The frantic, suffocating energy that had taken over the university library during the examination period had finally bled away.
The long, polished oak reading tables, previously buried under mountains of scattered notes and surrounded by panicked students, now sat mostly empty.
Dust motes drifted lazily through the shafts of pale afternoon light piercing the tall windows, undisturbed by the usual rush of academic desperation.
For Shen, this meant a sudden and immensely welcome return to peace. Without a line of wealthy students desperately seeking his tutoring, he finally had the time to close the remaining gaps in his historical reading.
Sometimes having too much attention is really burdensome, especially when I can't refuse. Looks like this bad habit of mine from my previous life is still with me,
he thought as he flipped the final page of a heavy, leather-bound volume detailing the political fractures of the Fourth Epoch.
His eyes scanned the last few paragraphs before he closed the cover with a satisfying, muffled thud.
He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head until a sharp pop echoed from his shoulders.
With his academic goals met and his tutoring sessions finished, Shen decided it was time to initiate the next phase of his plans.
He now needed a new field to be in.
The library had served its purpose, but to fully digest the remaining half of the potion, he needed to step into a completely unfamiliar field.
Looks like I need to find Erica and ask about a working position at her family's tailor shop, he decided.
Shen gathered his books, returned them to their precise spots on the western shelves, and began searching for Erica.
When he didn't find her near the catalog cabinets, he checked the staff breakroom, the archiving annex, and even the small coffee shop outside the main entrance.
Nothing.
Just where could she be? Where did she run off to this time?
Shen thought in disappointment, pausing at the end of a long, empty aisle.
Whatever mysterious business Erica involves herself with outside her work hours, it's keeping her entirely away from the university. It looks highly suspicious.
With Erica absent, Shen's thoughts wandered toward his other concern, his own survival.
Though it looks like I am still in my newbie protection period, which is why I haven't run into any trouble yet, who can say how long this peace will last?
He was a Beyonder, but he was painfully aware of his limitations. The Rising Star potion provided him with exceptional body control, an enhanced memory, and the uncanny ability to manipulate his vocal cords.
But absolutely none of those parlor tricks would stop a bullet or a rampaging monster from killing him.
Looks like I need a weapon and some combat skills.
The problem, as with most things in the Loen Kingdom, was the suffocating bureaucracy.
While Shen currently possessed more than enough money to purchase a high-quality firearm, acquiring a proper license as an ordinary citizen was an incredibly tedious nightmare.
It required filling out extensive paperwork, proving a legitimate need for self-defense, and worst of all, placing his name, address, and face onto an official government registry.
For a transmigrator harboring too many secrets that could easily get him purged by half the orthodox churches in existence, voluntarily putting himself on a government watchlist was a form of slow suicide.
I need a firearm, but going through official channels is out of the question,
Shen thought, tapping his fingers thoughtfully against the wooden spine of a nearby bookshelf. It needs to be someone who already possesses deep connections. Someone who can bypass regulations purely by throwing money around, and who has more wealth than actual common sense.
An image of messy chestnut-brown hair and an idiotically cheerful smile immediately popped into his mind.
Shen's lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.
Devan. Looks like he has to help this Godfather of his. Hehehe.
He didn't have to wait long to execute his plan.
Despite the exams being finished, Devan still dragged himself into the library a few times a week, stubbornly continuing his cryptology lessons with him in pursuit of his dream of becoming an archaeologist.
Later that afternoon, Shen sat across a small table in the corner of the reading room, watching Devan aggressively massage his temples in frustration.
The boy was staring blankly at a layered substitution cipher, looking as though the letters were physically assaulting him.
"Devan," Shen said, breaking the quiet silence of the library.
Devan looked up instantly, his eyes shining with profound relief at the distraction. "Yes, Godfather, thank God you are here."
"Can you help me with this? Is there some trick to this cipher? Because I feel like the letters are starting to crawl off the page and look so messy."
"Hmm... The cipher looks a bit difficult at first, but if you look at it from this perspective, it is easier to decrypt," Shen replied, resting his forearms on the table and patiently explaining how to approach the cipher.
He was now completely accustomed to this bastard asking him for help whenever he got the chance.
As he finished helping him, he asked, "Devan, I actually wanted to ask you about something completely unrelated. Do you happen to know how I could get my hands on a firearm? A revolver, specifically."
Devan blinked, his desperate student persona fading into genuine, unadulterated confusion. "A gun? Why do you need a gun, Godfather? Is someone threatening you in the city? Because if you're in trouble, I can just have my father's private security handle them!"
