At 21 Winchester Road in Southampton, there was a strange hardware store.
Mr. Robert Wilson was the owner—a tall, burly man in his sixties from Northern Ireland. Despite his age, he was full of energy.
In Mr. Wilson's shop, you could easily buy all sorts of things—faucets, screws, door locks... and even handguns.
On the surface, England had very strict laws regarding firearms, making it seem nearly impossible for ordinary people to legally obtain one.
But loopholes existed—especially for collectors and antique enthusiasts.
Certain historical models, like older-style revolvers or vintage shotguns with declared collectible value, could be acquired through less conventional means.
Mr. Wilson, originally from Northern Ireland, had long taken advantage of these gray areas in the law, catering to a small but consistent group of "enthusiasts" who appreciated such... rarities.
For years, this discreet trade remained the shop's most profitable line of business.
This, in fact, was the shop's main source of income every year.
...
On December 30, 1992, Mr. Robert Wilson was tending to his shop as usual.
As dusk settled, an uninvited guest entered: a towering, heavily built man with muscles bulging under his clothes.
He was at least 1.9 meters tall, with dark-toned skin and a face that looked fierce and rugged.
"Mr. Robert Wilson?" the burly man asked in a low voice.
Mr. Wilson looked up and replied quietly, "Yes, sir. How may I address you?"
"Varian Urien."
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Urien. How can I help you?" Wilson asked, noting the unusual name.
"I heard I could buy a handgun here, Mr. Wilson?"
"Handguns? Of course..." Robert Wilson squinted and smiled. "But I only sell to my fellow Northern Irishmen."
"Of course, I'm from Northern Ireland. Born in Belfast..." the man said with a smile.
But that unmistakable Southern English accent gave him away. No way he was from Northern Ireland.
Still, as he spoke, the visitor discreetly slipped several £50 notes into Wilson's hand.
Clearly, this guest wasn't as brainless as he looked, Wilson thought to himself.
"I'm honored, Mr. Urien. Please, follow me."
...
It had taken Jon quite a bit of time to adjust to the new body.
It felt like his body had been forcibly stretched and inflated—an intensely uncomfortable experience.
The towering 1.9-meter figure was actually a security guard from Eric's office—someone who looked tough but was actually timid. Jon had quietly clipped a few hairs while the man dozed off during his lunch break.
Having grown up deeply influenced by science and rational thinking, Jon had an instinctive trust in technological weapons—especially after several months of learning magic and still being unable to cast harmful spells reliably.
He desperately needed a way to protect himself.
...
Urien followed Mr. Wilson behind the counter.
His right hand remained in his pocket, gripping something tightly. He kept a watchful eye on his surroundings, alert for anything suspicious.
Mr. Wilson had already pulled a large case from beneath the counter and bent down.
"Not sure what kind of firearm you prefer," he said as he pulled out the first pistol. "Mr. Urien... here's something reliable—a classic military sidearm, simple to handle and accurate at close range.
Urien frowned. Clearly, he'd heard of this classic model before.
"Mr. Wilson," he said, "I think I need something a bit more modern."
This weapon, first produced eighty years ago, was definitely outdated.
"Well then... a picky customer," Wilson chuckled, bending down to continue his search.
"Now this one's a hidden gem—compact, lightweight, fits in your palm. A favorite among intelligence operatives for decades. Low recoil, whisper-quiet.."
"Is that so?" Urien took the pistol and examined it closely.
"What about the recoil?" he asked.
"I'd bet it has the lowest recoil of any pistol in the world. Even a 12-year-old could shoot it with no problem," Wilson replied without hesitation.
"A 12-year-old?" Urien's eyes lit up. He nodded. "I'll take it."
The contrast of the pocket-sized pistol in the giant's hands made Wilson smirk inwardly.
But he wasn't about to talk a customer out of a sale.
"I also need something with more firepower. The stronger, the better," Urien added.
"For stopping power, take a look at this..." Wilson reached to the bottom of the case and pulled out another pistol. "And if you're after real stopping power, take a look at this one. It's heavy, loud, and kicks like a beast—but nothing beats it for raw strength. Hunters use it for big game. You won't find anything stronger in its size category."
"Really?" Urien studied the gun carefully. "Would it kill a python?"
"I swear, even the biggest snake in the world wouldn't survive a direct hit from this."
"I'll take both," Urien said firmly. "And I'll need ammunition for them too."
Wilson loved this kind of straightforward customer. He quickly packed the two guns with their ammo and slapped a "faucet" label on the box.
"That'll be three thousand pounds, sir."
Urien didn't haggle. He pulled a thick wad of bills from his pocket and handed it over.
"I have one more question, Mr. Wilson."
Wilson swiftly composed himself, concealing the greed that had momentarily flickered in his eyes.
"Ask away, sir."
"I need you to help me find someone."