Chapter 11: The Weapons Master
Lucius
Kahn's armory smelled of gun oil and silver polish.
The weapons master had carved his domain from Ördögház's deepest basement levels—a labyrinth of forges, workbenches, and storage racks holding centuries of accumulated death. UV prototypes sat beside medieval crossbows. Custom pistol frames waited on velvet-lined shelves like jewelry displays.
"The Butcher himself."
Kahn emerged from behind a forge, wiping soot-stained hands on a leather apron. He was old—Blood Appraisal tagged him at [ 163 BP ]—with the look of someone who'd seen empires rise and fall without caring much either way.
"Word travels fast."
"Raze was important. His death matters." Kahn studied me with the clinical assessment of a craftsman evaluating materials. "You look like you need repairs more than weapons."
"Ribs are healing. I need ammunition more."
I'd burned through most of my standard rounds during the safehouse fight. The custom hollow-points Kahn had promised were my real objective, but restocking the basics couldn't wait.
Kahn gestured toward a workbench covered with ammunition types. Silver rounds in various calibers. Standard vampire-killers. Experimental cartridges I didn't recognize.
"Help yourself. Death Dealers have credit. Though yours is higher than most, given the ears you've collected."
Twenty-seven Lycan ears, plus Raze's claws as trophies. The currency of war.
I loaded spare magazines while examining the workshop. Schematics covered every available wall space—weapon designs ranging from crude to elegant. One caught my attention: a UV grenade prototype, compact enough to palm but powerful enough to light a room in burning daylight.
"That design work?"
Kahn followed my gaze. "Theoretically. Need better UV emitters. Current models are too bulky, too fragile. Maybe in a few years."
"Or sooner, if someone gave you a push."
I filed the information away. UV technology would become critical as the war escalated—Lycans developing their own light-based weapons, vampires racing to catch up. Being ahead of that curve meant survival.
"I ordered custom rounds three days ago. Hollow-points, silver-core."
"Finished yesterday." Kahn retrieved a box from a locked cabinet, setting it on the workbench between us. "Fifty rounds. They expand on impact, maximize tissue damage. Against Lycans, should reduce regeneration time significantly."
I opened the box. The rounds gleamed with lethal promise—silver casings, hollow tips designed to bloom into shrapnel flowers upon penetration.
"Beautiful work."
"Thirty BP worth of work," Kahn reminded me. "Three Lycan ears, converted rate."
The transaction was simple—ears for ammunition, death for death. I counted out the payment, watching Kahn file them in a ledger with the same businesslike efficiency he applied to everything.
"Something else on your mind?" he asked without looking up. "You've been scanning my workshop since you walked in. Not many fledglings care about weapon schematics."
"I appreciate craftsmanship."
"You appreciate tactical advantages." He closed the ledger, meeting my eyes. "Nothing wrong with that. But you should know—Kraven's noticed your success. Jealous Regents are dangerous Regents."
"I'm just doing my job."
"You're doing your job exceptionally. Which makes you either an asset or a threat. Kraven hasn't decided which yet." Kahn resumed his work, selecting a partially assembled pistol frame. "Watch your back. And watch who you trust."
The warning was genuine. Kahn didn't play politics—he made weapons and minded his own business. If he was cautioning me about Kraven, the threat was real.
Footsteps on the stairs. Light. Deliberate. Designed to announce arrival rather than achieve stealth.
Erika descended into the armory.
[ ERIKA - 134 BP ]
[ STATUS: ATTRACTED. CALCULATING. ]
She wore red silk that probably cost more than my previous life's monthly rent. The color matched her lips, her nails, the predatory gleam in her eyes. Kraven's lover. Ördögház's unofficial political operator.
"The hero of District Seven." Her voice dripped with honeyed interest. "Everyone's talking about you."
"Everyone talks too much."
She laughed, circling me with the grace of a cat evaluating prey. Her fingers brushed my arm—casual contact that wasn't casual at all.
"Modest. I like that. Most Death Dealers would be insufferable after killing an Alpha."
"I had help."
"Rigel gets credit for the assist. But the trap was yours. The strategy. The execution." She stopped before me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something floral and expensive, layered over the copper undertone of vampire. "Kraven is... impressed."
The pause said everything. Kraven was threatened. Erika was here to assess, manipulate, recruit, or neutralize—possibly all four.
"Impressive seems dangerous in this coven."
"It can be. Depending on where your loyalties lie."
She waited for me to declare. To align myself with Kraven's camp, or signal openness to alternatives. Political chess, played in loaded silences.
"My loyalty is to the coven," I said. "To the war. Everything else is complications."
Her smile flickered—part amusement, part disappointment. She'd expected a different answer. Something she could use.
"Loyal to the coven. How... refreshing." She stepped back, creating distance without retreating. "If you ever find your loyalties becoming more... specific, you know where to find me."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Erika collected whatever weapons she'd ostensibly come for—a matched pair of throwing knives that looked decorative rather than functional—and ascended the stairs. Her departure left the armory feeling larger, quieter.
Kahn chuckled from his workbench.
"She collects promising Death Dealers like trophies. You refused her." He shook his head. "Either wise or suicidal. I'm not sure which."
"Neither am I."
I gathered my ammunition and left the armory, new rounds weighing heavy in my coat. Erika was a complication I didn't need—but rejecting her outright might create an enemy. The politics of Ördögház were a minefield I was only beginning to map.
[ CURRENT BP: 703/1000 ]
Back in my chamber, I reviewed options. Seven hundred BP was substantial—enough for multiple upgrades if I paced them carefully. Evolution Sickness had taught me that lesson painfully.
The obvious choices were combat-focused: Enhanced Strength Lv.2 for raw power, Enhanced Senses Lv.1 for threat detection, Regeneration Lv.2 for faster healing.
But the system offered another path.
[ CHARISMA LV.1: 30 BP ]
[ - IMPROVED SOCIAL MANIPULATION ]
[ - ENHANCED MICROEXPRESSION READING ]
[ - VOICE MODULATION OPTIMIZATION ]
Social skills. The ability to navigate conversations, build alliances, detect lies. In a world where politics killed as often as claws, the upgrade made strategic sense.
I'd been playing warrior. District Seven had required it—survival through violence, power through bloodshed. But Ördögház was different. Here, the deadliest weapons were whispered words and calculated silences.
[ CONFIRM PURCHASE: CHARISMA LV.1? Y/N ]
Yes.
The change was subtle. No burning nerves or cramping muscles—just a shift in perception. Erika's earlier visit replayed in memory, now annotated with new understanding. The tension in her shoulders when I refused her. The micro-flinch when I mentioned loyalty to the coven. The calculation behind every honeyed word.
She wasn't just recruiting. She was evaluating whether I could be used against Kraven.
[ CURRENT BP: 673/1000 ]
[ CHARISMA LV.1: ACTIVE ]
Tomorrow, I'd test the new ability on a more challenging subject.
Tomorrow, I'd find Selene.
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