"No, no, nothing like that," Shen said quickly, silently cursing the boy's overly dramatic imagination and his immense wealth.
"It's just for something personal. Self-defense, mostly. You know how unpredictable some districts in Backlund can be at night with gangs and all that."
Devan frowned, tapping his expensive fountain pen rhythmically against the table. "Well... I suppose it is dangerous in the lower boroughs. But firearms are heavily regulated, Godfather.
"Even my family has to go through specific, tedious channels to properly arm our merchant guards. I'm not entirely sure if I can just hand one over without raising questions..."
He was hesitating. Shen knew he needed to immediately sweeten the deal to bypass the boy's lingering legal reservations.
"If you can help me secure a revolver and a license without dragging me through the usual bureaucratic nightmare, I will make our next two tutoring sessions completely free of charge," Shen offered smoothly, keeping his voice low and even, tempting the other party.
"And I will dedicate those free sessions to whatever subject you recommend. I'll do everything in my power to make sure you are taught well."
Devan's eyes practically lit up like gas lamps. He slammed his hands down on the table, completely abandoning any previous moral or legal concerns. "Anything?! You'll teach me anything for two whole sessions?!"
Hearing the sheer, unbridled excitement in that single word—anything—a cold sweat instantly broke out on the back of Shen's neck.
"Wait, wait!" Shen hissed hurriedly, raising both hands to halt the boy's dangerous train of thought.
"Let me correct myself immediately. I mean any of the subjects I have already taught you. Do not bring me some completely new, obscure subjects! I will help you with the subjects you are already studying and currently having trouble with, understand?"
Devan was disappointed at first, then he laughed out loud, waving his hand dismissively in the air. "Okay, okay! That's perfectly fine, Godfather. It's a deal."
Shen heaved a heavy sigh of relief, slumping slightly in his chair.
Goddess, I really thought this bastard was going to pull out an astrology book or ask me to teach him how to pilot an airship.
This hateful guy is too unpredictable in his thinking; it is genuinely frightening.
"Actually, you don't even have to wait much," Devan continued cheerfully. He reached down into his thick leather satchel and rummaged around for a moment. "I can just give you mine."
Shen froze as Devan casually hoisted a heavy, polished wooden box onto the library table.
"I bought this a few months ago," Devan whispered conspiratorially, unlatching the brass hinges and opening the lid.
Inside, resting perfectly on a bed of dark crimson velvet, was a pristine, silver-plated revolver. The barrel caught the dim library light, gleaming dangerously, while the heavy grip was intricately carved with elegant, swirling patterns.
Beside the weapon sat a small stack of thick, official-looking papers bearing heavy wax seals.
"It's fully licensed under a blank bearer's permit through one of my father's merchant companies," Devan explained, as casually as if he were handing over a spare pencil. "I bought it a while ago because the engraving looked really cool, but I've never actually properly fired it. It's too loud. Since then, I always keep it with me whenever I go out just for show. Here, you can have it."
Shen stared down at the beautiful, deadly piece of engineering, and then slowly raised his eyes to the completely nonchalant, smiling expression on Devan's face.
His lips twitched uncontrollably.
You bought a high-end, military-grade silver revolver and secured a highly restricted blank bearer's permit... just because it looked cool?!
Shen screamed internally, his fingers gripping the edge of the table to resist the overwhelming urge to reach across and slap the boy for wasting so much money.
Do you have any idea how much money and political capital this costs?! Just how disgustingly wealthy is your family?! Are you Miss Justice or what? No, maybe comparing him to her would be different.
Taking a deep breath to maintain his dignified, unbothered persona, Shen carefully closed the wooden lid and slid the box across the table, tucking it securely into his own bag.
"I... see. Thank you, Devan. This is exactly what I needed," Shen managed to say, keeping his voice steady. "Do you also happen to know a place where I could practice using it?"
"Oh, definitely," Devan nodded eagerly, pulling a blank sheet of paper toward himself. "There's a mercenary club near the border of the East Borough and the docks."
"My father occasionally hires extra muscle from there for our more dangerous shipping routes, so I know some of the people who run it."
"The patrons there are rough-looking, but they are extremely nice, and they don't ask unnecessary questions if you have the money. I'll write down the address for you."
As Devan happily scribbled the directions on the scrap of paper, Shen watched him with a highly complex mix of deep gratitude and intense, burning class envy.
Later that evening, as the library began to shut down for the night, Shen approached the front desk.
Mr. Weber was there, meticulously updating the return ledgers with a sharp fountain pen, the scratch of the nib the only sound in the quiet hall.
