Back in his own home, Ryden Hunt rubbed his temples.
The money his parents had left him amounted to barely two thousand dollars.
Fortunately, he owned the house outright. There was no rent to worry about, only daily expenses like food.
This era was in a strange state of semi-enlightenment.
Computers had only just been invented after the Great War. The overall level of technological civilization leaned heavily toward firearms and machinery.
A thick scent of gunpowder already hung over Europe.
The alliance centered on the German Empire had begun devouring the territories of neighboring countries. The British Empire, the only power capable of stopping them, was in decline due to the lingering aftereffects of the First World War.
More importantly, the local British populace had no desire to go to war over a distant shore. It didn't align with the Empire's core strategic interests.
France was also declining, still struggling to catch its breath after the last war.
Meanwhile, Germany, under Hitler's leadership, had erupted with terrifying productivity.
Coupled with the naturally rigorous character of the German people, their economy had been revitalized in only a few short years.
After being suppressed and forced to pay massive war reparations following the First World War, Hitler found it easy to stir up the Nazi public's desire for conquest and to reclaim the territories lost in their previous defeat.
Now, even across the Atlantic in America, one could almost smell the smoke drifting from the German border.
"Since I can't build computers or high-tech gadgets yet, I'll make something that fits the trend of the times."
Ryden steadied his thoughts, pulled out a sheet of white paper, and began working.
The slender pen tip traced clean curves across the page, outlining components one by one.
From time to time, he paused to consult reference materials.
Thanks to the vast collection of books left behind by his predecessor-the "nerd"-which had miraculously survived the experiment six months ago, he still had access to detailed data.
Sheets of paper were set aside one after another. Each was covered in diagrams of large components, with zigzag lines marking the standard industrial dimensions required at every position.
If a fanatic military buff were to see this, they would be shocked to discover what it was.
The famous AK-47 assault rifle.
If there was anything that made money most reliably, it was arms. A guaranteed profit, no matter the era.
With World War II approaching, munitions would become the most heavily consumed commodity.
No-there was one thing with equally terrifying demand.
Food.
What armies consumed in the greatest quantities, that was easy to manufacture and simple to store for long periods, was canned food. All kinds of canned goods. Chocolate. Preserved rations.
The food industry and the arms industry were both undeniably high-profit sectors.
But both came with prerequisites.
The arms business required connections, capital, and technology.
Ryden had none of the first two.
Connections? He knew no one.
Capital? If two thousand dollars counted, he might be able to buy a bathroom.
Technology? That one barely qualified.
The reason he chose the AK-47 was something he had planned long ago.
If he couldn't be the boss, he would be a shareholder.
And if even that failed, he would work for someone else.
After all, there was a rising military-industrial giant in New York-Stark Industries. Thanks to his late parents' connections, he seemed to have some acquaintance with that major tycoon, Howard Stark.
There was even a thin thread of relationship he might be able to use.
When someone was immersed in work, time lost its meaning.
By the time Ryden exhaled, set down the pencil worn nearly to a nub, and stretched, the doorbell rang.
He looked up at the wall clock.
It was eight in the morning.
He remembered clearly that it had been eight when he started drawing the blueprints.
He had pulled an all-nighter.
Twelve straight hours without even a bathroom break. His kidneys were truly impressive.
He opened the door.
A mature, middle-aged woman stood outside in a long white dress that perfectly outlined the exaggerated curves typical of Western women. A suitcase rested at her side.
"Good morning, Master Ryden. I've come to report for duty."
It was Sarah-the woman he had met yesterday selling televisions on Old Forest Street.
Captain America's mother.
"Hey, Sarah."
Her mature charm curved into a warm smile.
That brief moment was enough to wash away all the fatigue from Ryden's sleepless night.
He froze for a second before silently scolding himself.
"Oh. Aunt Sarah, please come in. I didn't expect you so early."
He led her inside and pointed to an empty room on the second floor.
"Aunt Sarah, this will be your room. You'll be living here from now on. Oh, right-this is your salary, plus grocery money for the month."
