Gun In Another World

The letter arrived wrapped in red wax and tied with an iron-threaded ribbon, no crest, no name, no courier—just an envelope laid carefully on Kaito's workbench between a stack of shipment logs and a half-carved mana stabilizer, it hadn't been there five minutes ago, and it definitely hadn't passed through the door or the trap-laced window, meaning whoever delivered it was either very skilled, very stupid, or very confident they wouldn't die for trying to slip something into a Gun Saint's territory.

Lilyeth stood across the room, arms folded, watching him as he opened the letter without gloves, which was unusual for him, but today, he didn't hesitate, the paper smelled of brimstone and sage, and the handwriting was elegant, practiced, and horrifyingly calm.

"To the man who sells salvation in fragments of war,

Let us meet in the halls where silence is law.

The crows await at the Tower of Ash.

Come alone."

No name.

But it didn't need one.

"The Harrower," Kaito said, folding the letter and burning it with a flick of his finger across the edge of a still-warm Inferno casing, "He wants a conversation."

Lilyeth narrowed her eyes.

"That's not a meeting. That's a message written with poison ink."

"I know," Kaito said, turning to the map pinned to the workshop wall and tapping a black marker stone on its surface, marking the Tower of Ash, an abandoned stronghold used during the last civil war, technically outside Silverglen's jurisdiction, but still well within reach of Church scouts and bounty agents, "It's bait. But it's also an invitation."

Lilyeth leaned in.

"You going?"

"I don't ignore traps," he said, "I set them."

She didn't stop him. She just asked one question.

"What's the plan?"

He looked her dead in the eyes.

"Be nearby. And if I don't walk out by moonrise, burn everything."

The Tower of Ash lived up to its name.

It wasn't just ruined—it was desecrated, black stone twisted from flame, windows sealed with iron bars melted into the shape of screaming faces, the scent of old blood clung to the walls like stubborn smoke, and the crows weren't metaphors—they were actual birds, perched in flocks along the battlements, silent as shadows and twice as unsettling, Kaito stepped through the main gate alone, boots crunching over bone dust, hood up, scarf down, gun holstered.

He wasn't here to bluff.

He was here to see the face of the man pulling the strings.

Inside, the walls were lined with prayer scripts written in reverse Latin, holy symbols inverted, candles burned upside down and bled wax from the ceiling, and at the center of the room sat a man in white robes embroidered with black glyphs, his face veiled, his hands gloved, but his voice—when it came—was warm.

"Gun Saint," he said, gesturing to the seat across from him, "Or do you prefer your old name?"

Kaito didn't sit.

"I prefer the one that makes people hesitate before they speak."

The Harrower chuckled.

"Spoken like someone who understands fear as a language."

Kaito stared him down.

"You sent me names. Paid in gold. And now you want a chat?"

"I want a deal," the Harrower said, leaning forward, "You've built something very rare in this world—distribution without divine oversight, weapons disguised as blessings, influence that slips past borders like wind through a broken seal. I don't want to stop that. I want in."

Kaito raised a brow.

"You want to buy my business?"

"No," the Harrower said, voice lowering, "I want to fund its expansion."

Kaito didn't reply.

He waited.

And waited.

And then spoke slowly.

"What's the cost?"

The Harrower placed a single silver coin on the table.

Etched with the symbol of the Church.

A severed wing.

"I want you to sell your miracles to the war front."

Kaito's eye twitched.

"You want me to arm the Crusaders?"

"I want you to arm everyone," the Harrower said, voice like silk dipped in oil, "But let the Church believe they own the key. Give them just enough to feel invincible. Then… let the rest of the world catch up."

"You're trying to engineer balance by creating chaos."

"No," the Harrower whispered, "I'm trying to end a war that hasn't started yet."

Kaito finally sat, arms crossed.

"And if I say no?"

The Harrower smiled behind his veil.

"I tell the Church that the Gun Saint lives in Silverglen. I give them your ammo. I draw them to your gate. And when they come, I step aside."