"Mr. Weber," Shen began politely, keeping his tone respectful.
The older librarian didn't bother looking up. "If you are going to tell me that some students have misplaced another first edition, I will hold you personally responsible, Mr. Akivil."
"Nothing like that, sir," Shen replied, offering a faint smile. "I actually wanted to request some time off. I've finished cataloging the remaining backlog on the western side, and I was hoping to take a leave of absence for a week. Maybe three, if the schedule permits."
Mr. Weber finally halted his pen. He slowly lifted his head, the deep, dark circles under his eyes seeming to carry the weight of the entire university's ignorance. He stared at Shen for a long, silent moment.
Though he maintained a perpetually grumpy exterior, Mr. Weber was not blind.
He had seen the endless string of entitled, wealthy university students who practically worshipped the ground Shen walked on.
He had watched Shen take on private tutoring for half a dozen different complex subjects, balancing it perfectly with his grueling shelving duties.
And he had also seen how physically and mentally exhausted Shen had become in the process.
If this brat is this wildly talented and knows so much, why does he insist on working in this dusty place?
Mr. Weber had often complained internally while watching Shen.
He could easily walk into any university and demand a highly paid teaching position.
With a heavy, deliberate grunt, Mr. Weber closed his ledger, the heavy cover snapping shut. "A week? Three weeks?"
"Yes, sir," Shen said, bracing himself for a lengthy scolding about library loyalty, staffing shortages, and the audacity of youth.
"You can take four weeks," Mr. Weber stated flatly, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "Do not show your face in this library again until after the New Year."
Shen blinked, completely taken aback by the sudden generosity. "Four weeks? Sir, are you sure? The eastern shelves still need—"
"The eastern shelves can be handled without you, Mr. Akivil," Mr. Weber interrupted, adjusting his thin-framed glasses with a sharp flick of his wrist.
He leveled a familiar, deeply grumpy glare at the young man. "You have been tutoring those insufferable kids from the university morning, noon, and night, and you were not doing it well. You look like a walking corpse. I am giving you a break. Or what, do you not want it?"
"No, no! I'm perfectly okay with the break!" Shen said hurriedly, completely abandoning his protests before this grumpy old man could change his mind.
"Then get out of my sight and go home," Mr. Weber muttered, reopening his ledger and dipping his pen back into the inkwell.
Shen smiled warmly. Despite the gruff exterior, he knew the older man genuinely cared. "Have a good evening, Mr. Weber."
The following morning, Shen stood in front of the tall, polished mirror in his spacious bedroom, taking a long moment to admire the reflection staring back at him.
He looked drastically different from the thin, half-starved young man who had first woken up in the damp, freezing apartment weeks ago.
Months of regular, nutritious meals, combined with the daily physical exertion of his routine, had entirely transformed his frame.
His shoulders were broader, his posture was perfectly balanced, and the lean muscles beneath his skin were defined and healthy.
He adjusted the high collar of his new attire. Since he was heading to a mercenary club located near the docks, he needed to look the part of someone who possessed significant money but wasn't an easy mark.
He wore a crisp, tailored white shirt beneath a fitted black waistcoat, paired with a dark purple cravat that perfectly matched the striking hue of his eyes.
A high-quality, heavy black overcoat draped comfortably over his broad shoulders, and he completed the refined look with a tasteful dark hat and a sturdy, purple-silver-tipped walking cane.
Not bad.
Shen thought, striking a slight, confident pose in the mirror.
Not bad at all.
His narcissism was thoroughly justified by the heavy leather wallet sitting on his desk.
The grueling, endless tutoring sessions with Devan's wealthy social circle had nearly driven him insane and left him heavily exhausted, but the financial payout had been great.
He had earned a staggering total of 2,230 pounds.
After that, he had immediately set aside 500 pounds for Arthur, Elara, and Sera, quietly ensuring his family's finances were completely secure and allowing them to live in total comfort.
Even after all that, he still had a highly comfortable 1,730 pounds, not even counting the secret emergency stash he had hidden away from his first encounter.
Buying a set of bespoke gentleman's clothing hadn't even made a noticeable dent in his vast savings.
Satisfied with his appearance, Shen grabbed his leather bag containing the revolver box, took up his cane, and headed out into the dense, pale fog of Backlund.
The address Devan had provided led him far away from the manicured streets of Hillston Borough, deep into a gritty, industrial sector where the smog tasted thickly of salt, rust, and burning coal.
The Brass Hound Mercenary Club was housed in a massive, reinforced brick warehouse. Its heavy iron doors were slightly rusted, and the faint, rhythmic, muffled crack of gunfire echoed from the basement levels beneath the street.