He handed over several Benjamins.
Two hundred dollars.
Sarah accepted the money, clearly startled.
"This... Master Ryden, this is too much. If I cook myself, I wouldn't even spend fifty dollars a month. Two hundred is far too much."
Out of habit and good upbringing, she answered honestly.
During the Great Depression, everything was cheap.
Fifty dollars a month was already considered generous.
"Haha. Aunt Sarah, just take it. If there's extra, use it next month. I'll probably be very busy, so I'll be counting on you to look after the house."
He paused.
"Oh, right. These are the keys to the house and your room. Since you're here, could you make me some breakfast? A ham sandwich and a glass of milk will be fine. I need to head out soon."
With that, Ryden went straight to his room to shower.
A night without sleep, plus yesterday's workout, left him feeling sticky and uncomfortable.
Sarah quietly put the money away, not even considering keeping a cent for herself.
Her only thought was to take good care of this young master.
She set down her suitcase and moved briskly to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.
The hot shower felt incredible.
There was a simple solar water-heating setup on the roof.
The principle behind solar heating wasn't complicated. Ryden had built it himself to avoid outdated gas tank heaters.
The problem was scale.
Without a factory, he couldn't mass-produce them.
And to make them durable and practical, the technology still needed improvement. Otherwise, he would have sold them long ago for quick cash.
After finishing the hearty breakfast Aunt Sarah prepared, Ryden gathered his design blueprints and headed to a gun shop to source parts.
The AK-47 was, at its core, an improvement on semi-automatic carbine principles.
Using carbine components along with additional small parts, it could be assembled.
The gun shop, however, didn't sell carbines.
Only old-fashioned single-shot pistols and shotguns.
They were lethal enough, but no one was robbing a bank with them.
Suitable for self-defense. Not for offense.
U.S. Congress regulations wouldn't allow private shops to sell high-powered destructive weapons.
At the gun shop, Ryden could only purchase grips, bases, and magazines.
The core barrels and firing assemblies simply weren't available.
Left with no choice, he went to a hardware store to place a custom order.
Under normal circumstances, custom-ordering firearm barrels during an economic depression shouldn't have been allowed.
But anyone who turned down money was an idiot.
That was the beauty of capitalism.
As long as you had cash, you could buy almost anything.
They agreed on a pickup the next day.
Ryden returned home with the parts he had managed to acquire and continued his experiments.
The streets were bleak.
Unemployed residents lingered everywhere, waiting for relief.
Factories couldn't sell their goods and survived only by laying off workers.
The result was an explosion of vagrants, and crime rates were rising across the city.
During the day, smart people avoided back alleys. Those were the easiest places to get robbed.
Beggars filled the streets. Families knelt together, hoping a kind soul might spare a little food.
Ryden looked at the scene with quiet helplessness.
He wasn't a hero.
He didn't want to be one.
He only wanted to live better.
If he ever had the ability, he would make sure the people around him lived well.
As for changing society or conquering the world?
Only someone with water in their brain would attempt that.
He returned home and resumed his work, his focus shifting completely from energy research to weapon design.
To earn his first pot of gold, he had to ride the tide of the era.
Heh.
Think about what the future Iron Man did.
He was an arms dealer.
Even the terrorists who kidnapped him called him the "Great Butcher."
That alone said everything.
Click. Clatter.
Ryden skillfully assembled the firearm, using practice rounds to test its power and handling.
Every problem was recorded on white paper.
Jams. Full-auto clogging. Excessive recoil. Unstable sights.
Only after doing it himself did Ryden realize how difficult firearm design truly was.
He managed only because he handled everything personally.
He couldn't imagine how slow the process would be for researchers following formal protocols.
Aunt Sarah never asked about Ryden's work.
On her first day, she focused entirely on cleaning, moving through the house as if it were her own.
The cluttered living room was organized.
The floors were mopped.
Bedroom linens were washed and laid out to dry in the sun.
The house felt different.
It truly did feel different having a woman living there.
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