We moved past the humbled, trembling gatekeeper and stepped officially into the grand avenues of the 6th District… the bustling, high-end mercantile and artisan sector of the capital. The air here smelled less of damp stone and more of burning coal, refined ether gas, and the crisp scent of high-grade mana vapors drifting from the elite boutiques.
Though our primary objective was our impending meeting with Chief Roman at the Bureau, the tactical blueprint I had mapped out in my mind for the Demon Valkyrie Longsword and my extra bootleg Tommy guns demanded immediate realization. If I was going to face a political or physical ambush, I wanted my arsenal fully optimized.
As we walked down the cobblestone road, my eyes scanned the ornate storefronts until they locked onto a familiar, grand, soot-stained workshop. The heavy iron sign swinging above the door depicted a hammer overlapping a glowing sapphire crystal.
A sharp spark of memory rippled through my mind. Exactly two months ago, I had marched into this very forge under the shadow of my canvas hood. Back then, I had a trembling, chatterbox of a reincarnated Earth gamer named Na Tae-Man trailing at my heels… a kid who thought Andromeda was a localized video game simulation. I had dropped nineteen stolen elemental rings from Don Anthony's deepest cartel vaults onto that counter, forcing the master artisan to melt them down and flawlessly compress their matrices into a singular, high-tier accessory loadout while my funds ticked down to a meager 42 silver pieces.
Now, I was back. Not as a broke bounty hunter running a cosmic countdown for the Church, but as a fully loaded tactical operative with 25 kilograms of maximum-capacity lethality resting inside my index finger ring.
I stopped in my tracks, my dark cloak flaring slightly. I turned my mismatched jade-green and crimson eyes toward my sisters.
"Elicia, Evelyn. Hold on for a moment, I need to make a quick stop inside this workshop. I am going to forge my weapons into a much stronger state before we report to headquarters. It will only take a second."
Evelyn, still happily scooping a massive dollop of strawberry jam out of her jar, blinked her forest-green eyes and nodded enthusiastically, her bioluminescent hair tips pulsing a cheerful blue-green.
"Ooh, the blacksmith! Go ahead, Eirene! Maybe he has something shiny!"
Elicia rested the butt of her legendary, high-tier healing staff against the pavement, her piercing crimson eyes shifting toward the glowing furnaces visible through the workshop's heavy glass windows. She offered a calm, supportive smile, completely trusting my tactical judgment.
"Take all the time you need, little Ren, A vanguard should never walk into a viper's nest without ensuring her blades are perfectly sharp. Lead the way."
With my sisters backing me up, I pushed open the heavy oak door of the premier Artisan's Forge, the familiar hiss of pressurized ether gas and the roaring heat of the magical furnaces instantly washing over us as we stepped inside to upgrade my arsenal.
The heavy oak door swung shut behind us, cutting off the bustling sounds of the 6th District and enveloping us in the intense, rhythmic warmth of the forge. The air was thick with the scent of molten ore, charcoal, and pressurized ether gas.
Behind the counter stood the master artisan, his burly, soot-stained arms crossed over his leather apron, his specialized magnifying lens pushed up onto his forehead. He looked up at our arriving trio, his eyes briefly widening at the sight of Elicia's staggering 5'8" height and Evelyn's pristine, white-and-scarlet Luminous Knight uniform.
"Evening, ladies, What can I do for you today?" the artisan said, his deep voice echoing off the stone walls.
Because I was standing in the bright open light without my ominous canvas hood, my dark trench coat, or the suppressed dread of my bounty hunter aura, the craftsman didn't look at me twice. To him, I wasn't the freezing, completely mute vanguard who had dropped nineteen stolen elemental rings on his counter two months ago; I was just another customer.
"What exactly are we doing here, Eirene?" Elicia asked, leaning lightly on her legendary healing staff, her crimson eyes scanning the roaring, white-hot magical furnaces in the back. Evelyn stepped up right next to her, peerless forest-green eyes blinking with curiosity as she took another spoonful of her strawberry jam.