Shen pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into a dimly lit, cavernous hall. The air was thick with the suffocating smell of cheap ale, stale tobacco smoke, and sweat.
Rough-looking men and women sat at scarred wooden tables, cleaning heavy weapons, drinking from oversized mugs, and quietly exchanging bounty information.
A few hardened eyes flicked toward Shen's tailored, expensive clothes, sizing him up as a potential target.
But the confident, perfectly balanced way he carried himself—a subtle byproduct of his Body Control—discouraged anyone from making a move.
He walked smoothly up to the scarred wooden bar and asked the bartender for Zayros. The bartender didn't speak, merely jerking a thumb toward a reinforced steel door at the back of the hall.
Shen navigated the dark corridor and stepped out into a massive indoor training yard and firing range. The sharp, acrid smell of sulfur and gunpowder was immediately overwhelming.
Standing near the furthest shooting lane was a man who looked like he could wrestle an adult bear and win effortlessly.
Zayros Ketelburn was extraordinarily tall and thickly muscled, wearing a rough, grease-stained linen shirt unbuttoned to the mid-chest, revealing a jagged, pale scar that ran diagonally across his collarbone. He had unruly brown hair, sharp brown eyes, and heavy leather suspenders holding up his trousers.
Shen approached cautiously, his grip tightening slightly on the silver head of his cane.
The man looked intensely intimidating, possessing the kind of heavy, suffocating aura that only came from years of surviving brutal, bloody violence.
"Are you Zayros Ketelburn?" Shen asked, keeping his voice perfectly steady and polite.
Zayros turned around slowly, his sharp brown eyes locking onto Shen. He looked the young man up and down, his scarred expression hardening into something dangerous and cold.
"Yeah," Zayros rumbled, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "And you? Are you the one the Whitlock kid sent word about? What was the name again... Shawn? Shunn? Suhnron?" Zayros squinted hard, his terrifying, intimidating aura momentarily cracking into a look of genuine, innocent confusion. "Sheep A Kill?"
Shen's lips twitched violently.
Sheep? Sheep A Kill? Do I look like a damn farm animal to you, ready to be slaughtered?
Shen complained inwardly, forcing his polite smile to remain completely fixed in place. "It's Shen. Shen Akivil."
"Ah! Shen! Shen Akivil!" Zayros's face instantly transformed. The terrifying, battle-hardened mercenary completely vanished, replaced by a goofy, sheepish grin.
He scratched the back of his messy brown hair. "Right, right! My mistake! I'm terrible with names. Good to meet ya, kid!"
Before Shen could brace himself, Zayros stepped forward and brought his massive, calloused hand down on Shen's back in a casual, friendly greeting.
Smack!
The sheer force of the blow sent Shen stumbling a full, clumsy step forward, his teeth nearly rattling out of his skull.
Damn it! Are you actively trying to snap my spine in half?!
Shen cursed internally, quickly adjusting his footing and controlling his body so he wouldn't completely face-plant onto the dusty concrete floor.
"It's alright," Shen wheezed out, forcing his smile back into existence, but it looked like a grimace. "I was hoping to get some training in firearms today. I bought a revolver, but I completely lack any practical experience."
"Oh, right, right! Let's get to it, then. Step into the area," Zayros said cheerfully, smacking his back casually again, completely oblivious to Shen's internal physical suffering.
Shen unbuckled his bag and pulled out the beautiful silver-plated revolver.
Zayros let out a low, appreciative whistle at the incredible craftsmanship before immediately tearing into Shen about proper weapon safety, grip pressure, and foot placement.
The first hour was completely humiliating.
Shen's posture was far too rigid; his anticipation of the loud recoil made his hands flinch, and his shots scattered uselessly across the very outer edges of the paper silhouette target.
"Relax your shoulders, kid! You're holding it like a venomous snake!" Zayros shouted over the deafening echoes of the firing range, adjusting Shen's elbows with rough, heavy shoves. "Squeeze the trigger, don't jerk it! Keep it firm."
Shen gritted his teeth, his arms already aching from the heavy, repetitive recoil. But as the empty brass casings began to pile up on the concrete floor, something deep inside him began to click into place.
He stopped jerking from the violent recoil and started shooting firmly, using his Beyonder abilities to control his body and allowing his muscles to adopt the exact, steady stance Zayros demonstrated without the usual awkward, grueling process of building muscle memory.
His breathing slowed, syncing perfectly with the exact moment his finger applied pressure to the trigger.
