The smoky city had now quieted, but the silence was never clean. Even at morning, the air still carried the stink of soot and sweat, the faint echoes of drunks stumbling through alleys, the hollow groans of rats scraping through garbage heaps. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing, then whimpered into silence. This was the place Aoshi—Jonas, now—was chained to: a city where the strong ate and the weak rotted.
Inside his workshop, the world shrank into a single, suffocating room.
It was no home. The floor was cracked cement, littered with old stains that would never wash away. The walls were bare, colorless, their surfaces blackened with smoke and years of neglect. The bed shoved into the corner was little more than a wooden frame and a thin, mold-stained mattress. The desk at his side was scarred by knife marks and burns, its drawers swollen and warped from damp air.
And yet, here he sat—half-naked, body trembling with pain, blood still dried on his skin.
Aoshi sat on a wooden chair by the desk, a small oil lamp hissing faintly beside him. Its weak flame pushed against the dark, casting the walls in thin shadows that quivered with every flicker.
He wore nothing but plain white underclothes, stripped bare to see the damage. Bruises bloomed purple across his ribs and stomach, swelling like grotesque flowers. Scrapes marked his arms, red and raw. His back throbbed where boots had crushed him, and each breath felt like a knife dragging across cracked ribs. His hands shook as he pressed a tin of ointment against the worst of the bruises, the greasy paste cooling the fire under his skin.
The sleeve of his shirt, torn beyond repair, he ripped clean from the rest of the cloth. With slow, deliberate movements, he wrapped it around the bleeding gash on his forearm. He tied another strip across his thigh, wincing as the fabric bit into tender flesh. The air smelled of rust and sweat, of cheap medicine and old iron.
As his hands worked, his mind did not rest.
Debt.
The number echoed in his skull like a hammer: 9000 GY.
He could almost laugh at it. Almost. Through the blacksmith's memories, he knew exactly how much that meant. A single GY could feed a working man for a day. Nine thousand was a mountain, impossible to climb. Even if he broke his body over the forge for the rest of his life, even if he starved and saved, he would never see that sum. Not in this life. Not in ten lives.
The old Jonas had been crushed by it. That weight had dragged him into despair, driven him to suicide. A slow, ugly death.
But Aoshi was not the same.
He sat in the dim glow of the oil lamp, hands tightening around the cloth as he bound another bruise. His thoughts were not of repayment. Not of begging. Not of slaving away for scraps.
His thoughts were of blood.
Repaying the debt meant killing the men who owned it.
The thought was bitter, but it was clear. Aoshi knew it. The blacksmith's body might be weak, ordinary, powerless—but his mind was not. He still carried his old knowledge, his studies, his obsession with the things of Earth. He still had logic, calculation, invention. That was his power.
So, with blood drying on his skin, he began to plan.
He could not face them head-on. Not yet. He had no strength to wrestle giants, no magic to crush them, no status to protect him. But there were other ways. His mind turned, grinding like gears in motion, weaving the fragments of this world with the fragments of his past.
And then it struck him.
Firearms.
The word burned in his head like a brand.
He froze, fingers still gripping the cloth around his wound, and stared into the shadows. Firearms did not exist here. Not in this kingdom. Not in this age. The closest this world had were crude engines of steam and brass, machinery powered by clumsy gems and crystals. Guns, rifles, pistols—none had been born here. Not yet.
But Aoshi knew them. He had studied them in his old life. Mechanisms, chambers, powder, ignition. He had memorized the structures, the evolution, the physics behind each shot. The logic of a firearm was imprinted in his mind like scripture.
And here, in a world without them, they would be unmatched.
His lips curved into something close to a smile, though blood still stained the corner of his mouth.
Yes. This was his path.
Not magic. Not begging for cheats. Not praying for miracles. But creation. His own hands. His own mind.
With a gun in his grip, the gap between giant and weak could vanish. The thug's strength, the creditor's influence, the sneers of nobles—none of it would matter if he could end them with the pull of a trigger.
Aoshi leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. The oil lamp flickered, throwing his shadow across the wall—thin, broken, but hunched in thought.
"This world doesn't know it yet," he muttered, voice raw and low, "but firearms will change everything."
The silence of the room pressed around him. His chest rose with shallow breaths, each one stabbing with pain, but his mind spun faster, sharper. He would need materials. Tools. Powder. Metal of the right density, the right quality. It would not be easy. He would need materials, need secrecy. He would need to test, to fail, to try again.
But none of that mattered.
Because this was his chance.
Aoshi no Jonas, the forgotten man who once rotted in debt and loneliness, now stared at the shadows as though they were the battlefield of his future. His body was weak, but his resolve cut deep.
"They think I'm nothing," he whispered, voice tightening. "Trash. A broken blacksmith. A debtor with no worth."
His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.
"They're wrong."
The lamp hissed faintly, the flame flickering as though bowing to his words.
"I'll make something no one in this world can fight against. I'll arm myself with fire, with death. And then…" His eyes narrowed, memories of cruel faces and stomping boots flashing in his mind. "…then I'll kill them all."
The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.
Aoshi leaned back in the chair, his body aching, wounds throbbing. But he did not close his eyes. He stared at the ceiling of the workshop, the rotten boards above, the faint black trails of smoke on the wood. His face was calm now.
Not joyous. Not manic.
Calm. Focused.
