A suffocating silence hung in the air. Two pairs of eyes, matched in their lethal intensity, remained locked. Ren didn't lower his blade; Moses didn't flinch, his pistol aimed squarely at Ren's chest. The air between them felt ionized, charged by a murderous intent held back only by a fraying thread.
Then, the tension snapped. Moses took a deep breath and erupted into a laugh that shook his shoulders.
He lowered the long-barreled pistol, engaging the safety with a final, metallic click before holstering it with a fluid, casual grace. "Interesting. Very interesting," he murmured, wiping a stray tear of genuine amusement from the corner of his eye.
Santino, who had been holding his breath until his face turned a ghostly pale, bowed deeply. His entire frame was trembling. "M-my deepest apologies, Your Grace! I have failed to discipline my subordinate. This brat is arrogant—out of line. I'll make sure he pays for this insolence later—"
"Shut up, Santino," Moses cut him off without looking. His crimson gaze was still pinned on Ren, dissecting every layer of the identity the boy was trying so hard to hide. "You've brought me a very intriguing 'little dog' today. I think I'll take him for a stroll around my estate."
Santino froze. A new wave of terror washed over him; he knew that in Moses's dictionary, a 'stroll' usually ended with someone losing their life. But he also knew that denying the Duke was a death sentence. He could only cast a frantic, worried glance at Ren.
In contrast to Santino's panic, Ren felt a surge of cold satisfaction. This was the opening he'd been hunting for. His plan required him to separate Moses from the crowd—to speak face-to-face, away from the prying ears of the court.
"Follow me," Moses commanded.
Moses led Ren through labyrinthine corridors decorated with ancient iron crests, descending into a hidden basement. They stopped before a heavy steel door, clearly soundproofed. As they entered, the scent of gun oil and the chill of bare metal greeted them—a vast, private training arena.
Ren was the last to enter, pushing the steel door shut with a solid, echoing thud.
Click. Locked in a dead silence.
THWACK!
Without a word of warning, the moment Ren turned around, a raw, heavy fist connected squarely with his jaw. Moses didn't pull his punches. Ren was sent reeling backward, his body slamming into the concrete wall with a bone-shaking impact. The world blurred for a second, and worse—the orange contact lens in his right eye popped out from the force of the blow.
Ren didn't tense his neck muscles. He took the hit, letting the Duke feel a momentary sense of victory, even as the metallic tang of blood filled his mouth.
Moses gave him no room to breathe. He lunged forward, fist bunching into Ren's collar as he slammed him back against the wall again. "I've smelled something rotten since the second you stepped foot in here," Moses hissed, his face inches from Ren's.
The grip forced Ren's head up. Under the harsh glare of the neon lights, Ren's true eye—a piercing crimson—was fully exposed. Two pairs of red eyes clashed at point-blank range.
"Who the hell are you?" Moses's voice rose an octave, sharp with suspicion. "That look... the predator you're trying so hard to suppress. You're no gunsmith. You're no commoner."
Ren's breath was shallow, hot, and ragged. Blood began to leak from his nose, dripping onto his split lip. Even pinned, he showed no fear. "Who I am... doesn't matter, Your Grace," he replied, his voice a calm, gravelly rasp.
Moses went still. He stared into Ren's red retina, his expression shifting. A dusty, decade-old memory jolted awake in his mind. Those eyes... he had seen them before.
"This red retina... there's no mistake," Moses whispered, his voice vibrating with a strange, dark energy. "You... you're the son of King Henry. The one exiled all those years ago?"
Ren went rigid for a heartbeat. The identity he had buried six feet deep had just been dragged into the light by a total stranger. With an explosive movement, he wrenched Moses's hand off his collar, breaking free by sheer force. He stepped back, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the Duke's.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, Your Grace," Ren said, sliding back into his mask of cold formality. "I'm here strictly to take responsibility for my negligence regarding Mr. Santino's contract."
Moses wrestled with his own logic. A red retina wasn't definitive proof of royalty, but that look—the look of a boy thirteen years ago, trembling with a mix of tears and rage as the Royal Guard took his mother—it was the same. That cold, rebellious aura couldn't be faked.
"Believe what you want," Moses finally relented, though his eyes remained predatory. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pristine white silk handkerchief, and began dabbing at his reddened knuckles. He moved with a chilling calm, as if he had just touched something dusty rather than a man's face.
He tossed the stained handkerchief onto the training table, treating the expensive silk like garbage. "Fine. Let's see how you plan to compensate me for a month of my life wasted."
Ren steadied his breathing, straightening his crumpled jacket and shirt. From an inner pocket, he produced a prototype pistol wrapped in black velvet, along with a neatly folded document.
He placed the weapon on the table. "This is the prototype I've been refining over the last month," Ren explained in a professional tone, acting as if the punch had never happened. "I've improved four key areas from the original design:"
Dual Recoil Buffer System: "I've added a dampening spring to the slide. It allows for rapid-fire follow-ups with 15% higher accuracy without straining the wrist."
Polygonal Ballistic Rifling: "The barrel increases muzzle velocity and provides superior bullet rotation for mid-range stability."
Diamond-Like Carbon (DLC) Coating: "Aesthetically, it provides a deep matte finish that won't reflect light. Functionally, it's scratch-resistant and minimizes internal friction. This gun will never jam."
Two-Stage Trigger Modification: "The pull is lighter, more responsive. It's tailored specifically for your combat style—impulsive, yet precise."
Moses picked up the weapon, weighing it in his hand. The balance was perfect. He turned to the document Ren had handed him, and his eyebrows shot up.
It was an official compensation contract. It stated that all distribution and maintenance fees for Duke Moses's custom weaponry for the next six months would be entirely waived.
Moses looked at the paper, then back at Ren with pure disbelief. "Six months? For free? My custom distribution costs millions of Marbles a month. You're giving that up just for a one-month delay? Don't make me laugh."
Moses narrowed his eyes, the slick diplomat returning to the surface. "Don't tell me you expect something in return."
Ren offered a thin smile—one that looked far more dangerous than the punch he'd just taken. "Of course. There's no such thing as a free lunch in Rich City, Your Grace. I have one condition you must fulfill."