The sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the snow in hues of bruised purple and blood orange. In the main hall of the dilapidated manor, a pile of junk sat on the rotting floorboards.
Old Wu and the other servants stood huddled in the corner, watching their new master with a mix of fear and confusion. They had brought what he asked for: a rusted iron wok, a few broken farming hoes, a handful of bent nails, and a dull, decorative sword that had been hanging above the fireplace.
"Is this all?" Jiang Chen asked, nudging the rusted wok with his boot.
"Beiluo is poor, Your Highness," Old Wu stammered. "Iron is precious here. This is all the metal in the manor."
Jiang Chen nodded. It was pathetic, but it would have to do.
"Step back," he ordered. "Do not speak. Do not interrupt."
He placed his hand on the pile.
'System. Deconstruct.'
[Process Initiated.]
A faint hum vibrated through the air. To the servants, it looked like a ripple of silver light flowed from the Prince's palm. The rust on the wok seemed to dissolve. Then the metal itself liquefied, turning into a swirling grey sludge that defied gravity, flowing up into Jiang Chen's sleeve and vanishing into his inventory.
The decorative sword was next. The nails. The hoes. Within ten seconds, the floor was empty.
One of the young maids gasped and covered her mouth. Old Wu's eyes were wide. "Sorcery...?"
"Science," Jiang Chen corrected, though he didn't bother explaining.
[Matter Stockpile Updated]
Ferrous Metal (Low Grade): 12.5 kg
Carbon/Organic Compounds: 1.8 kg (Remaining from cloak)
Jiang Chen sat back in the creaking wooden chair. He needed a weapon. A sword was useless; his body was weak, and he had no martial arts training. He needed an equalizer.
'Open Weapons Database. Tier 0: Ballistics.'
A list of holographic schematics appeared in his vision.
Musket (Flintlock): Too slow.
Revolver (.38 Special): Reliable, but slow reload.
Semi-Automatic Pistol (M1911 Pattern): Good stopping power, intimidating profile.
"Select M1911," Jiang Chen thought. "And two magazines of standard .45 ACP ammunition."
[Fabrication Cost: 150 EU. Material Cost: 1.2kg Steel, 0.3kg Chemical Propellant.]
He had the metal. The System could synthesize the gunpowder (chemical propellant) using the carbon and nitrogen compounds from the organic fiber he had stored earlier.
"Execute."
He held out his hand. Sparks of blue light danced in his palm, knitting together matter at a molecular level. Layers of steel formed, polished and blue-black. Internal springs coiled. The grip was textured polymer (converted from wood and resin).
In a blink, a heavy, matte-black pistol dropped into his hand. It was cold and smelled of gun oil.
Jiang Chen pulled the slide back. Clack-clack. The sound was crisp, mechanical, and utterly alien to this world.
"Old Wu," Jiang Chen said, placing the gun on the table.
The old man flinched. "Y-Yes, Highness? What is that... artifact?"
"A tool for negotiation," Jiang Chen said. "Go to the kitchen. Boil water. If we have any rice, make porridge. We eat."
Night fell fast and hard. The wind howled outside, rattling the loose shutters.
Jiang Chen sat in the dark main hall. He hadn't lit the candles. He sat facing the door, the M1911 resting on his lap, his finger tracing the trigger guard.
He didn't trust the silence. The Emperor had sent him here to die. If the cold didn't kill him, "bandits" likely would.
Around midnight, he heard it.
The crunch of snow. Heavy footsteps. Not trying to be stealthy.
'System, activate Low-Light Vision.'
[Visual Enhancement Active. Cost: 1 EU/minute.]
The darkness of the room turned into a grainy green monochrome. Through the cracks in the wooden door, he saw three heat signatures approaching.
Bam!
The front door was kicked open. Splinters flew.
Three men strode in. They wore mismatched leather armor and carried jagged sabers. They didn't look like starving peasants; they were well-fed, their eyes cruel.
"Well, well," the leader sneered, stepping into the hall. He was a brute with a scar running down his cheek. "The little Prince is awake. We heard a fat sheep arrived in Beiluo."
Old Wu ran in from the back, trembling. "Who are you?! This is the residence of the Third Prince! You dare—"
The leader backhanded Old Wu without looking. The old man went flying, crashing into the wall with a sickening thud.
"Prince?" The bandit leader laughed. "In Beiluo, the only king is the one holding the blade. Hand over the Spirit Stones, boy. And maybe I'll only cut off one of your hands."
The other two bandits fanned out, snickering. They sensed no Qi from Jiang Chen. To them, he was a cripple. A soft, pampered baby.
Jiang Chen remained seated. He didn't look at Old Wu. He looked at the leader.
"Three steps," Jiang Chen said softly.
"What?" The leader frowned.
"You took three steps into my house without permission," Jiang Chen said. He raised his right hand.
The leader saw the strange black iron shape. He didn't recognize it. No Qi radiated from it. It wasn't a talisman. It wasn't a magical artifact. It looked like a paperweight.
"Is that a toy?" The leader grinned, raising his saber. "I'm going to gut you like a—"
Jiang Chen squeezed the trigger.
BANG.
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. It wasn't the whoosh of a fireball or the clang of a sword. It was a thunderclap.
The leader's head snapped back. A hole the size of a thumb appeared in his forehead, and the back of his skull erupted in a spray of red mist and bone fragments.
He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. Dead before he hit the floor.
The other two bandits froze. Their ears were ringing. They looked at their leader, then at Jiang Chen. They couldn't comprehend what just happened. There was no chanting. No gathering of energy. Just a noise, and death.
Jiang Chen shifted his aim to the bandit on the left.
"Monster!" the bandit screamed, charging forward, desperate to close the distance.
BANG. BANG.
Two shots. One to the chest, shattering the ribs and heart. One to the throat. The bandit collapsed, sliding across the floorboards in his own blood.
The third bandit dropped his sword. He fell to his knees, pissing himself. The smell of urine mixed with the acrid scent of smokeless powder.
"Spare me! Immortal Master, spare me!" the bandit wailed, pressing his forehead into the dirt.
Jiang Chen stood up. The thermal suit under his robes hummed quietly. He walked over to the shivering bandit and pressed the hot barrel of the gun against the man's forehead.
"Who sent you?" Jiang Chen asked. His voice was flat. Bored.
"The... The Black Wind Stronghold! The Boss told us a Prince was coming! He said you had no guards! Please!"
"The Black Wind Stronghold," Jiang Chen repeated. "Where is it?"
"Ten miles north! In the Crimson Valley! Please, I told you everything!"
Jiang Chen looked down at the man. In a cultivation novel, the MC might spare him to send a message. But Jiang Chen was playing a strategy game. And in a strategy game, you do not leave enemy units alive in your base.
"Information accepted," Jiang Chen said.
BANG.
Silence returned to the manor.
Jiang Chen engaged the safety on the pistol. He looked at Old Wu, who was groaning in the corner, staring at his master with absolute terror.
"Old Wu," Jiang Chen said, holstering the weapon. "Drag these bodies outside. The blood will freeze by morning. We can chip it off then."
[Combat Encounter Resolved.][Enemy Analysis: Mortal Warriors (Stage 3 Body Tempering).][Loot Available: 3 Steel Sabers (Low Quality), 12 Silver Coins, Leather Armor.]
Jiang Chen looked at the dead leader.
"System," he thought. "Recycle the bodies. I need the biomass for fertilizer."