"You're doing that thing again."
Kaito didn't look up from the workshop bench as Lilyeth stood in the doorway, arms folded, hair tied back like she meant business, but her voice had the edge of concern rather than command, Kaito kept carving the rune into the capsule shell, one careful line at a time, because if his hand shook even once, the spell would misfire, and if the spell misfired, the entire illusion net would collapse before it hit the buyer's pocket.
"What thing?" he asked, not breaking rhythm.
"The thing where you go silent for ten hours, tinker with ammo like it's therapy, and forget to eat."
"I ate a fruit bar."
"That was yesterday."
He stopped, blinked, glanced at the wall clock, and sighed.
"Oh."
Lilyeth stepped forward and placed a plate on the bench, bread, smoked meat, and dried citrus slices, all sourced from the underground market they supplied through three dummy vendors now loyal to the Vault, she didn't say anything else, just nudged the plate closer.
Kaito finally looked at her.
"I'm not obsessed."
"I didn't say you were."
"You're thinking it."
"I'm thinking you're getting better at lying," she said, sitting on the crate across from him, "Which is dangerous, considering how often you lie to yourself."
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
"Thanks for the diagnosis, doctor."
"I'm not a doctor," she replied, "But I did watch you blow up a forged altar with a prayer bullet last week, so I think I get to call out your behavior now and then."
That made him smile, briefly.
Only briefly.
Because even as they joked, the real issue still sat on the far side of the room, in the form of a wrapped case they had stolen from the fake forge in Legrain's warehouse—a shipment marked not just for trade, but for Church delivery.
That changed things.
Because if the Church was buying fakes, it meant either desperation, corruption, or infiltration, and all three were far more dangerous than a greedy noble with delusions of divine economy.
"We're not ready for a Church war," Lilyeth said, finally voicing what they both knew.
"I know," Kaito said.
"But we're close to one."
"I know."
"So what's the plan?"
Kaito stared at the capsule in his hand.
"It's not about the bullets anymore," he said, "It's about belief. They don't care what the relic does as long as people think it works. Which means someone out there is selling faith in capsule form."
"Fake faith."
"The worst kind."
That's when Rook burst in, breath sharp, eyes wide, one hand gripping a charm paper so tight the glyphs were smoking.
"We've got a problem," he said, slamming the paper on the bench, "Big one. Vault-level priority."
Kaito took the charm, held it up, and activated the message.
Bean's voice came through in a whisper.
> "One of our own. In the square. Wearing a Church robe. Preaching about relic bullets. Using our name."
Lilyeth stood instantly.
"They what?"
Kaito was already moving, holstering three capsules, loading a charm round into his belt case.
"Where?"
"Eastwatch Market," Rook said, "Started drawing a crowd. They're saying Vault relics are the only true path to the goddess. He's got people crying. Some are handing out coin just to touch a casing."
"That's not one of us," Lilyeth growled, "That's a setup."
"Or worse," Kaito said, "It's a con artist who figured out how to fake a miracle."
They moved fast, no planning, no prep, just motion and instinct, through hidden alleys and broken gutters, past rooftops where runners signaled in hand gestures that the square was already overflowing, by the time they reached the edge of the market, the damage had begun.
A man stood on a crate in borrowed priest robes, holding up a silver bullet like it was a holy artifact, his voice rang out with practiced rhythm, every word dripping with false conviction, and Kaito recognized the pattern immediately.
This wasn't a random preacher.
This was a trained speaker, someone who'd studied sermons, voice inflection, body movement, the psychology of crowds.
"I have seen it!" the man shouted, "The Vault delivers us from false light! No more swords! No more poison! Just the truth of the trigger! A clean judgment, faster than prayer!"
People were crying.
Clapping.
One woman fainted when he handed her a bullet.
Lilyeth growled under her breath.
"He's turning us into a cult."
"That's the point," Kaito muttered, "He's rebranding us. And if we let him keep going, the Church will get what they want."
"Which is?"
"An excuse to burn us."
Rook appeared beside them, slipping out of the crowd like a fish through nets.
"Want me to shut him down?"
"No," Kaito said, eyes never leaving the man, "We're going to watch."
