The next few days, Reyn's life followed a strict routine. Early morning—meditation; until noon—strength training and honing warhammer skills in the "Basilisk" tavern; afternoons were for keyboard-organ lessons with Viola at the Violet House. Evenings, back at the tavern, he spent until deep into the night in Zoltan's mechanical workshop, hardly visiting his apartment.
Zoltan worked quickly: in just a few days, he gathered all the materials Reyn needed, and he could start his experiments.
In that time, Reyn's keyboard-organ mastery grew at an astonishing rate, leaving Viola first amazed, then in reverent awe. They grew noticeably closer; their relationship had crossed the line of simple friendship, though it was far from romantic.
Reyn tried more than once to probe Viola's true intentions, but in vain. The girl seemed either wary or had made some other decision—she wouldn't let him get any closer.
Still, he wasn't rushing, finding charm in the situation.
One event, however, was a surprise: that Phyllis—either didn't notice the faked demon soul of the mountain giant or realized she couldn't get compensation—never showed up at the Violet House to make a scene. Since the fair, Viola hadn't seen her or the instigator, Gallowain. This surprised both Reyn and Viola.
Zoltan's courtyard often rang with the sharp whistle of air being sliced. Reyn, clad only in a white shirt, wielded the purified iron warhammer so fast it seemed to weave a solid shimmering veil. His steps were swift and sure; the heavy hammer looked deceptively light in the youth's hands, but each strike held the unyielding power of a mountain. No wasted movements—and everywhere the hammer reached, a dull, intimidating hum echoed.
Hah! Hah! Hah...
After practicing like that for several minutes without a break, Reyn lowered the hammer, breathing heavily and wiping sweat from his brow. In just half a month of nonstop training, he'd mastered this weapon's combat technique so perfectly, as if he'd practiced for years—no trace of former uncertainty remained. With the hammer in hand, he felt he could match any swordsman of his level.
"Didn't expect you to have such talent with the warhammer too. It's not far behind your swordsmanship," came the voice of demon hunter Roger from the courtyard.
"Master Roger, good day," Reyn greeted him with a smile.
He'd sensed Roger's presence ten or fifteen minutes ago; he'd been watching from the side for a while.
In the half-month Reyn had lived at the Basilisk tavern, he'd seen Roger only a few times. He appeared and vanished like a ghost: by day, he hardly left the witch Delaersha's room, and at night, he often went out on business. On rare days when Delaersha was absent, Roger just played cards with Zoltan, then went to bed.
Looking at Roger, Reyn couldn't shake the thought—or was it his imagination?—that the legendary demon hunter had slimmed down a bit, and the bags under his eyes were more noticeable, like from lack of sleep.
A lewd thought flashed in his mind.
"Has the witch drained him dry?"
Roger yawned and said somewhat listlessly.
"I used to pity you for burying such outstanding sword talent. But now I see—the warhammer suits you even better. All for the best."
He seemed somewhat relieved.
There'd never been demon hunters armed with warhammers in history. Even Bear School followers, famed for strength and defense, fought with swords, not hammers. If Reyn had really joined the Wolf School back then, walking around with a warhammer on his back, it would've drawn plenty of mockery. The old conservatives there definitely wouldn't accept it.
Reyn caught the hidden meaning in Roger's words and shrugged indifferently. Demon hunting really wasn't his path. Anyway, it didn't matter to him whether he wielded sword or hammer. Both came to him with uncanny ease.
Suddenly, curiosity gripped Reyn.
"Master Roger," he asked, "last time we fought with swords. Want to try again today? Me with the warhammer, you with the sword."
Finding a suitable opponent was hard, and Roger was free—perfect chance to spar and test what he'd achieved in half a month of hammer training.
But the offer didn't interest Roger.
He covered his mouth with his hand, yawning again, and shook his head, showing extreme fatigue.
"No point sparring hammers with you; the result would be the same. I need more sleep."
With that, Roger stood and headed to his room.
"Fair enough, next time then," Reyn spread his hands, not insisting.
At the door, Roger turned back, as if remembering something.
"If you're so eager to test yourself, come with me tonight. We barely found a imps' lair; there are quite a few. You can be my assistant."
Without waiting for Reyn's reply, he added seriously.
"Warning you upfront: demon hunting isn't a sword duel or a joke. It's very dangerous. In battle, I can't cover you constantly. You're only first level and risking your life."
"How dangerous?" Reyn asked cautiously.
