In the superhuman world reigned a strict hierarchy. For an ordinary person to become one, they had to undergo a soul transformation ritual, survive its first metamorphosis, and fully unlock fusion ability. Successful transformation let them choose various "demonic souls" for fusion, thus becoming a representative of the corresponding supernatural profession.
Demonic souls were souls of all manner of magical beasts, monsters, insects, monsters, and demons—intelligent races' souls were excluded and strictly separated.
The first fused demonic soul was the primary one. It had the greatest impact on a superhuman's power, defined their professional path, and gave maximum ability boosts. As power grew, the soul became mightier until ascension, after which they could fuse a new demonic soul, usually called auxiliary.
Each demonic soul fusion raised the superhuman's professional level by one.
Levels one to three were initial rank superhumans, with one primary and two auxiliary souls. Third level was a barrier. To reach mid-rank—fourth to sixth levels—they needed another soul transformation ritual and a new primary soul fusion. Each new rank increased soul transformation difficulty.
To go from first-level initial rank to ninth-level high rank, a superhuman endured three soul transformations, six ascensions, and fused nine demonic souls.
Those passing a fourth soul transformation ritual after high rank entered legends' ranks! Tenth-level and above superhumans were legendary. They overcame human lifespan limits and wielded power ordinary people could scarcely imagine.
Many heard legend tales their whole lives but never met one in person.
And now Reyn faced a man who was undoubtedly a legendary Demon Hunter!
However, save perhaps Dwarf Zoltan, no one in the tavern realized a legend sat among them; they took Roger for just a strong Demon Hunter.
"Ignorance is bliss sometimes," Reyn muttered to himself.
He keenly felt this Demon Hunter's power. Roger's soul, compared to ordinary ones, blazed like the sun—almost impossible to look at. Even a fleeting glance pained Reyn's eyes. Hard to imagine his combat prowess!
Reyn dared not stare anymore, fearing the ire of this seemingly stern legendary warrior. He hurriedly finished his stewed potatoes and rushed upstairs to his room.
But Reyn didn't know that after he climbed the stairs, Roger watched him and asked Zoltan,
"Who's that young man? You know him well?"
"Not really. Kid showed up in the Rien district recently. Either kicked out of the academy or fought with family. Been staying here a day, but he's a skilled mechanic." Zoltan stroked his beard, recalling the barrel, and couldn't resist asking, "How'd you know?"
"He smells of the workshop. The scent trails from your yard; I caught it three streets away."
Zoltan whistled in amazement,
"You've got a nose better than any dog!"
"Interesting young man," Roger looked away, pensiveness flickering in his cat eyes.
"Forget Reyn!" Zoltan set down his mug, pulled cards from his pocket, and exclaimed, "Come on, let's play a few hands, unwind! Ten years apart—let's see if you've lost your edge. Heh-heh, I've collected some rare cards these years. If you're still at your ten-year-ago level, prepare to lose!"
Roger's face shifted slightly. He straightened and said gravely,
"Even if I'd slept these years away, you couldn't beat me."
With that, he drew a hefty stack of cards from a leather pouch on his belt.
Next morning, full of energy, Reyn descended to the tavern hall and saw Zoltan and Roger still at the bar playing cards. They hadn't even changed positions—clearly playing since evening.
Reyn left them be, passed by, ate his free breakfast, and headed to the workshop to continue shotgun parts.
For days, Reyn vanished into the workshop from dawn to dusk, parts emerging one by one. Mornings and evenings, he'd go to the hall to eat and invariably find Zoltan and Roger at cards. Zoltan left the tavern to his staff and meddled in nothing else. Roger did the same: the legendary superhuman sat days and nights shuffling cards—like a gaming addict glued to an internet cafe for months.
Reyn's mental image of the master shattered instantly.
Five days later, Reyn held the freshly polished black wooden stock and sighed in relief. The shotgun's last part! The other seventy were ready; now with the stock, he could assemble a full Remington M870.
He took the stock to the workbench, where all parts lay neatly on rough cloth.
Without hesitation, Reyn began assembly. Though his first real weapon build, he'd assembled it hundreds of times in games and on the phone; the sequence was automatic—he could do it blindfolded.
