Gun In Another World

There was something about the silence of a dungeon that made people confess, maybe it was the absence of sunlight, maybe it was the weight of the air, maybe it was just knowing that no one would hear them scream, either way, it was perfect for business, and Kaito had no intention of wasting it, the makeshift base beneath the Bleeding Dungeon had been cleared out room by room, old bones swept into corners, collapsed arches reinforced with scavenged brass, and cursed murals covered with black cloth and chalk lines, by the end of the third day, it looked less like a crypt and more like a backroom chapel for mercenaries, complete with disguised altars, fake relic displays, and a hidden forge tucked behind a sealed prayer wall.

He called it the Vault.

Not because it stored treasure—but because it locked away the truth behind polished lies.

Lilyeth moved through the Vault like a merchant inspecting her stock, holding up charm vials and sniffing mana scrolls like a woman shopping for curses at a Sunday market, she'd always been comfortable around shadows, but this place made even her quiet, the kind of quiet that came from understanding just how far they'd stepped outside the normal world.

"They're calling you a demon now," she said without looking at him, "Three bishops declared it in their sermons yesterday."

Kaito didn't even flinch.

"Let them."

"They say you made a pact with a devil to make weapons no man can understand."

He turned a gear in his hands, threading the crystal wire into a casing no longer than a thumb.

"They're wrong," he said, "I made a pact with myself."

She smirked.

"That's worse."

Rook entered the Vault with two scrolls tied in purple cord—official Courier Ring messages marked high-priority, one came from a smuggler priest on the eastern border, the other from a corrupt relic inspector working under the pseudonym "Gravedust," Kaito opened the first one carefully and read the contents twice before handing it to Lilyeth.

She frowned as her eyes scanned the page.

"New target?"

"No," Kaito said, "New client."

The smuggler priest wasn't asking for a kill.

He was asking for a shipment.

Seventy-five rounds, five different types, labeled as "blessing beads" for distribution among a rebel militia near the southern walls of the Kingdom of Shale, they were offering two crates of dragonbone mana cores in exchange, plus transport through three safehouses.

Lilyeth handed the scroll back.

"You're not going to take it."

"I already did," Kaito replied, "They don't know I exist—but they know the 'Voice of the Vault' sells relics that pierce divine wards."

"You just gave yourself another name?"

"No," he said, "I gave the idea of me another name."

That was the plan now.

Let the world think there wasn't one Gun Saint—but many.

Let them chase ghosts while he sold truth wrapped in divine lies.

The second scroll was even more interesting.

Gravedust had intercepted a shipment of "sealed scriptures" destined for an archbishop's sanctum, and hidden inside the scrolls were blueprints—actual blueprints—of a prototype weapon.

It wasn't a gun.

But it was trying to be.

Kaito read the notes twice, eyes narrowing.

The Church had reverse-engineered something.

Not exactly a firearm.

But close.

Mana-propelled spikes wrapped in holy sigil threads, packed into a wooden staff with a crystal trigger.

Sloppy.

Dangerous.

Still lethal.

They were trying to imitate him.

Badly.

"Lilyeth," he said calmly, "We have a problem."

She looked over, reading the blueprint over his shoulder.

"Oh no," she muttered, "They're getting smarter."

"No," he replied, tapping the rune diagram on the barrel design, "They're getting desperate."

This wasn't about matching his power.

This was about fear.

And fear made people innovate badly.

If the Church kept experimenting, it wouldn't be long before someone created something truly unstable.

Something that couldn't be controlled.

He tossed the blueprint onto the forge table.

"We need to move product faster," he said, "Get ahead of their panic curve."

"You want to flood the black market?"

"No," Kaito said, "I want to make it the new Church."

Lilyeth blinked.

"You're serious?"

"I want underground shrines built with Vault relics," he said, eyes dark, voice low, "I want smugglers selling bullets as miracle talismans. I want children praying to charms they don't understand. I want every noble who sleeps soundly under divine banners to wake up wondering if the relic under their pillow was made in this dungeon."

He turned to her.

"I want belief."

And that was when the floor shook.

Not hard.

Just enough to make dust fall from the ceiling, just enough to make everyone freeze.

