Kryos 20, Imperial Year 1643
Thornreach, Northern Boreas – Vlad's Workshop
The shotgun took nine days.
Vladislav Eisenberg worked with the precision of a man who had built a hundred weapons before. The barrel was smoothbore, twenty‑gauge, cut from a length of steel he had forged three years ago and aged in a bath of oil and salt. The stock was walnut, carved to fit his shoulder, checkered for grip. The action was a break‑open design – simple, reliable, easy to reload.
He had designed it for close quarters. The rifle was for distance. The pistols were for precision. The shotgun was for the spaces between – for rooms, for alleys, for the moments when a target was too close for mercy and too far for a blade.
The cartridges were brass, hand‑loaded with black powder and lead shot. He had experimented with different loads – birdshot for intimidation, buckshot for stopping power, a single heavy slug for penetration. He settled on a mixed load: three buckshot pellets and a dozen smaller bits, designed to spread at close range and tear through flesh.
He test‑fired the shotgun in a sealed chamber, aiming at a steel plate. The roar was deafening, even through the suppressor he had designed – a bulky cylinder that attached to the barrel, reducing the report to a muffled thunder. The plate was riddled with dents.
Effective, he noted in his journal. But heavy. Will need to adjust the balance.
He set the shotgun aside and turned to the next task.
The Raven needed to be more than a weapon. The Raven needed to be a legend.
Vlad had heard the rumors spreading through the Free Cities, through Mercia, through Valdria. The pilgrims had told their story, and the story had grown. The Raven was no longer just an assassin. He was a folk hero – a figure of fear for the wicked and hope for the innocent.
If I am to be a legend, Vlad thought, I must look like one.
He began with the mask.
The original mask was functional – leather, beaked, with dark lenses. It hid his face and filtered the air, but it was plain. Vlad wanted something that would catch the light, something that would be remembered.
He spent three days shaping a new mask from hardened leather and thin steel. The beak was longer, more pronounced, with a brass tip that gleamed. The eye sockets were set with smoked glass, polished to a mirror shine. The edges were trimmed with silver wire, and the crown – the top of the mask – was fitted with a socket.
For the plume.
He had acquired the feathers from a merchant in the Free Cities, paying a small fortune for a bundle of long, stiff horsehair dyed bright red. He shaped them into a crest – tall, flowing, like the plumes on the helmets of royal guards, but longer, more dramatic. The crest attached to the mask with a brass hinge, allowing it to be removed for cleaning.
He put on the mask and looked at himself in the steel mirror. The red plume cascaded down his back, swaying with his movements. The beak caught the lamplight. The lenses reflected nothing.
The Raven, he thought. Now they will remember.
The coat needed to be longer.
His original coat was midnight blue, wool, tailored to his frame. It was functional but not distinctive. Vlad wanted a trench coat – a garment that would sweep behind him as he walked, that would billow in the wind, that would make him look larger than life.
He spent four days sewing. The new coat was made of heavy wool, dyed a deep, dark blue – almost black, but with a hint of color in the light. The collar was high, lined with black silk. The cuffs were wide, reinforced with leather. The hem fell to his calves, and the back was split for movement.
He added silver buttons – six of them, engraved with a raven in flight. He added a belt of black leather, with a brass buckle shaped like a bird's skull. He lined the interior with pockets – deep, hidden, for ammunition, tools, and the small brass horn he used to amplify his voice.
He put on the coat and turned before the mirror. The fabric swirled around his legs. The silver buttons caught the light. The red plume of the mask contrasted with the dark blue, a splash of color in the shadow.
Fancier, he decided. But not yet finished.
The tuxedo beneath the coat also needed improvement.
Vlad had worn a simple black tuxedo – high collar, silver buttons, tailored fit. It was elegant but understated. He wanted something that would stand out even when the coat was removed.
He added a waistcoat of deep crimson silk, embroidered with black thread in patterns of ravens and thorns. The shirt was white, but the collar was stiff and high, with silver studs. The bow tie was black silk, hand‑tied.
