keeping the roads safe for hard-working traders like us. Thank you."
Berlin pocketed the bribe instantly, stepping back and waving his hand to the gate operators.
"Clear! Let the convoy pass!"
The massive iron gates groaned open, revealing the dark, sprawling wilderness of the eastern borderlands ahead. With the bribe settled, our massive snake of a convoy finally began to roll through the threshold. More than 10 heavily loaded carriages, meticulously organized with exactly 10 heavily armed syndicate members packed into each vehicle, piled into a tight, synchronized formation.
I sat silently between the Don and Luck as the horses accelerated into a steady gallop, the wind whipping past my hood. The corrupt gatekeeper had just let an entire army of bootleg weapons and a rolling crimson time bomb march right out into the open world. We were officially outside the jurisdiction of the town, moving at high speed toward the isolated meeting point. The stage was set, the 100 executioners were in position, and my fingers were already itching to snap.