A pinch of black granules in the crucible flared, instantly releasing a wave of heat. White smoke rose to the ceiling, and in a second, it all burned to ash, leaving a thin layer.
Reyn smiled, pleased with the result. His black powder hadn't reached max power yet, but due to impure raw materials, no cleaning tools, and inability to analyze chemical composition precisely, this was his limit. Still, for bullets, it was plenty.
Pouring the finished powder into a jar and sealing it tight, Reyn immediately started on the gun. He opened the 3D blueprints on his phone and reviewed unlocked models.
Pistols were out: small caliber and black powder meant limited lethality. Plus, pistol parts were finer, harder to make, demanding higher metal quality.
Rifles didn't fit either. Unlocked assault rifles and SMGs were gas-operated and useless for black powder cartridges—they'd jam after the first shot.
Two sniper rifles were there, but too demanding on materials and precision.
In the end, he chose a shotgun.
Reyn played lots of games and knew the saying: "Before a shotgun, all are equal."
Shotguns differed in their large caliber, high firepower, and wide shot spread, making them effective close-range weapons. Reyn had fired a gun only once in his life, at the shooting range, and his skills were no better than any novice's. Give him a pistol or rifle, and he probably couldn't hit a target at close range. But with a shotgun in his hands, the odds increased significantly.
In addition, black powder cartridges were quite suitable for shotguns. The main drawback was the thick smoke after firing, but they had to put up with it.
Among the unlocked blueprints were three or four shotgun models. Excluding gas-operated semi-automatic variants, also incompatible with black powder, Reyn settled on the most familiar and classic model—Remington M870!
This shotgun was pump-action, with manual reloading, a seven-round magazine, compact design, high reliability, and, importantly, relatively simple to manufacture. Reyn had used this weapon in many games. Being a mechanical engineer by training, he could have figured out the M870's mechanism even without the 3D blueprints, though it would have taken more time.
On the phone screen, the M870 was fully disassembled into parts: barrel, trigger mechanism, tubular magazine, screws, springs, fore-end, wooden stock… Seventy-one parts in total, large and small.
Reyn carefully studied each part, mentally disassembling and assembling the gun dozens of times, running through the firing principle, shell ejection, and chambering of a new round in his head. Soon he had memorized the shotgun's design by heart, classified all the parts, and determined their manufacturing sequence.
Zoltan's workshop held plenty of metal materials: sheet metal, steel pipes, and springs of varying stiffness—all suitable for making weapons.
"Fortunately, this world has guns and the gunsmith profession too; otherwise, just making quality springs would have stumped me."
Reyn mentally rejoiced and decided to start with machining the barrel. But first, he needed to fire up the machine and learn to operate it.
He fiddled with the steam machine's control panel for a while, roughly figuring out its functions and operating principle, then tossed some coal into the boiler, lit it, and waited for the water to heat. Soon steam billowed from the boiler, and the machine hummed to life.
Puff-puff…
The flywheel spun, steam swirled, and the machine emitted a rhythmic grind. For an ordinary person, the noise would have been unbearable, but for Reyn, it sounded like a beautiful melody. He set the cutter, clamped the barrel blank, and, pulling the lever, began machining.
When immersed in work, time flies unnoticed; you even forget to eat.
"Reyn, are you still here?"
Only when Zoltan burst into the workshop shouting to shut off the steam machine—lest the noise from the basement disturb the guests—did Reyn realize it was nearly midnight and he'd spent the whole day in the workshop!
His stomach let out a series of loud growls, acute weakness washed over him, and his arms and legs grew heavy. He raked out the coals from the firebox, and the steam machine slowly quieted.
Zoltan grumbled something displeased at Reyn, then absentmindedly picked up the freshly machined barrel. At first he just glanced at it curiously, but upon closer inspection, his face changed.
"Did you make this?"
Zoltan carefully ran his hand over the barrel. His years of experience told him this part was exceptional. The blued surface gleamed with a raven sheen, clearly after special treatment. One end had neat threading, the cut perfectly even without the slightest flaw. The other end was cut halfway. Though Zoltan didn't understand its purpose, the craftsmanship alone said volumes.
"I didn't think you had such hands. No worse than Longsand's best mechanics," Zoltan said sincerely impressed. Even he probably couldn't have done better.