He replaced the silver buttons on the tuxedo jacket with onyx, polished to a mirror shine. He added cufflinks of the same stone. The trousers were charcoal gray, with a satin stripe down each leg.
He tried on the complete ensemble – the tuxedo, the waistcoat, the coat, the mask with its red plume, the thigh‑high boots, the elbow‑length gloves with steel‑reinforced knuckles and sides. He looked like a creature from another world – elegant, terrifying, unforgettable.
The Raven, he thought. They will tell stories of the Raven for generations.
The sword was the final piece.
Vlad had carried blades before – daggers, knives, the occasional stolen sword. But he had never forged his own. He had never needed to. His pistols and rifle were his primary weapons, and his vampire strength made him deadly even unarmed.
But the Raven needed a blade. A symbol. A weapon that could be seen, recognized, feared.
He remembered his past life. Kenjiro Hoshino, engineering student – but also a tournament duelist. He had competed in HEMA – Historical European Martial Arts – for years. Longsword, saber, rapier. He had won regional championships. He had studied Fiore dei Liberi and Joachim Meyer. He knew the bind, the thrust, the cut.
He had not touched a sword in a hundred years. But the muscle memory was still there, buried beneath the engineering and the assassination.
He would forge a longsword.
The blade took seven days.
He chose high‑carbon steel, folded it twelve times, creating a pattern of waves along the flat. The blade was thirty‑six inches long, double‑edged, with a central fuller to reduce weight. The crossguard was steel, curved slightly toward the blade, with a raven engraved on each side. The grip was wrapped in black leather, wire‑bound for security. The pommel was a steel raven's head, its eyes set with small garnets.
He heat‑treated the blade in a charcoal forge, quenching it in oil, tempering it to a springy hardness. He sharpened it on a whetstone, testing the edge against a strand of his own hair. The hair split.
He held the finished sword in his hands. It was balanced – not too heavy, not too light. The point of balance was two inches from the crossguard, perfect for cuts and thrusts. The grip fit his palm as if made for him.
Because it was, he thought. I made it for myself.
He practiced with it in the workshop, running through the forms he had learned a hundred years ago. The Zornhau – the wrath cut. The Scheitelhau – the parting cut. The Krumphau – the crooked cut. The blade sang through the air, and Vlad felt the old joy return – the joy of a duelist, the joy of a craftsman, the joy of a man who knew exactly what his body could do.
He was not human. He was faster, stronger, more durable than any tournament fighter he had ever faced. But the techniques were the same. The principles were the same.
I am a vampire, he thought. But I am also a swordsman.
He sheathed the longsword in a scabbard of black leather, reinforced with steel, and attached it to his belt. The scabbard hung at his left hip, the hilt at his right hand.
The Raven is complete.
Kryos 29, Imperial Year 1643
Thornreach, Northern Boreas – The Workshop
Vlad stood before the mirror, fully outfitted.
The mask with its red plume. The trench coat, dark blue and silver. The tuxedo with its crimson waistcoat. The gloves, steel‑reinforced. The boots, thigh‑high, polished to a shine. The longsword at his hip. The shotgun slung across his back. The pistols hidden beneath his coat.
He looked like a painting. A nightmare. A hero from a darker age.
He removed the mask and set it on the workbench. He looked at his reflection – his real face, pale and sharp, with red eyes that had seen too much.
You are not Kenjiro anymore, he told himself. You are not Vladislav. You are the Raven.
And the Raven hunts.
He picked up the mask and put it back on.
The red plume swayed.
He walked to the window and looked south.
Somewhere out there, the other reincarnators were gathering. He had seen them at the circus – a halfling, an orc, a red‑haired woman, a half‑elf, a gnome, a human knight. They had watched him kill the circus master. They had not fled. They had watched.
They are curious, he thought. They will try to find me.
He did not know if he would let them.
But for the first time in a hundred years, he was not sure he wanted to be alone.
He turned from the window and began cleaning the shotgun.
The work was all that mattered.
But the work was no longer all that he had.
End of Chapter Fourteen