The midnight hour had finally come and gone, plunging Town Carcaka into a silent, pitch-black slumber. Inside the dimly lit room of the Coal Mine Inn, I stood up and began the meticulous process of packing my gear.
I carefully folded my large, demonic wings tightly against my back, compressing them flat against my spine so they wouldn't create an unnatural bulge. Over them, I threw my heavy, shadow-tinted traveling cloak. One by one, I strapped my massive arsenal into the hidden interior harnesses of the fabric. Nearly five heavy firearms were now securely concealed beneath the cloth: my custom Death Chant Shotgun, the three bootleg Tommy guns I had taken from the battlefield, and my personal sidearms. I snapped my coin purse… still heavy with my own funds… to my belt, pulled the deep hood over my face, and slipped out of the inn unnoticed.
The night air was crisp and completely still as I navigated the deserted alleys, making a direct line for the restricted district.
I arrived at the perimeter of the abandoned Ford Mint industry. Slipping past the rusted iron fences, I didn't waste a second on the surface level. I descended into the cold, damp underground tunnels, my boots making no sound against the stone. Navigating the dark labyrinth from memory, I quickly reached the heavy, concealed door that led into the syndicate's hidden sector.
With Maine gone and the vanguard wiped out, there were no guards left to challenge me. I opened the secret threshold and walked directly into the main facility.
The sprawling subterranean workshop was eerie and silent, a stark contrast to the roaring fires and clanging metal from earlier today. The massive vats of liquid iron had cooled into dull, black masses, and the rows of automated machinery stood like hollow ghosts in the dark. Somewhere in this abandoned fortress of steel and ash, Don Anthony's original, Death Chant Tommy gun was waiting for me. I adjusted the cloak over my weapons, my eyes scanning the shadows of the master workshop as I stepped forward to claim my prize.
I wandered through the silent, echoing chambers of the main facility, my boots clicking faintly against the cold iron floors. The cooling machinery threw long, distorted shadows across the walls. I kept Maine's final words in mind… he had mentioned that he hid the original weapon inside a high-security safe, and that only Don Anthony possessed the passcode to open it.
But as I had reminded myself earlier, codes is for babies. To an executioner with a high-tier mana pool and a mechanical understanding of hardware, a safe wasn't a puzzle ... it was just a minor inconvenience. If I could find it, I could simply use my raw strength or a precise blast of magic to tear the reinforced metal doors straight off their hinges and claim the weapon myself.
I searched the corridors until I finally stumbled upon the grand, double-hinged doors of the boss room. Pushing them open, I stepped into Don Anthony's private quarters. The room was lavishly decorated, filled with heavy velvet drapes, expensive mahogany furniture, and the lingering scent of rich tobacco. Somewhere in this room, the safe was hidden.
I began systematically tearing the place apart to find it. I checked every conventional hiding spot:
I bent down and swept my gaze under the bed, finding nothing but dust and silk sheets.
I checked under the heavy executive table, searching for false panels or hidden buttons, but came up empty.
I ripped down the paintings on the walls, expecting a wall safe, but found only solid stone.
Frustrated but methodical, my eyes panned over to a massive, towering bookshelf lining the far wall. One specific volume caught my attention… a thick, leather-bound book that was pulled slightly outward, jammed and stuck awkwardly against the rest of the shelf.
Intrigued, I walked over, gripped the spine of the stuck book, and firmly pushed it back into place.
Clack.
A heavy mechanical gear groaned deep within the masonry. With a low, grinding rumble, a section of the bookshelf slid backward and swung outward, revealing a dark, concealed passage leading into a hidden safe vault.
A sharp, victorious smile cut across my face beneath the deep hood. I had officially hit the jackpot. The original, Death Chant Tommy gun was just a few feet away, completely unguarded.
The hidden vault smelled of cold dust, ancient metal, and the unmistakable, intoxicating scent of hoarding wealth. As I stepped through the threshold of the secret bookshelf door, the dim light of my single green eye adjusted to reveal a chamber overflowing with the illicit spoils of Don Anthony's criminal empire.
Shelves of reinforced stone lined the walls, crowded with a chaotic assortment of rare artifacts. Some bore the distinct, meticulous serial engravings of museum pieces stolen from high-security vaults across Andromeda; others still carried the velvet-lined tags of elite, underground auction houses where desperate nobles traded legacy items for black-market firearms. To a common thief, this room would be a lifetime of temptation, but to me, the origin of these trinkets didn't matter in the slightest.
My attention was immediately arrested by a heavy, iron-bound chest resting on a central stone pedestal. I strode forward and lifted the heavy lid. The golden glow reflecting off my face was blinding. There, resting inside the velvet interior, were rows of pristine, polished gold coins. Even though the chest itself was massive… built to hold hundreds of thousands of standard silver pieces… it neatly displayed exactly 30 gold coins.