The plan had taken root.
And in that plan, there was only one path forward.
Not to pay the debt. Not to run.
But to build. To create. To kill.
The workshop smelled of blood, smoke, and oil. The city outside groaned and whispered in the smokey sky.
And in the heart of that silence, Aoshi's mind burned brighter than fire.
__________________________
The oil lamp hissed faintly as Jonas slid it to the far corner of the desk, its trembling light throwing sharp shadows across the cracked walls. He reached for a clean sheet of creamy, rough paper, its texture coarse beneath his calloused fingertips. The drawer at his side creaked as he pulled it open, revealing a chipped quill and a squat glass container of ink.
He uncorked it, dipped the quill until its tip bled black, then pressed it to paper.
The scratching sound was soft, almost soothing, as the first line appeared.
Materials.
Jonas's hand moved with purpose. The words flowed, sharp and deliberate, each one anchoring his vision.
Metals akin to steel or iron
Springs
Screws
Pins
Cylinder pin
Frame
Barrel
Cylinder
Hammer
Trigger
Grip
Sights
Cylinder release
Ejector rod
Extractor star
Loading gate
Trigger guard
By the time he lifted his quill, the page was filled with neat rows of letters. His lips curved faintly as he studied it, a small smile that did not belong to a beaten debtor but to a man plotting war.
"Good," he muttered, voice low. "Most of this… I can find here."
The memories of Jonas's body flickered in his mind like lanterns in fog—shops hidden in alleys, stalls along the market streets, stores that dealt in machine parts for carriages and steam engines. Springs, screws, pins—all common goods. All within reach.
What did not exist, what this world had never seen, he would craft himself. The frame, the barrel, the cylinder—those belonged to him alone.
Jonas leaned back, the chair groaning under his weight, and let out a dry chuckle. "A revolver… in a city that doesn't even know the word."
He saw it clearly in his mind: a single-action revolver. Simple. Brutal. Reliable. A weapon that required no grand skill to operate, no chanting of spells, no noble bloodline. Just pull the hammer, squeeze the trigger, and watch the world bleed.
"This will do," Jonas whispered. "This will kill them. Even the ones who hide behind magic."
He dipped his quill again, the ink blotting slightly as he began sketching. A crude frame took shape, lines crossing over each other as he drew the outline of the barrel, the rotating cylinder, the hammer cocked back in place. The sight was simple—a notch and a blade. Primitive, but enough.
The revolver was more than a tool. It was his answer to despair.
But then his quill hesitated.
Bullets.
His expression hardened. The weapon was nothing without its teeth. The true challenge lay in the cartridges—the powder, the casing, the primer. Each required precision far beyond a forge's usual work.
He pressed the quill harder, writing faster now.
Bullets
Powder compound substitute
Primer (highest priority, most sensitive)
Casings (machined to exact size)
Lead for slugs
He leaned back again, staring at the words as though they mocked him.
The powder… that could be solved. This world had its own volatile mixtures, compounds stored in jars and used in crude mining charges. The memories of Jonas's life recalled the smell of burning powder when smiths melted stubborn ores. It would not be identical to Earth's gunpowder, but with adjustments, it could serve.
The casing and slug—simple. Lead was already in his workshop. Casings, he could shape.
But the primer.
Jonas's jaw tightened. It was the smallest component, yet the most vital. A spark condensed into a fingertip-sized seal, the piece that would ignite everything else. Without it, the weapon was nothing more than a hunk of iron.
"Precision," Jonas murmured, tapping the quill against the desk. "More than this world has ever demanded. More than any craftsman here has even dreamed of."
Aoshi's old self might have faltered here. The weak, sickly hands of that wasted body could never have handled the delicate work. But now, he had the blacksmith's strength. The blacksmith's knowledge of alloys, of tools, of how to shape stubborn matter into submission.
His lips curled into a grin. "I'll make it work. Even if it kills me in the process."
He scribbled again, adding small sketches of cartridge designs, rough diagrams of the revolver's chamber. The page grew crowded, black veins of ink spreading like spiderwebs.
When he was finished, he placed the quill down and exhaled slowly.
On the desk lay more than a list. More than plans. It was a declaration of war.
Jonas stared at it, his eyes reflecting the lamp's flame with clarity.
"These thugs… they've cornered me." His voice was quiet, rough from blood and fatigue, but steady. "Jonas broke under it. But I'm not Jonas. I'm Aoshi Minamoto."
His hand pressed flat against the desk, not in fury but in thought, the wood creaking beneath the weight.
"I don't need strength. I don't need mercy. All I need is a weapon. Something simple. Reliable. A machine that kills without hesitation." His gaze narrowed at the sketches, the inked outlines of barrels and chambers. "And when it's ready… they won't even understand what ended them."
The words didn't echo like a threat. They settled into the stale air like a calculation finished, inevitable.
Silence stretched. The lamp hissed faintly, throwing long shadows across the room. Jonas—Aoshi—leaned back, his chest tight with pain, his body bruised and battered, but his mind cutting forward like a blade.
His eyes dropped again to the paper. The designs. The lists. The possibility of mistakes, of failure. But risk meant nothing.
What mattered was time. What mattered was resolve. And above all, the one thing this world had never seen—knowledge that didn't belong to it.
He folded the paper with care, slid it beneath a loose plank of the desk, and let the lamp's glow settle into the dark.