I didn't answer verbally right away. I marched straight up to the heavy obsidian counter. With a sharp, localized flicker of mana from my index finger, I bypassed the spatial limits of my full inventory ring, smoothly ejecting five massive pieces of high-tier lethality onto the iron surface.
CLATTER. THUD.
The sheer weight of the metal made the counter groan. In a perfect, systematic line, I laid out my primary Death Chant Shotgun, my main Death Chant Tommy Gun, the two lighter, five-kilogram bootleg syndicate Tommy guns, and finally, the dark, violet-sheened Demon Valkyrie Longsword.
"I need you to dismantle this longsword and forge its alloy into tactical bayonets, permanently attaching them to the under-barrels of these firearms, How long will it take you to make this?" I commanded, my smooth, restored voice cutting through the hiss of the forge. I locked my mismatched jade and crimson eyes onto the craftsman.
The artisan's eyes practically popped out of his skull as he stared at the staggering array of modern, catastrophic firearms. He frantically pulled down his magnifying lens, his fingers trembling slightly as he hovered his hands over the pristine, dark steel of my main weapons.
"That'll be exactly one royal gold coin for the labor and the matrix compression, lass, But by the gods... these four ranged artifacts... they are genuine Death Chant class weaponry, aren't they? The rifling, the dark mana conductivity... it's unmistakable." the artisan breathed, his voice dropping into absolute awe.
I gave a single, firm nod. I had systematically harvested and refined these weapons during my bloodiest bounty hunting days, and they were the cornerstone of my tactical doctrine.
Behind me, my sisters stared at the terrifying arsenal with completely different expressions.
"Wow, Eirene… You've been hiding an entire army's worth of fire support under your bed? Those things look like they could chew through a horde of high-tier trolls in seconds!" Evelyn gasped, nearly dropping her spoon into her jam jar as she stared at the twin bootleg Tommy guns.
Elicia, however, kept her analytical, high-priestess gaze locked entirely on the dark-violet longsword. Her posture stiffened slightly, sensing the malicious, anti-heal Lifeline mana radiating from the steel.
The master artisan carefully picked up the heavy demon blade, activating his built-in Appraisal skill. The magical lens on his forehead clicked violently as he read the hidden structural data of the alloy. Within seconds, the color completely drained from his face, and he nearly dropped the weapon back onto the counter.
"By the gods... is this... is this the legendary Fallen Angel's Sword?! The legendary artifact from the absolute depths of the frozen wastes?!"
"Yes,"
Elicia spoke up, her voice dropping into a cold, heavy, and deeply solemn octave that made the surrounding air turn freezing. She stepped closer to the counter, her silver hair catching the amber glow of the furnace.
"Eirene single-handedly killed the Fallen Angel at the northern borders. This very sword... this cursed blade with its phased mist-attribute... is the exact reason why thirty of my elite vanguard men were completely wiped out in the snow. Their armor couldn't stop it, and their healing was suffocated."
Evelyn let out a sharp, audible gasp, her jaw dropping as she looked at me with pure, unadulterated shock. She knew I was strong, but hearing that her petite, 5'5" big sister had put down a localized calamity that slaughtered an entire division of the Bureau's finest was a completely different level of terrifying.
"You... you took down that thing all by yourself, little Ren?" Evelyn whispered, her bioluminescent hair tips violently flashing a stunned, chaotic shade of blue.
"It was an operational hazard, And now, its power belongs to us. Melt it down. If Chief Roman wants a war, I want my bayonets ready." I replied deadpan, sliding a heavy royal gold coin across the counter toward the stunned artisan.
The low hum of the forge's magical heat resonators vibrated through the floorboards, matching the precise, rhythmic pacing of my internal tactical calculations. As the master artisan carefully gathered the heavy, dark steel of my firearms and the ominous, shimmering alloy of the Fallen Angel's sword, my mismatched jade-green and crimson eyes drifted away from the white-hot crucible and locked onto a small, weathered wooden placard hanging just below the counter's iron lip.