Bang!
Center hit.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Two inches apart, right in the chest of the paper silhouette.
Shen lowered the smoking barrel, exhaling a long, slow breath. He adjusted his stance slightly, shifting his weight just a fraction of an inch to the left, and raised the heavy gun again.
Over the next four hours, the transformation was absolutely staggering.
Shen went from missing the outer rings entirely to consistently drilling tight, controlled groups into the vital areas of the target.
His reloads became incredibly smooth and mechanical, his hands moving with a practiced, fluid elegance that completely defied the fact he had touched a gun for the very first time that morning.
Zayros stood slightly behind him, stunned, his massive arms crossed over his chest, whistling repeatedly in sheer amazement at how quickly he learned.
Shen clicked the empty cylinder open with a flick of his wrist, dumping the hot brass onto the floor.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, his shoulder heavily bruised but his heart racing with the thrilling, genuine satisfaction.
Shooting is really fun. If I had the chance to shoot like this in my previous life, I would have tried every kind of weapon.
He thought.
"Well I'll be damned," Zayros muttered, walking slowly up to the target and tracing the tight, shredded cluster of bullet holes with a thick, calloused finger. He turned to look at Shen, his brown eyes wide with genuine, unhidden respect.
"Kid, you really have a terrifying talent for shooting. You learn faster than anyone I've ever seen in my life. Have you ever thought about becoming a mercenary or hunter? We could always use a sharp eye like yours."
Shen smiled politely, smoothly holstering the beautiful silver revolver at his hip. "No, thank you. The mercenary life sounds a bit too chaotic for my tastes. But maybe in the future, if I ever get the chance or the need for it."
Like hell I want to be a mercenary.
Shen thought. I'm actively trying to avoid getting killed by lunatics and cultists once this newbie period of mine somehow ends, not voluntarily sign up for it.
"Suit yourself," Zayros laughed, stepping forward and clapping him on the back again.
Shen braced for it perfectly this time, absorbing the heavy impact with significantly more dignity. "You want to buy some more bullets? I can get you a bulk discount from the club's supply."
"I will take two hundred bullets more," Shen agreed, pulling a few crisp banknotes from his wallet and handing them over without hesitation.
As Zayros turned to fetch the heavy boxes of ammunition, an idea suddenly sparked in Shen's mind.
He had mastered the basics of a firearm remarkably fast, but a gun would become completely useless if someone managed to disarm him or close the distance before he could draw his weapon.
Only by having sufficient hand-to-hand combat skills can I stay safe even if I lose my weapon,
He reasoned.
"Zayros, wait a moment," Shen called out, leaning casually against the wooden partition of the shooting lane.
The large mercenary paused, looking back over his heavily scarred shoulder. "Yeah? Need something else, kid?"
"You're highly experienced in close-quarters fighting, right?" Shen said, gesturing vaguely to Zayros's heavily muscular frame and the deep scars peeking out from beneath his shirt.
"I need to learn how to properly defend myself without a weapon. Could you train me in some martial arts?"
Zayros turned around, crossing his massive arms again. He looked Shen up and down, carefully evaluating the young man's expensive tailored clothes and lean, athletic build.
He rubbed his stubbled chin, seriously contemplating the unexpected request.
"Martial arts isn't like shooting, kid; it hurts a lot," Zayros warned, his tone losing its goofy edge and returning to the serious, dangerous demeanor of a battle-hardened veteran.
"You're going to get bruised, bleed, and hit the floor repeatedly. Learning martial arts will be really painful, and it's going to take up a lot of my time to teach you properly. So why should I waste my time on it?"
"I am willing to pay generously for your time," Shen said steadily, not backing down or flinching from the man's intense, evaluating gaze.
Zayros was silent for a long moment, testing the boy's resolve. "One hundred pounds per training session. And I don't hold back just because you're paying me."
Shen didn't even blink at the outrageous price for one training session.
One hundred pounds was an absolute fortune to an ordinary factory worker, but to him, it was a necessary, cheap investment in his own survival.
He needed some of these physical skills to stay alive when facing dangers.
"I agree to your terms," Shen said confidently, extending his hand.
Zayros looked at the outstretched hand, then let out a booming, genuine laugh that echoed loudly off the concrete walls of the firing range.
He reached out and shook Shen's hand, his grip feeling like an iron vice.
"Alright then, kid. You've got yourself a deal," Zayros grinned, his brown eyes sparking with anticipation. "Go home, get some rest, and don't wear these fancy-looking clothes. Come back tomorrow morning, and we'll start with the basics."