"You're too kind, boss."
Reyn smirked. In truth, he was a bit surprised by his own skill. He hadn't touched a machine in years, yet not only hadn't his skills rusted—they seemed improved. Of course, most of the credit went to the phone's 3D blueprints. He just had to select a part on the blueprint, align it with the workpiece like overlaying a real sample, and machining precision soared.
"Call me Zoltan." The Dwarf corrected him and asked curiously, "Reyn, this is a barrel, right? Isn't it too long? And such a big caliber…"
Reyn hesitated a moment. He knew he couldn't hide anything from Zoltan; he'd figure it out sooner or later.
"Ha-ha, if you don't want to say, no need. I'm not prying your secrets," Zoltan set down the barrel and smiled good-naturedly. "But when you're done, be sure to show me what you made."
"Sure," Reyn nodded.
After quickly tidying the workshop, Reyn went up to the tavern's common room. To his surprise, even at this late hour, several tables still had card games going, and the players seemed set to battle till dawn.
Ordering a double portion of stewed potatoes with meat and beer, Reyn settled at a corner table. Having eaten almost nothing all day, this simple dish tasted incredible. Savoring dinner, Reyn watched the players.
Among them were a few superhumans, one of whom he recognized—the Iron Guard he'd seen on the street. His shield and long sword lay at his feet; one hand held cards, the other a beer mug, and he relentlessly taunted his opponent. The man flushed red with anger but dared not retort.
"Has he been sitting here playing since morning?"
"Are cards really that fun?"
Reyn didn't quite get the appeal but thought maybe someday, when he had time, he could try.
As he finished his portion, someone new entered the tavern. Zoltan, who was playing cards, immediately tossed his hand and rushed over, joyfully exclaiming,
"Roger!"
"Zoltan."
Roger's voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant. Unlike the enthusiastic Zoltan, Roger was aloof, even somewhat grim.
He looked young, but his hair was gray like an old man's, simply combed back into a ponytail. His face was strikingly handsome, save for the scar across his left eye. It looked like some beast's claws: the wound ran from forehead through the left eye to cheek. Luckily, the eye was intact. But his eyes weren't normal either: amber pupils vertical like a cat's, giving a frightening first impression.
He wore light-blue armor, part leather, part chainmail, of exquisite workmanship. Around his neck hung a necklace with a wolf-head pendant, and crossing behind his back peeked the hilts of two swords over his right shoulder.
His unusual appearance drew curious glances even from the card players.
"Demon Hunter!" someone whispered in fear.
Reyn understood at once. Demon Hunters were very powerful superhumans but had a bad reputation for some reason; people disliked and avoided them. Their hallmarks were too obvious, especially the paired swords on the back—a near-unique sign of Demon Hunters.
At that moment, Roger scanned the tavern. Everyone his eyes met froze in inexplicable fear and looked away. Even the few superhumans in the room couldn't hold his gaze and fell silent.
The scene tensed everyone: it was clear a very powerful superhuman stood before them.
Roger's gaze brushed Reyn, but he reacted lightning-fast, dropping his head and pretending to focus on his food.
Silence hung for seconds before things returned to normal.
Zoltan tried to hug Roger but realized he couldn't reach, so he clapped his arm hard instead, saying joyfully,
"Old timer, we haven't seen each other in nearly ten years! Where'd you vanish to? Why no word?"
Roger silently shook his head, as if unwilling to recall the past. He went to the bar, unshouldered his swords, set them down, slumped wearily onto a stool, and downed the beer mug Zoltan promptly handed him.
Reyn sat fairly far, and the noisy room muffled their talk. He opened his phone interface and activated the camera—that is, the Eye of the Soul. First he scanned other patrons a few times, then casually shifted to Roger.
The next second, Reyn saw Roger's soul.
He froze as if struck by lightning. It felt like he'd glimpsed something forbidden or been blinded by sun. Sharp pain stabbed his eyes, tears streaming.
"Damn! What the hell?!"
Reyn mentally cried out, hastily closed the Eye of the Soul, and buried himself in his potato plate, swallowing back tears.
In that brief instant, he'd vaguely made out a golden soul of at least ten layers, with over a dozen elemental runes deep within!
"Could this guy be a legendary Demon Hunter?"