The brass-plated lettering read:
[Artifact Identification Matrix Adaptation: Rename your weapons, only 10 silver pieces each.]
A cold spark of dissatisfaction flared within my mind. "Death Chant Shotgun" and "Death Chant Tommy Gun." While mathematically accurate and perfectly indicative of the soul-bound, high-velocity ordnance they provided, the titles were entirely too plain. They lacked the psychological weight, the dark irony, and the professional signature that a top-tier hunter should present to the world. If these weapons were going to be permanently upgraded with phased, flesh-piercing mist-bayonets capable of bypassing the absolute highest tiers of magical and physical defense, they deserved titles that accurately reflected their operational philosophy.
"You guys rename weapons here," I stated, my smooth, entirely restored voice cutting through the ambient hiss of pressurized ether gas. It wasn't a question; it was a cold administrative demand.
The artisan paused, looking up from his velvet-lined sorting tray, his specialized magnifying lens clicking as he adjusted his gaze.
"Aye, lass. For ten silver pieces a pop, we can force a minor localized identity rewrite into the artifact's core matrix. It won't alter the combat stats, but the magical blueprint, the system identification, and any high-tier appraisal scans will officially register the new names you choose to brand into the steel."
Without a single microsecond of hesitation, I reached beneath my dark cloak, accessed my side pouch, and pulled out a small, neat stack of forty silver coins… exactly matching the operational fee for all four firearms. I slid the silver across the polished obsidian counter with a metallic, cascading clatter.
"Branded them,"
I commanded, my voice flat, deadpan, and entirely lethal. I tapped the heavy, five-kilogram barrel of my primary shotgun first.
"Name my shotgun: Means of Communication. I prefer its tactical implication to be significantly more deadly. When I deploy this at close range, the dialogue is already over."
The artisan blinked, his charcoal-stained brow twitching slightly as he pulled a specialized engraving quill from his apron, dipping it into a jar of glowing, liquid-mana ink to record the registry.
I shifted my finger, pointing directly to the reinforced, six-kilogram receiver of my primary, soul-bound Tommy gun.
"For my original Tommy gun, brand it exactly like this: Don't Ask?. If an enemy survives long enough to wonder how infinite blood bullets are actively liquefying their vanguard formation, that is the only answer they are permitted to receive."
A heavy, bewildered silence began to settle over the workshop, but I wasn't finished. I slammed two fingers down onto the twin barrels of the five-kilogram bootleg syndicate models I had dragged out from the secret compartment beneath my bed.
"And these two duplicate models... brand them both as Last Words. I like my operational equipment to sound professional and cool. Execute the matrix rewrite."
The artisan stared at the silver coins, then at the bizarrely terrifying titles scribbled onto his registry parchment, letting out a low, deeply unnerved whistle.
"By the gods, lass... you've got a dark, wicked sense of humor. 'Means of Communication' for a hand-cannon that can blow a gaping hole through a high-tier troll's torso? 'Last Words' for a pair of rapid-fire syndicate prototypes? Aye, I'll execute the brand. The mana ink will bind to the steel while the bayonet forge is settling."
Behind me, the sudden, overwhelming psychological reaction from my two sisters practically shifted the room's atmospheric pressure.
Evelyn, who had been blissfully scooping another massive, overflowing dollop of strawberry jam into her mouth, froze entirely. Her silver spoon remained hovered inches from her lips as her peerless forest-green eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. The bioluminescent blue-green tips of her hair violently flickered, pulsing in a chaotic, rapid-fire rhythm of stunned amusement and childish awe.