The sheer value of this haul was staggering. To put it in perspective, 30 gold pieces was an absolute fortune, significantly higher than the global bounty placed on Don Anthony's head, and nearly double the 16-gold bounty placed on my own demonic identity. Staring down at the shimmering wealth, a cold, calculating wave of pragmatism washed over me. If I took this much raw, unrecorded gold back into the commercial sectors of Town Carcaka, I would instantly flag myself to the kingdom's financial auditors. Spending it would force me into a tedious, complex web of money laundering just to clean the currency, drawing unnecessary eyes to my operations.
I couldn't keep them for myself. But I wasn't about to leave them for the corrupt town guards to pocket, either.
A sudden, brilliant alternative materialized in my mind.
"I will donate these 30 gold coins entirely to the local orphanage."
It was the perfect tactical and moral play. By redirecting the mafia's blood money into the hands of the helpless, my hidden, benevolent nature would not go to waste. The syndicate's legacy of violence would inadvertently fund the next generation, balancing the scales of a cruel world. I reached into the chest, picking up the coins one by one. Each solid gold piece was perfectly minted, measuring exactly 1.2 centimeters in radius, heavy and cold to the touch. I slid them carefully into my leather pouch, a smirk playing on my lips as I envisioned the sheer shock of the orphanage directors when they discovered a donation capable of feeding and housing their children for decades. It was my own twisted way of contributing enough to the society I actively disrupted.
With the gold secured, I turned my attention back to the surrounding shelves, scanning the stolen treasures with my expert eyes. Among the mundane jewelry, I spotted several genuine masterpieces: high-grade Mana Rings forged from rare, arcane alloys. I picked one up, feeling the deep, internal resonance of the metal; these rings were specifically engineered for high-level mages, capable of storing massive reserves of latent mana that a caster could draw upon during an emergency spell or a prolonged automatic gunfight.
I stole them without a single shred of hesitation.
Beside the rings lay various other priceless, compact artifacts… enchanted lockpicks, amplified sight lenses, and ancient defensive amulets. I systematically swept them off the shelves and stuffed every single artifact directly into my spacious purse, leaving absolutely no crumbs behind for any future investigators. Luckily for my inventory management, all of these high-tier magical items were small and compact enough to fit perfectly into the dimensional interior of my bags without bulging under my cloak.
The outer shelves were now bare, the stone safe surrounding the main vault completely scattered and stripped of its finest jewelry, rings, and gems. With the auxiliary wealth entirely liquidated, I turned on my heel and locked my single green eye onto the true heart of the vault: a final, heavily reinforced iron safe standing directly in the dead center of the room. This was where the ultimate prize was locked away.
As the stolen high-grade mana rings clattered loudly into the depths of my purse, settling against the rest of the looted artifacts, I stepped right up to the central iron safe. I didn't bother looking for a keyhole or guessing at a sequence of numbers. Bracing my boots against the stone floor, I dug my fingers directly into the microscopic seam of the reinforced door. I focused my demonic power and pried the safe open with all my strength.
With a screech of tearing metal and a loud crack of breaking deadbolts, the heavy iron door was ripped entirely off its hinges and tossed aside.
There, resting on a velvet cushion inside the ruined safe, was the true masterpiece: the original Death Chant Tommy Gun.
Because Don Anthony had exclusively used the magma-infused bootleg copies to flaunt his wealth on the frontlines, this pristine original weapon had remained completely untouched and unused. It boasted a striking, predatory palette of matte black and polished silver, radiating a cold, overwhelming aura of authentic lethal craftsmanship. It was far more refined than any of Maine's mass-produced copies.
Without a moment's delay, I grabbed the heavy firearm and slid it beneath the interior harnesses of my heavy traveling cloak. It joined the rest of my staggering payload… now making a grand total of five heavy weapons strapped securely against my frame alongside my compressed wings and the 30 gold pieces meant for the orphanage.
I spun on my heel and marched out of the hidden vault. The room behind me was completely picked clean, the secret sanctuary of the Yellow Flower mafia officially looted and left in ruins.
I navigated the dark underground facility one last time, ascending to the upper levels of the abandoned Ford Mint building until I reached a high, arched window overlooking the sleeping town. I threw the glass open, letting the cold midnight air whip across my face.
I took a deep breath, stepped onto the sill, and leaped out into the open sky.
Mid-fall, I unleashed my massive, feathered demonic wings with a powerful snap. They caught the wind perfectly, halting my descent and launching me upward into the dark clouds. Beneath my cloak, the five heavy guns, the tear gas formula, and the bags of treasure remained perfectly locked in place… not a single weapon slipped, and not a single coin dropped.
Looking down at the dim, unsuspecting lights of Town Carcaka fading beneath my boots, I tilted my wings eastward, cutting through the midnight air at high speed. My business here was concluded. The Don was dead, his empire was ash, and my arsenal was complete.
Now, I will go to Caria.