Rook looked up.

"Was that a cave-in?"

But Kaito knew better.

That wasn't stone.

That was footsteps.

Heavy ones.

From below.

He grabbed the gun from the altar shelf and stepped toward the southern tunnel, the one they'd never explored because it was sealed with both blood and silence.

Lilyeth moved beside him, blade out, expression cold.

"You think something's down there?"

"I don't think," Kaito said, "I know."

Because the dungeon wasn't empty.

And as much as he had turned it into his sanctuary—

It had always belonged to something else first.

The tunnel hadn't been touched in decades, not by foot, not by wind, not even by rats, the stone was too smooth, too preserved, as if time itself had refused to pass through it, the blood-sealed arch had cracked slightly when the Vault was first opened, but no one had dared step past it, not out of superstition—Kaito didn't believe in ghosts—but because the runes embedded in the wall weren't decorative, they were active, protective, and when touched, they shimmered with magic that felt like teeth grinding behind the skin, now those same runes pulsed red in the dim light, flickering like something had breathed on them, something that didn't need a door to get in.

Kaito crouched low and brushed the dust from the lower edge of the arch, revealing the glyph of a bound eye—a ward used not to lock things out, but to keep something asleep, his fingers traced the edges until they felt the break, a fracture the size of a fingertip right down the rune's center, something had cracked it from the inside, and the pressure leaking out was like mana dipped in oil and regret.

Behind him, Lilyeth adjusted her grip on the curved dagger she never let anyone else touch, the one she claimed had never tasted clean blood, only cursed, she leaned close, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You sure this is worth opening?"

Kaito replied without looking back.

"Anything that moves beneath my Vault is my problem."

She didn't argue.

She never did when he used that tone—the one that meant he'd already decided, and he just wanted her beside him when the consequences arrived.

He reached into his coat and pulled out a charm capsule marked with all five bullet signatures—Frostbite, Inferno, Hollow Curse, Shockburst, and Echo—all layered into a single unstable relic, he'd only made two, and the other one had been used to wipe out a black market auction two cities ago, this one was overkill, but overkill was better than regret.

He placed the capsule on the center rune and whispered the activation code.

Not in magic.

But in codebreaker's cant.

"Trigger."

The stone didn't explode.

It sighed.

The archway vibrated once, then twice, then split open vertically like a jaw, revealing a narrow spiral staircase made of bone-fused marble, the air that came out wasn't cold—but it carried memory, the kind that didn't belong to you but filled your lungs anyway, Lilyeth stepped back once, then recovered, eyes narrowing.

"There's a presence."

"No," Kaito said, already stepping down, "There's an opportunity."

They descended slowly, each step echoing like it didn't want to end, the walls were carved with inverted prayers, symbols that twisted if you stared too long, lines of script that kept rearranging themselves to say different things, none of them comforting, Kaito didn't care—he'd walked through worse nightmares in his last life, ones created by technology, not magic, but just as cruel.

At the base of the stairs, the path opened into a chamber that didn't belong underground—it was too wide, too symmetrical, like a courtroom buried alive, at its center stood a slab of black stone carved into the shape of an altar, only it wasn't for worship—it was a press, a weapon mold, something ancient and monstrous, and beside it stood a figure cloaked in feathers and chains, blindfolded, arms bound in golden thread, floating just above the ground, unmoving, yet somehow aware.

Lilyeth's breath caught.

"What the hell is that?"

Kaito didn't answer.

He stepped closer, eyes scanning the runes burned into the floor—this wasn't a prison.

It was a contract.

The entity spoke without moving its mouth.

"Gun bearer. Triggered outlander. Vault speaker. You have awakened the archive of blood."

Kaito's gun was in his hand before he even knew he'd drawn it.

"Are you sentient?"

"I am record. I am weapon. I am sleep that remembers. You craft. I forge. You kill. I mark."

Lilyeth muttered under her breath.

"This is worse than cursed. This is stored sin."

The figure floated forward, chains unraveling behind it like silk soaked in rust.

"You seek to build your Vault. But your enemies build their faith. They press their lies into steel. Shall we compete?"

