The ledger on my desk looked perfect.Sold: 500 Resonance Model-1 Rifles.Client: City Guard (Captain Vorian).Revenue:*25,000 Gold Crowns.Widow's Fund: 5,000 Gold Crowns (Deposited).

  On paper, I was a hero. I had armed the law, secured the trade routes, and donated a fortune to charity. I had "balanced the books."But Mark II had a different metric.

  "Maker," Mark’s voice was low in my earpiece. "Market analysis of the Lower District suggests a statistical anomaly. The price of unrefined niter (gunpowder base) has spiked by 400% in the last three days."

  "The City Guard is stockpiling," I dismissed, signing a purchase order for more steel. "They need ammo for the rifles."

  "Negative. The City Guard purchases from the official Alchemy Guild. This spike is occurring in the Grey Market. Specifically, in the Blind Alley."

  I paused, the quill hovering over the paper.The Blind Alley. The place where you bought poisons, stolen grimiores, and illegal slaves. The City Guard didn't shop there."Someone else is making powder," I whispered. "Which means someone else has guns."

  The Blind Alley.

  I wore a hooded cloak. Cliché, I know, but in this part of town, showing a noble's face was an invitation to be stabbed.Under the cloak, my hand rested on a concealed prototype—a snub-nose revolver I had built for personal defense. Six shots. No safety.

  The alley smelled of sulfur and desperation. Stalls were set up in the mud, selling everything from "Dragon Bones" (cow bones) to rusty daggers.I walked past a goblin selling teeth, heading toward the back of the market where the high-value goods were traded.

  "Heart rate elevated," Mark noted. "Scanning for threats."

  "Scan for *Resonance*," I muttered. "Find my work."

  We didn't have to look far.A crowd had gathered around a makeshift auction block. A man with a scar running across his nose stood on a crate, holding an object wrapped in oilcloth.

  "Gentlemen! Assassins! Freedom fighters!" The auctioneer shouted, his voice raspy. "Why risk getting close with a knife? Why study magic for ten years to cast a fireball?"He whipped the cloth away.The steel barrel caught the flicker of the torchlight. The walnut stock was polished. The bolt handle curved distinctively.It was a Resonance Model-1. My rifle.

  "The Thunder Stick!" the man grinned. "Stolen from the cold, dead hands of a City Guard patrol in the Red Valley. Range: 500 yards. Power: Pierce plate armor. Starting bid: 200 Gold!"

  I felt a cold knot form in my stomach.I sold them to Vorian for 50 Gold each.The black market price was four times higher.This wasn't just leakage. This was arbitrage.

  "250!" shouted a mercenary in leather armor."300!" countered a hooded figure who smelled of the sewers—Thieves Guild.

  I watched the bidding war.I had designed these weapons to protect the city. Now, the Thieves Guild was bidding on them to rob the city. The mercenaries were bidding on them to kill the guards I had just armed.It was a perfect circle of violence. And I was the supplier for both sides. One directly, one indirectly.

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  "Maker," Mark said. "That serial number on the receiver. RM-042."

  "I see it."RM-042. Part of the first batch delivered to Vorian."Stolen from a dead guard," I quoted the auctioneer. "Or... sold by a corrupt living one."

  "400 Gold!" The Thieves Guild representative yelled."Sold!" The auctioneer slammed his hammer down.

  The hooded figure stepped forward, counting out a heavy bag of coins. He took the rifle, checking the bolt action with a familiarity that chilled me. He knew how to use it.The knowledge had spread.

  I stepped out of the shadows."I'll pay 500," I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs.

  The crowd turned. The auctioneer looked at me, then at the Thief."Auction's over, friend," the auctioneer sneered. "Unless you want to take it up with the Guild."

  The Thief turned to me. I couldn't see his face, but I saw his hand drop to his belt."Walk away, stranger," the Thief hissed. "This tech belongs to the Shadows now."

  "It belongs to the Maker," I said, and I pulled the hood back.

  Recognition flashed in the auctioneer's eyes. I was famous now. The "Artificer of Sector 4.""Lord Julian!" The auctioneer looked nervous. "We... uh... we found this. Legitimate salvage!"

  "500 Gold," I repeated, walking forward. The crowd parted. They knew I was rich. They didn't know if I was dangerous yet. "For the rifle. And the name of the guard who 'lost' it."

  The Thief stepped in my way. He was tall, and he had a dagger drawn."You think because you built it, you own it?" The Thief laughed. "Once you sell it, it's just metal, boy. And right now, I'm holding the metal."

  He raised the rifle, leveling it at my chest.The crowd gasped.The irony wasn't lost on me. I was about to be shot by my own invention.

  "Trajectory analysis," Mark said instantly. "Distance: 3 meters. Probability of survival: 0%. Suggestion: Shoot first."

  My hand tightened on the revolver under my cloak."You haven't cycled the bolt," I said calmly.

  The Thief blinked. "What?"

  "The bolt," I pointed to the handle. "There's no round in the chamber. You have to pull it back to load it."

  The Thief looked down at the gun, confused. In that split second of hesitation, I drew.The snub-nose revolver cleared my cloak.BANG!

  The shot was deafening in the narrow alley.The Thief screamed, dropping the rifle. My bullet had shattered his kneecap.He fell to the mud, writhing in agony.

  The crowd scrambled back in terror. They were used to sword fights. They weren't used to thunder in a box.I walked over, picked up the Model-1 Rifle from the mud, and slung it over my shoulder.Then I looked at the auctioneer. He was shaking.

  "The name," I said, pointing the smoking revolver at him. "Who sold it to you?"

  "It... it wasn't a guard!" the man stammered, hands in the air. "It was a quartermaster! At the barracks! He said... he said inventory gets lost all the time! Please!"

  "Corruption confirmed," Mark stated.

  I threw a bag of 500 gold at the auctioneer's feet."I bought it back," I said coldly. "If I see another one of these in this alley... I won't bring gold next time. I'll bring the rest of the inventory."

  The Walk Home.

  I didn't feel like a hero.I walked through the dark streets, the reclaimed rifle heavy on my back.I had stopped one sale. One.But how many others were out there? How many corrupt quartermasters? How many "lost" crates?

  "Mark," I whispered.

  "Yes, Maker?"

  "We need a new department. Security is not enough."

  "Define parameters."

  "Internal Affairs. Counter-intelligence," I looked at the moon. "And we need a kill-switch. I need a way to track these things. Or disable them."

  "Magical tracking requires Mana, Maker. We do not use Mana."

  "Then we find a science solution," I gritted my teeth. "Radioactive isotopes in the steel? RFID tags? I don't care. If I can't stop the flow..."

  I touched the cold steel of the rifle."...I have to make sure I'm the only one who can survive the flood."

  Author's Note:

  This chapter marks the beginning of the "Arms Race" arc.

  Julian is no longer just an engineer; he's a player in the city's power struggle.

  The "Quartermaster" plot point will be important later.

  Also, finally used the Revolver!