The silence that followed was long and sharp.

Then Kaito reached into his coat.

Pulled out a hollow capsule.

And rolled it across the table.

"Take it," he said.

The Harrower caught it, held it up.

"What is it?"

"Insurance."

The Harrower smiled again.

"Then we have a deal."

Kaito stood and turned, walking back toward the gate, the crows above shifting with his every step.

But as he crossed the threshold, he whispered under his breath.

"That capsule activates when you lie in my name."

He didn't need to turn around.

Because as far as he was concerned—

This game was his now.

The moment Kaito stepped out of the Tower of Ash, the wind shifted, it carried the scent of charred moss and powdered bone, unnatural even for Silverglen's outskirts, and it whispered like a thousand hushed conversations, none of which he trusted, not because of what was said—but because of what wasn't, Lilyeth was waiting just beyond the ridge, crouched beneath a half-buried ruin stone, her cloak blending into the ash-covered hillside like a stain that didn't belong, she didn't speak when he approached, only glanced at his hands, his gait, his eyes.

"You're not bleeding," she said, "That worries me more."

"He wants to fund me," Kaito said, adjusting the strap on his coat as he walked, "In exchange for access, distribution, and a lie."

Lilyeth raised a brow as they moved down the slope, keeping low, following the old trail between dead trees and ghost-laced thickets, she knew better than to ask what the lie was—Kaito didn't deal in details mid-mission, only when the smoke cleared, and this wasn't smoke, this was kindling.

"So," she finally said, "Are we playing along?"

"We're letting him think we are," Kaito replied, "He'll test us. Probably soon. I gave him a capsule that'll explode the moment he forges a document with my seal. Until then, we let the rumor spread."

They reached the main road by dusk, a half-broken cart passed them by, the merchant waving cheerfully, completely unaware he had just driven past two of the most wanted figures in the kingdom, Kaito nodded in return, but his mind was already ten steps ahead.

"If the Harrower is right," he said, "and the Church plans to expand this crusade beyond the kingdom's borders, we need to flood the underground with enough weapons to make that expansion bleed."

Lilyeth pulled out a rolled parchment from her satchel.

"I contacted your courier ring—three new outposts confirmed," she said, "A chapel in the borderlands, a traveling apothecary guild, and an orphanage that doubles as a smuggling hub."

Kaito scanned the names.

"Perfect."

She handed him the second scroll.

"This one's from Ashcloak."

Kaito narrowed his eyes.

Ashcloak didn't send scrolls.

He sent people.

Opening it carefully, he read the words carved in black rune-ink, their meaning simple, chilling, and precise.

"The Church knows the Gun Saint exists. They just don't know where. Yet."

There was no threat.

There didn't need to be.

Kaito turned toward the setting sun, watching the sky bleed into orange and violet.

"We're accelerating the plan."

Lilyeth nodded slowly.

"Which one?"

"All of them."

Back in Silverglen, inside the hidden chamber behind the mask shop, three children from the street gang Kaito secretly trained were gathering intel, one tracked temple supply shipments, one eavesdropped on noble conversations by pretending to be a beggar girl, and the third—Rook—was currently translating forged documents that would frame another noble as the anonymous distributor of "Gun Saint blessings."

Every piece of it was a move, not for today, but for the next ten days, the next ten months.

Kaito wasn't just preparing for survival anymore.

He was preparing to sell war.

When he returned to the workshop, he didn't speak.

He just went to the forge, pulled out a new blueprint, and began designing.

Not a bullet.

Not a trap.

Not a capsule.

But something new.

A fake relic altar, embedded with three compartments for Inferno, Echo, and Hollow Curse effects, dressed in Church-approved gold and etched with phrases that meant nothing but looked holy enough to pass inspection.

It wasn't a tool for battle.

It was a trap for belief.

Lilyeth stood beside him, watching the lines take shape.

"You're not just selling weapons anymore," she said.

Kaito didn't stop drawing.

"I'm selling answers to questions no one has the guts to ask."

He paused, turned the blueprint sideways, adjusted one phrase.