Lilyeth blinked.
"Why?"
"Because he's not acting alone," Kaito whispered, "He's bait. And the real player is watching the crowd right now."
And somewhere, hidden between cloaks and coin bags, someone else was smiling, writing down names, watching reactions, taking notes on the Vault's public presence, setting a trap that hadn't sprung yet.
But Kaito would spring it first.
Kaito didn't blink as the false preacher raised both arms like he was summoning a storm from the heavens, the silver bullet glinting in the light as if it had power, but Kaito knew that bullet was hollow, no aura, no glyphwork, no ammo casing worth the name, just metal dressed up to lie, and the worst part wasn't the act itself—it was the crowd, how they leaned in, hungry for a new kind of salvation, the kind that didn't require confession or forgiveness, just a faster hand and a louder voice.
Lilyeth stayed close to Kaito's side, her fingers twitching over the seal at her belt, the one that could disrupt the fake charm field if she triggered it right, but Kaito reached over and gave her wrist a quiet nudge, not yet, not until the net tightened, because shutting the preacher down now wouldn't kill the root, only the leaf, and he wanted the entire tree to rot in the open.
"Three watchers in the crowd," Rook murmured from behind them, voice low and smooth like fog, "Two men near the spice stall, one woman in a cloak with Church trim pretending to sell trinkets, they're not reacting like the rest, they're analyzing."
Kaito nodded slightly.
"The real audience."
"She's got a mirror shard," Rook added, "Low angle, might be transmitting."
"Then they're testing more than crowd response," Kaito said, "They're testing reach, propaganda velocity, probably even checking if they can fake a Vault branch."
"They'll trace it back to Legrain," Lilyeth muttered.
"No," Kaito replied, "They'll trace it back to us, that's the goal—make us look like we're trying to replace the Church, like we're converting street orphans with relics."
The preacher's voice rose again.
"I have seen it in dreams! The Gun Saint walks among us, not with armies, but with truth forged in thunder! And in his hand, salvation comes swift and fair!"
Kaito's fingers curled.
That wasn't just flair.
That was too close to the truth.
Someone had leaked real intel.
Only a handful of people even knew the name Gun Saint, and it wasn't something Kaito had ever said out loud since landing in this world, he glanced sideways at Lilyeth, saw the flash in her eyes too, she noticed the same thing.
"Leak from inside?" she asked.
"No," Kaito whispered, "Worse. Someone's studying us from the outside, and they're getting it right."
He shifted, eyes sweeping the rooftops, no snipers, no signal flags, but he spotted it—a glint of red from a dormer window above the scribe guild, too low for sun glare, too deliberate to be chance, he motioned once.
Darius appeared five seconds later.
Like he had always been there.
"You saw him?" Kaito asked without looking.
"Writing notes," Darius murmured, "Black book, red ribbon. Same crest that showed up in Legrain's forge papers."
Kaito exhaled slowly.
"So they're Church-tied. But not clergy."
"No. Operatives," Darius said, "Propaganda unit, probably field-trained. The kind they use in cities before they send in the flame squads."
Lilyeth clenched her jaw.
"So what now? We cut the speaker and scatter the watchers?"
"No," Kaito said, "We play along."
Rook blinked.
"Say what?"
"We leak a Vault-approved sermon."
Everyone stared.
"You're joking," Lilyeth said flatly.
"I'm serious," Kaito replied, "We put out our own version of the 'Gun Saint' myth—clean, subtle, controlled. We seed it in places they can't touch—run-down taverns, prison talk, gutter songs. Let them chase rumors we built."
"Why?" Rook asked.
"Because if they're going to twist our name," Kaito said, eyes never leaving the preacher, "We're going to give them the wrong version to twist."
On the stage, the preacher raised the bullet high.
And Kaito moved.
Not to stop him.
But to step closer.
Into view.
Just long enough for the preacher to see him.
Just long enough for the watchers to notice the sudden shift in energy, the pause, the unease rippling through the crowd like a wave that had forgotten where shore was.
The preacher locked eyes with him.
And faltered.
Only a second.
But enough.
Kaito gave him a slow, deliberate nod.
And turned away.