He really wanted to join a demon hunt, absorb soul power, but if it cost his life, it wasn't worth it. Dead, no glory, no levels; better wait if needed.
"Not that dangerous; just warning you," Roger thought a moment and nodded.
"Lots of imps, but no really strong ones. Under my watch, with your strength, if you prepare and stay cautious, no problems. Plus, demon hunts pay rewards, and this one's good. If not, I'll ask Zoltan."
Reyn's eyes lit up: he could earn money too! Roger was a legendary demon hunter, experienced—if he said it was okay, no need to fear. When else would he get a chance to go on a mission under a legend and gain combat experience? He'd thought before where to get souls to absorb, and demon hunting seemed the safest: recharge himself and get paid—double win.
"Alright, I'm in," he agreed at once.
"Prepare. Rest well today; we leave deep night. I'll call you," Roger tossed back and vanished into his room, soon snoring.
Refreshed, Reyn went to the Violet House for music lessons as usual. Viola, hearing he was going demon hunting that evening, said nothing, just gave him a set of light, tailored armor like Roger's. The leather-and-chainmail combo was fairly light but offered good protection. Unenchanted, it was cheap, and Reyn accepted the gift.
Back from the Violet House and after dinner at the tavern, Reyn headed straight to the mechanical workshop in the back courtyard.
A pile of parts lay on the workshop table. Reyn assembled, and in under half a minute, the short-barreled Shotgun was ready.
It was based on the Remington TAC-13, but Reyn modified it: shortened the barrel greatly, making it compact—half a meter long. It could be fired one-handed, and for carry, he made a holster on the outer thigh for quick draw. The short barrel reduced the magazine to five rounds.
But the rounds' power increased. After long experiments, using dissolution, Reyn made smokeless powder and a batch of totally new ammo—over a hundred. He wouldn't take all, just loading a bandolier with thirty.
Besides the gun and ammo, from leftover powder, Reyn made a few grenades. No range to test yet, but he decided to bring them.
Originally, Reyn wanted a firearm combined with spirit, but spirit weapons needed rune knowledge besides mechanics. He knew almost nothing there, so he shelved it. Zoltan once mentioned teaching runes, but for big pay. Reyn had little money left, needed for other materials, so he'd return to it later.
Gear packed, Reyn went to his room and lay down to rest.
Deep night, footsteps outside woke him. Reyn jumped up instantly, opened the door, and saw surprised Roger.
"Good vigilance," he noted evenly.
Roger looked much livelier than daytime. Light armor, two cruciform swords on his back, belt pouches bulging.
"One minute."
Reyn went back in. Chain-leather armor already on. He slung the warhammer on his back, holstered the Shotgun on his thigh, wrapped the bandolier on his belt, pocketed three grenades in his pants, and stepped out quick.
Roger nodded approvingly at fully geared Reyn. But spotting the Shotgun, he warned.
"Night hunt's in the city. Try not to shoot; don't want extra noise. Hard to smooth over after."
"Got it."
Reyn caught the subtext: "try not to" meant he could, but it'd be troublesome.
They went downstairs and out the tavern past surprised card players in the common room.
Roger led. He moved fast; night vision and super-sharp senses kept him ahead of threats. They passed the Slums easily, though Reyn ran full tilt to keep up.
North, then west to Honiton district, stopping at an unremarkable house. Reyn looked around: just one street from the Slums.
He subtly activated Voice of All Things and sensed wrongness. Inside: noise of over a dozen men and women. Late night, but excited; laughter, music, moans of love, talk—all a chaotic din, like a noisy party. Outside, dark and quiet, like sleepers.
"What the hell?" flashed in Reyn's mind.
Hiding in street corner shadows, Roger pulled two small glass vials from his pouch. Drank one, handed the other to Reyn.
"Drink."
Reyn took it. Black, thick liquid inside. Unscrewed cap, foul rotten smell hit, but he downed it without hesitation. Vile taste, acrid and spicy, burned his throat; he nearly spat it back. Soon, strange sinister energy spread: veins bulged on his hands' backs, dark writhing under skin. Body numbed, light bursting pain.
Ten seconds, it passed; he looked normal.
Meanwhile, Roger oiled his silver sword with weapon oil. Runes dimmed, but blade seemed sharper.
Preparations done, Roger readied his sword.
"I go first; you follow."
Reyn nodded silently, shouldering off the warhammer and gripping it.
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