Kaito narrowed his eyes.

"You offering to help?"

The entity tilted its head.

"I offer to bind."

"To what?"

"To death."

Kaito holstered his gun.

Smirked.

And stepped forward.

"Show me the terms."

The altar's surface shifted as Kaito stepped closer, runes that had long dried and fossilized flared to life beneath his boots, casting distorted reflections across the walls, not from light—but from memory, images flickered across the black marble, not like illusions or projections, but like memories trying to escape a grave they never asked to be buried in, wars that never made it into scripture, gods that fell without worshippers, weapons that devoured empires and were sealed in shame rather than victory, the air thickened with every step he took, not with magic—but with intent, the kind that didn't ask for permission because it already knew its purpose.

Lilyeth stayed by the stairs, knife in hand, eyes scanning every movement, she didn't trust anything in this chamber, least of all the thing that floated in front of them, the chained figure hadn't moved since its initial declaration, but its presence kept growing, like a curse pretending to be a question.

Kaito placed one hand on the altar, expecting heat—but finding it cold, disturbingly cold, like metal kept in a grave, and the moment his skin made contact, the surface cracked open, not with a sound, but with a voice—a dozen voices speaking at once, some male, some female, some not even human, they didn't shout or whisper, they instructed.

"This is the Archive of Blood.

Here are your terms.

You will forge relics that lie with purpose.

You will bless death with names.

You will mark each bullet not with magic, but with memory.

Each round crafted in this vault binds a thread to the Archive.

For each truth you shape into death, we grant you vision.

For each soul claimed by your craft, we offer you their sin.

You do not owe us your life.

Only your precision."

Kaito didn't blink.

Didn't flinch.

He simply whispered back.

"Accepted."

The altar hissed, the marble shifted, and out from its center rose a compartment forged from glassbone and mirrorsteel, inside was a mold unlike any Kaito had ever seen, sleek, curved, carved with veins of red aether crystal and etched with runes he couldn't read—but understood, the moment his eyes met the design, his fingers already itched to start working, to build, to create, to weaponize belief itself.

The chained figure floated forward again, this time speaking directly into his mind.

"You have triggered the Bloodline Forge.

Its power is bound to secrecy.

Its ammo cannot be detected.

Its origin will be denied.

You may craft only what the Vault believes is necessary."

Kaito tilted his head.

"And what does the Vault think is necessary?"

The chains unraveled slightly.

The voice darkened.

"Whatever it takes to make your enemies pray to you before they die."

Behind him, Lilyeth stepped forward slowly, eyes fixed on the forge.

"That thing's going to consume you."

"It's going to empower me," he replied, reaching for the crafting glove at his belt.

"You sure about that?"

"No," Kaito admitted, slipping the glove on, "But I'd rather build my own damn religion than let the Church write one with my blood."

The forge lit up the moment his fingers touched the mold, fire with no flame, heat with no burn, and from within the hollow of the altar came the sound of metal crying and mana humming, he pulled the materials from his satchel—scraps of brass, cursed bone, liquid sigil ink, mana threads, and a sliver of one of Morvane's shattered charms—this wasn't just a bullet he was forging, this was a proof of concept, a relic designed to silence a Church mouthpiece without ever firing a shot.

As the mold closed, he whispered the round's name under his breath.

"Echo Hollow."

The forge pulsed.

Accepted.

The bullet didn't emerge as metal.

It emerged as glass.

Clear, sharp, and cold, with an echo rune carved into its center that vibrated even while still, Kaito caught it and turned it in his fingers slowly, watching the reflection inside the round change shape every few seconds—first his face, then a priest's, then no one at all.

Lilyeth crossed her arms.

"What's it do?"

He stared at the bullet for a long moment before sliding it into a hollow charm casing and sealing it with a fake blessing symbol.

"It replaces whatever they're about to say with a confession they didn't know they were hiding."

She blinked.

"You just made a mind-triggered speech trap."

"I made a bullet that tells the truth louder than they can lie."

He turned toward the stairs.

"We're going to test it."

Lilyeth didn't follow right away.

"Where?"

Kaito didn't stop walking.

"The next sermon."