"Woah, Eirene! That is... that is insanely cool! 'Means of Communication'? That sounds so completely edgy and badass! It's like you're telling the bad guys, 'Hey, let's have a chat,' and then BOOM, their entire squad is just erased from the map! But... 'Don't Ask?' for your main gun? That's so mean! If I was a rogue syndicate bounty hunter and you pulled that out, I'd definitely want to ask questions!"
To my other side, Elicia stood completely rigid, her majestic 5'8" posture radiating the sheer, stunned disbelief of a high-ranking academic administrative officer. She gripped her legendary healing staff tightly, her piercing crimson eyes staring down at the four firearms, and then at me, looking at my petite 5'5" frame as if she were trying to decipher an ancient, broken language scroll. She let out a long, slow, and profoundly exhausted sigh, resting her free hand flat against her forehead.
"By the gods, little Ren... I knew your years operating solo in the underworld changed your disposition, but this is entirely ridiculous, Naming a high-caliber close-quarters shotgun 'Means of Communication'? Your administrative logic is completely warped. And 'Last Words' for the duplicate weapons? You are walking into the Bureau headquarters to speak with Chief Roman, not to execute an entire military tribunal. If the high-tier inquisitors scan your inventory ledger and see those names branded into the artifact registry, they aren't going to see a regular vanguard... they are going to think we brought a literal psychological horror into the building." Elicia murmured, her tone a mix of deep fondness and absolute, sisterly exasperation.
"Let them think whatever helps them sleep at night, The capital has spent years defining us by their own metrics. From this moment on, my weapons will speak for themselves." I replied coldly, adjusting the collar of my dress as the artisan swept my forty silver coins into his lockbox.
"It'll take just over an hour to melt down that Fallen Angel alloy, forge the bayonets, and complete the matrix renaming, Come back then, lass, and your weapons will be fully branded and locked."
I offered a single, curt nod.
"We will return in an hour."
With the deal struck, the three of us turned on our heels and exited the intense, radiating heat of the forge, stepping back into the grand, bustling stone thoroughfares of the 6th District. The path ahead led directly to the looming, white-marble spires of the Knights Bureau Central Headquarters.
As we walked, I lightly tapped my index finger ring. For the first time in months, my spatial index ledger read absolutely empty. My 25-kilogram capacity was clear. Means of Communication, Don't Ask?, and both copies of Last Words were entirely out of my hands. Statistically and visually, the bounty hunter was walking straight into a high-tier political viper's nest completely unarmed.
Elicia kept a watchful eye on me, her majestic 5'8" frame easily keeping pace as her continuous-nullification loop maintained its subtle, protective hum against the afternoon sun.
"Are you truly comfortable walking into Chief Roman's office without your firearms, little Ren? If the High Command attempts to detain us, we will be in the center of their defensive matrix."
"I am never truly unarmed," I replied, my smooth, restored voice dropping into a low, freezing octave that didn't carry past our trio.
A cold, crimson spark flared deep within my mismatched eyes. Even without five kilograms of engineered steel in my grip, my Phase 5 vampiric core was humming at peak efficiency. If the Bureau chose political assassination over a peaceful resolution, I wouldn't even need a trigger. My advanced blood manipulation was more than capable of handling the threat the old-fashioned way. With a single thought, I could draw the vital fluids directly from my own palm… or from the open wounds of Roman's guards… and condense the crimson mist into a hyper-dense, razor-sharp blood sword capable of slicing through elite plate armor at a molecular level.
To my right, Evelyn took one final, satisfied scoop of her strawberry jam, licking the giant silver spoon clean before securely tucking the empty jar into her armor pouch. The bioluminescent blue-green tips of her hair flared with a sharp, protective intensity as she cracked her knuckles, her massive S-rank physical density vibrating with ready compliance.
"Let them try something, If any of those mean capital vards try to hurt you or Elicia, I'll smash their desks and throw them right out the windows!" Evelyn huffed, a fierce, childish grin breaking across her voluptuous face.
"Keep your aura tightly bound, Evelyn, we play this by the book until Roman forces us to rewrite it."