I took a sharp right turn down the desolate road leading to the old warehouse district. My heart raced as I approached the abandoned buildings, knowing that my contact, Al, operated within them. His reputation preceded him—ex-military turned arms dealer, owner of the most elite chop-shop in town. The grimy exterior of the warehouses belied the well-guarded fortress within, where Al could procure anything from a simple switchblade to powerful cursed bullets. As I pulled up to the entrance, my hands gripped the wheel tightly with anticipation and fear.
The air was thick with the scent of stale liquor. The neighborhood was quiet, a dangerous calm that sent shivers down my spine. Slipping through the shadows, the tufts of grass sprouting from the cracked pavement softened my footsteps. As I approached Al''s nondescript building, a single light over the door cast a dim glow on the faded brick.
The faceless voice of my demon companion whispered in my mind. Do we really think it''s a good idea to visit the Shop, Jack? Didn’t Al stab you once?
That was a long time ago, I replied. And it was a misunderstanding.
With a slightly apprehensive feeling in my gut, I knocked out the code on the door. It swung open to reveal Al, towering at 6''2", his dark skin gleaming under the light. His muscular frame filled the doorway, clad in pajama bottoms and bunny slippers, a barely-there cigar stub clenched between his teeth. Despite his intimidating stature, Al was known to be a good guy to have on your side. Internally, I let out a sigh of relief.
“Jack! It''s been too long,” he boomed, tossing the cigar stub out the door. He engulfed me in a bear hug that could crush bones. “Sorry I didn''t make it to the funeral. Never got around to wishing you my condolences after…”
“I know, I know," I cut him off. "Sarah would have understood. Listen, I’m not here to talk about that. I hate to skip the pleasantries, but I need the menu.”
Al nodded, leading me inside and closing the door behind us. From floor to ceiling, shelves and racks were lined with weapons of every shape and size.
“Hell, you look terrible, Jack. What happened, get run over by your own car?”
“You''re looking as suave as usual," I retorted, nodding toward his slippers.
"It''s my day off, asshole. You''d know that if you ever came by," he said with a grin.
The chop shop was a labyrinth of metal and chaos. The ceiling was high, crisscrossed with beams and hanging chains that clinked softly with the faint drafts. Flickering fluorescent lights cast a sickly yellow glow, barely piercing the dimness. Workbenches were cluttered with tools, half-assembled weapons, and the occasional severed demon limb, preserved in jars filled with viscous liquid. The back of the warehouse was open to a large private yard.
So, what''s the occasion? Frank asked. Anything special?
Lost my sword to a demon. Need a replacement, I thought back.
The junkyard outside was a sprawling graveyard of twisted metal and shattered glass. Rusting carcasses of cars were stacked haphazardly, some stripped to their frames, others still bearing the scars of their last moments on the road. Weeds and wildflowers poked through the cracks in the concrete, adding a touch of rebellious life to the desolation. The distant hum of the city was a constant backdrop, a reminder of the world beyond this industrial wasteland.
Al led me to the back, a knowing grin plastered on his face. He stopped in front of a massive, cluttered workbench piled high with old metal and junk. With a dramatic flourish, he pressed a hidden button. The junk vanished, the shelves shifted, and suddenly, a hidden vault of weapons was revealed.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
Lights snapped on one by one, illuminating glass cases and sleek racks. Razor-edged swords glinted under the light. Knives with intricate designs begged to be held. Guns of every make and model lined the walls, each one exuding deadly precision. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil and ancient metal, a symphony of danger.
Al crossed his muscular arms over his chest, scars from battles crisscrossing his skin like a map of his life. "So, what’s it going to be?" he asked.
"I need something with stopping power," I said, scanning the array of firearms.
Need to stop anything in particular? Frank asked, raising an eyebrow in my mind.
"I need some versatility. Something that can stand a Rift Dive."
Al''s expression darkened. "You''re not thinking of going Diving, are you, Jack? That''s suicide without a crew, even for a younger man."
"Don''t have anything up to the task?" I challenged.
Al grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye. He slid over a case and flipped it open, revealing a collection of guns of all varieties. He went straight for one with intricate silver runes etched into its sleek surface. He picked it up with reverence. "This here is the Dragon''s Breath Mark IV. Custom-made, hand-engraved, and built for precision. Those carvings? Runic inscriptions to channel elemental magic into your shots. See these grooves?" He pointed to the barrel. "They stabilize the bullet''s flight, giving you pinpoint accuracy. And this barrel?" He tapped it lightly, a metallic ring echoing through the room. "Reinforced with blessed steel, capable of piercing even the toughest demonic hides. A single shot from this baby will drop a Category Three demon like a sack of potatoes."
He handed it to me, the weight perfect in my grip. Think you can handle it? Frank teased, his voice smug.
I turned the gun over in my hands, feeling the power thrumming just beneath the surface. "Yeah, I can handle it," I replied, my voice steady. "Got anything for up close?"
Al’s grin widened. "Follow me."
We moved deeper into the room, stopping in front of a glass case. Inside, a deadly assortment of close-combat weapons gleamed ominously. Al slid the case open, his fingers dancing over the lethal instruments.
"Here we’ve got some real beauties," he said, lifting a medieval morning star forged from obsidian steel. He hefted it like it was a spatula.
Al’s grin widened as he picked up a pair of knuckle dusters, their surfaces etched with intricate, menacing sigils. "These beauties? I call ''em Snake Kiss," he said, his voice dripping with pride. "These bad boys amplify your strength with every punch, channeling raw energy into each blow. Perfect for when you need to get up close and personal."
To demonstrate, he sauntered over to a pile of metal scraps. With a swift, almost casual punch, he drove the knuckle dusters deep into a sheet of old metal. The impact reverberated through the warehouse, leaving a gaping dent and nearly punching a hole through the thick steel. The echo of the strike bounced off the walls, adding to the chaos that defined Al''s shop.
He turned back to me with a smirk. "They''ll make you a walking wrecking ball."
"Pretty. But not really my style," I said.
"I think I know what you are looking for." He flicked another switch and a series of panels moved, revealing several gleaming swords. He pulled out a sword that took my breath away. The blade was long and slender, with a subtle curve that exuded elegance and lethal grace. The metal shimmered with a faint blue sheen, hinting at a minor enchantment. The hilt was wrapped in black leather, worn smooth by countless hands, and inlaid with intricate silver filigree.
Al held the sword up, admiring it with a satisfied smile. “This is the Whispering Blade. Forged with shadowsteel alloy, it''s light but strong enough to handle most creatures you’ll face. The enchantment dampens sound, perfect for when you need to stay under the radar.”
He handed it to me, and the sword felt balanced and responsive in my hand. As I gripped the hilt, a faint hum of energy coursed through me.
“The runes along the blade are simple bindings,” Al continued. “They weaken a demon’s essence with a solid cut, slowing it down. The grip, made from treated shadow beast hide, gives you a steady hold even in the thick of it. It’s not the most powerful piece I’ve got, but it’s reliable and won’t let you down.”