"And when the Church kneels to pray to something I built, we'll see how holy they feel after it explodes."

The chapel in the Southern Quarter wasn't technically a church anymore, the roof had collapsed during last year's storm, and the outer bell tower had been converted into a nesting site for fire-crows, but the inner sanctum still functioned, barely, mostly as a shrine for forgotten gods and a meeting spot for those who didn't want to be seen elsewhere, Kaito arrived just past midnight, dressed as a traveling relic vendor, his coat dusty, his sleeves cuffed to reveal fake priest tattoos, and his crates full of carefully disguised bullets, each one sealed inside holy crystal shells marked with fake scripture copied from the Church's own archives.

This was test ground number one.

The first place to sell Harrower-approved "miracle items" and gauge the reaction.

Lilyeth waited in the alley behind the chapel with a collapsible crossbow hidden under a wine delivery crate, her job wasn't protection—it was confirmation, if Kaito didn't exit the front door within thirty minutes, she would burn the shrine to the ground using Shockburst-chained traps planted in the walls two days prior during their first recon.

Inside, the pews were filled with silence and smoke, a few old women prayed with closed eyes, their incense bowls cracked and reused so many times the ash had turned gray-blue, behind the altar stood Brother Heskal, a former priest exiled for preaching that the gods wore masks to hide their fear of mortals, he didn't look surprised when Kaito stepped into the light.

"You're the new supplier," he said, voice like wet bark, "They said you'd bring salvation in glass."

Kaito placed the crate on the altar and opened it.

Five relics.

Three to burn.

Two to bless.

All fake.

All lethal.

"These are the Tears of Alkaran," he said, voice low but clear, "They banish curses, purify air, and silence evil spirits."

Brother Heskal picked one up, turned it in his hand, frowned.

"This feels like mageglass."

"It's been reworked through holy resonance," Kaito lied smoothly, "Fused with aetherdust and sealed under divine heat."

The priest nodded.

Then held it up to his eye.

"Will it blind?"

Kaito didn't hesitate.

"Only those who lie while touching it."

The lie within the lie settled perfectly.

Brother Heskal smiled, placed it back in the crate, and handed Kaito a pouch of coin—not gold, but silver press tokens, currency used by fringe priests who didn't want their spending traceable by Church agents.

As Kaito turned to leave, he heard the old man speak again.

"If these work," Heskal said, "I will tell the others. You'll have fifty chapels listening by week's end."

Kaito didn't look back.

He just stepped out the door.

And walked straight into a child holding a knife.

The boy couldn't have been older than ten, face smudged, eyes too tired for someone that young, the blade in his hand shook, but his stance was practiced.

"Gun Saint," the boy said, voice barely above a whisper, "The Harrower sent me."

Lilyeth had already rounded the corner, eyes flashing, but Kaito raised a hand to stop her.

He crouched down slowly, hands open, eyes meeting the boy's.

"What's your message?"

The boy trembled, lowered the knife, and reached into his tunic.

He pulled out a silver coin.

Kaito took it, examined the symbol—half a sun, half a mask—and flipped it.

On the other side was engraved a name.

"Ashcloak."

Lilyeth stepped forward.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Kaito's voice was quiet.

"It means the Harrower thinks he can play both sides."

He pocketed the coin, stood, and gave the boy a single Frostbite charm.

"Sell that for food. Stay out of alleyways."

The boy ran.

Kaito and Lilyeth walked away in silence, but their thoughts burned hotter than any charm he'd ever crafted.

Because now it was clear.

The Harrower wasn't just funding chaos.

He was orchestrating it.

Using Kaito's network.

Using Ashcloak's name.

And soon, he would try to use the Guilds, the Courts, and maybe even the Rebellion.

Unless someone shot him first.

Lilyeth glanced at him sideways.

"You gonna let him keep pushing you around?"

Kaito didn't smile.

Didn't speak.

He just tapped the spot where the coin rested in his pocket.

And whispered like he was promising it to the wind.

"No."