His hands moved swiftly and smoothly like a stream, and soon he held a pitch-black shotgun, stunning in its craftsmanship beauty.
Reyn checked the gun's weight and dimensions—they nearly matched the 3D model perfectly. The shotgun balanced nicely in hand, heavy enough to club someone. He shouldered the stock, gripped the fore-end left-handed, and aimed.
The trigger clicked dryly.
Left hand pumped the fore-end—"clack!"—chambering crisply. Click again. He dry-cycled the action several times fast—no issues; the internals worked flawlessly.
Now just load cartridges.
Reyn eyed the cardboard box on the table. He'd made the shells yesterday. Zoltan had a single-stage reloading press for bullets. Swap the die, and hand-press cartridges. M870 took 12-gauge. Reyn handmade a batch of brass hulls, primed them, loaded steel shot, using all available black powder. Thirty rounds total.
The workshop had a dedicated shooting-back wall, usually for Zoltan. It was pocked with craters, stone worn a layer deep.
Reyn loaded one round, stepped back five meters, and fired at the wall.
Boom!
A muffled bang, white smoke burst from the muzzle, acrid powder stench hit.
Reyn waved away smoke, grinning openly. Recoil was noticeable but tolerable. Approaching the wall, he inspected and found dozens of small holes chaotically peppering about half a square meter. Lethal power was impressive. Such a load on a man—no chance.
Then Reyn loaded three rounds and fired three quick shots. Boom-boom-boom! More holes appeared. The wall was already cratered anyway, so the new ones were hard to spot unless looking.
"Done. Gun's good. Just the smoke's too harsh. Later, if possible, refine it."
Reyn stopped testing: only thirty rounds, couldn't waste the rest.
"Now's time for revenge," he decided.
He silently disassembled the gun, packed parts and ammo in a black cloth sack, and left the workshop. Passing the hall, he saw Zoltan and Roger still at cards. He went upstairs, hid the sack under his bed, then descended to the bar.
"Zoltan, I won't use your workshop tomorrow."
Zoltan glanced up, surprised,
"Finished so quick?"
But his mind was on the game; without waiting for Reyn's reply, he waved,
"You used it five days, won't charge materials—just three hundred copper foxes, done."
Reyn paid without fuss and thanked heartily,
"Thanks."
He knew he'd come out ahead: five days' coal and metal exceeded fifty copper foxes. Without Zoltan's generosity, revenge might've waited ages.
Zoltan nodded indifferently, saying no more. Roger, opposite, was so absorbed in cards he didn't glance at Reyn.
Reyn left without disturbing them.
He took the same road as days before. Passing the Church of Justice, he glanced again. Sadly, no apostates tried those days, denying him a soul to absorb and recharge.
At the stop, he boarded a public bus, transferred once, and reached Wood Street in the Honiton district. Honiton residents were mostly traders, clerks, guild staff—decent jobs, better off than slums. Streets less crowded.
Reyn knew Wood Street well and quickly found the spot.
"Maloni Blade"—the fencing school where he'd recently worked.
Reyn stayed distant to avoid recognition, settling in a street cafe hundreds of meters away. He ordered iced tea, took a corner seat. Pretending to read a newspaper, he periodically activated the Eye of the Soul, watching the school entrance for Iceberg and Ramzi to tail them.
First step to vengeance: learn their addresses. But Reyn wouldn't attack in city. Shotgun too loud; even if he killed them, he'd likely get caught. Longsand belonged to the Duke of the Silver Star, commanding two powerful private armies. One, the Knights Order of Silver Armors, handled order; all guards were members. Plus three great churches' forces patrolled. Firing in Longsand was suicide for an ordinary man.
But there was a chance.
From memory fragments, they'd stunned him in city, but he woke outside, in the river. Ferreglen's current wasn't strong enough to carry a body far quick. Only explanation: Ramzi dumped the body outside city. Meaning Iceberg and Ramzi had a secret hideout beyond walls—the spot where they'd beaten him hours that night. And likely near where he'd regained consciousness by the river.
Find that spot, and attack opportunity arose.