The man stuttered through the rest of his sermon, suddenly unsure, suddenly sweating, and the crowd noticed.
Whispers spread.
Not confusion—but curiosity.
Because whoever that man had just seen must have meant something.
And curiosity?
Curiosity was better than belief.
Back at the safehouse, the Vault kids were already editing a new drop pamphlet.
The title?
"The Whisper of the Trigger."
The author?
Anonymous.
But the message?
Controlled.
Balanced.
A myth of justice, not rebellion.
Of silence, not war.
Of power meant to protect.
Because if they couldn't stop the legend…
They'd own it.
They worked through the night with no torches, only a glowstone half-covered in black cloth to keep the light from bleeding through the windows, the safehouse was quieter than usual, no laughter from the bunk loft, no gossip from the kitchen, just pens scratching over worn parchment and scissors slicing through counterfeit Church documents they'd stolen weeks ago, Lilyeth handled the final copies with gloves, layering ink-stamped relic myths onto charm paper laced with faint glitter dust, not enough to trigger magic, just enough to feel sacred when touched by candlelight.
Kaito sat on the floor surrounded by crumpled drafts, dozens of versions of the myth, all rewritten from different angles—a folk tale, a whispered prophecy, a letter from a dying soldier who claimed to be saved by a figure in black, a poem passed between lovers that ended in a single line: "And he walked away with smoke in his hand, not fire." Every version said the same thing in a different way, not that the Gun Saint was a god, or a rebel, or a weapon—but that he was watching.
Lilyeth set down a final page.
"I'm done," she said, stretching her shoulders, "Twenty-three copies, spread evenly by age, tone, and target reader group."
Rook leaned over from the side table, chewing on the corner of a dried root stick.
"Half of these feel too subtle."
"That's the point," Kaito replied, folding one pamphlet with careful precision, "The Church goes after loud threats. They don't know what to do with quiet ideas."
Darius spoke from the window, never turning away from the street below.
"They'll respond."
"Good," Kaito said, "Let them come chasing smoke."
By morning, the Vault kids had deployed the first wave, not with dramatic speeches or rooftop throws, but with the same precision they used for charm delivery—tucked into coat pockets at taverns, slid under the pews of third-tier temples, slipped into market crates, and written across alley walls in chalk under false prayers, by midday the city was already buzzing, not with fear, but with speculation, because the name Gun Saint had returned, and no one knew if he was a ghost, a heretic, or a hero.
Legrain's estate shut its outer gates by sunset.
Too many eyes.
Too many questions.
The man who had once tried to control the myth now had to hide from it.
It was almost poetic.
But Kaito didn't care for poetry.
He cared for leverage.
That evening, he met with a contact from the Dustworm Syndicate, a bald merchant named Filk who wore a rat skull charm on his belt and never blinked when he spoke.
"Three nobles asked me about your relics today," Filk said, sipping stale wine, "Two wanted to buy. One wanted to burn them."
"What did you tell them?"
"I said I don't deal in ghosts."
Kaito grinned.
"Perfect."
Filk leaned forward.
"But if you're turning this into a movement, you'll need more than street kids and rumors."
"I'm not turning anything into a movement," Kaito said, "I'm just adjusting a narrative."
Filk chuckled.
"That's what every revolution says before someone starts handing out armbands."
The smile faded from Kaito's face.
"We're not the Church."
"No," Filk replied, "But you're writing your own gospel now, whether you like it or not."
That night, Kaito stood on the top floor of the Vault's lookout tower, wind tugging at his coat, a wrapped bullet in his hand, not one he made, but one of the forgeries—harmless, fragile, silver-coated lies, he stared at it for a long time, then flicked it into the air and shot it mid-flight, the crack echoed across the empty roofs like a promise.
Down below, Darius watched with arms folded.
"You keep doing that, you're going to make people believe."
Kaito turned toward him.
"I don't care if they believe in me."
"Then what do you want them to believe in?"
Kaito looked toward the cathedral spires glowing gold in the distance, untouched by soot or shadow, standing like monuments to truths that had never been true.
"I want them to believe there's a way out."
Darius said nothing.
Didn't need to.
The silence that followed was better than agreement.
It was understanding.