Aleksandr James woke in the Russian city of Vladivostok to the low, distant groan of foghorns rolling in from the harbor.The air in his cramped apartment was damp and cold, carrying the faint tang of saltwater and diesel from the docks. Outside, the winter sky was a dull sheet of grey, the kind that pressed down on the city and made the streets feel narrower.
He sat up slowly, the old iron radiator clanking in the corner. Through the cracked window, he could see the skeletal cranes of the port silhouetted against the morning mist. Cargo ships sat heavy in the bay, their hulls streaked with rust, while gulls wheeled overhead, their cries sharp in the stillness. Vladivostok was a city of edges — where Russia's Far East met the Pacific, where the military and the black market shared the same streets.
Then it happened.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]You are now equipped with: ARMS DEALER SYSTEM.Capabilities: Global weapons acquisition, combat mastery, special forces deployment.Objective: Become the world's largest arms dealer.
Aleksandr froze. "What the f—?"
System grants:– Complete knowledge of firearms, explosives, melee weapons, and heavy military hardware.– Tactical mastery: hand‑to‑hand combat, knife fighting, drone warfare, armored vehicle operation.– Access to Special Forces units under your command.– Marketplace: Buy any weapon. Sell to any buyer. No trace.
The knowledge was already there, like muscle memory he'd always had. He could strip and reassemble an AK‑47 blindfolded. He could calculate the trajectory of a mortar shell in his head. He could feel the weight of a combat knife in his palm without touching it.
The system fed him a name: Rashid Al‑Hamza, a fixer in the city's underworld.
Aleksandr dressed in a black wool coat, scarf, and gloves, slipping a folding knife into his pocket. The streets outside were slick with ice, the air biting at his face. Vladivostok's hills rose steeply from the waterfront, narrow streets twisting between Soviet‑era apartment blocks and crumbling warehouses.
He moved with purpose, head down, blending into the early‑morning crowd of dockworkers, sailors, and market vendors. The smell of frying pirozhki mixed with the sharp bite of the sea. He passed a checkpoint where two bored conscripts smoked beside an armored personnel carrier, their rifles slung carelessly — a reminder that here, the military was part of the scenery.
The underworld wasn't hidden in Vladivostok; it was woven into the city's fabric. You just had to know which doors to knock on. Aleksandr crossed a narrow alley where men in heavy coats watched him from the shadows, their eyes cold and assessing. He didn't break stride.
The café was tucked between a pawn shop and a boarded‑up bookstore. Its windows were fogged, the sign above the door faded to illegibility. Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the smell of burnt coffee.
Rashid sat in the corner booth, flanked by two bodyguards — Karim and Yusuf.
"You're the one who called?" Rashid asked.
"I can get you weapons. No serials. No questions."
"Everyone says that. We don't know you. How can we trust you?"
Aleksandr leaned forward. "Because I can get you twenty AK‑47s by tomorrow morning. Fresh from the crate. No middlemen. No heat."
Karim smirked. "And where exactly are you pulling twenty rifles from? Magic?"
Aleksandr's eyes didn't waver. "Something like that."
Rashid's smirk faded. "Price?"
"Seven hundred each. Half now, half on delivery."
After a long pause, Rashid nodded. "Deal. But if you're lying…"
"If I'm lying, you won't have to kill me. Someone else will get to me first."
That night, Aleksandr opened the FORCES tab.
[SYSTEM]: Deploy Special Forces unit for secure delivery?
"Yes."
A ripple in reality — and six men in black combat gear appeared in his living room.
"Commander James," the leader said. "Sergeant Cole Ramirez, Special Operations Unit Alpha. Orders?"
"Twenty AK‑47s. Delivery to the docks, 0600 hours. No one sees you, no one follows you."
"Understood."
The system's logistics unfolded in his vision:
Step 1: Identify a freighter anchored just outside Russian waters, carrying surplus military stock.
Step 2: Alpha would board under cover of darkness using stealth boats.
Step 3: Extract the crates, each sealed and factory‑fresh.
Step 4: Deliver to Dock 17 before dawn.
But someone was already watching.
In a cramped office above the port authority, a man in a leather jacket leaned over a desk phone. "Yeah, it's happening tomorrow. Dock 17. Arab buyer, unknown supplier. Could be foreign."
On the other end, a Rapid Response Unit commander's voice was clipped. "We'll be there. No mistakes."
At dawn, the crates were being loaded into Rashid's van when headlights flared at the far end of the pier. A black SUV screeched to a halt. Doors slammed. Six armed men in tactical vests spilled out, rifles raised.
"Police! Drop your weapons!" one of them barked.
Rashid's head snapped toward Aleksandr. "You set me up?"
Aleksandr's voice was ice. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be in the water. Stay behind the van."
Cole's voice was calm but sharp. "Commander James — orders?"
"Vega, Mason — left flank, containers! Suppress and push them back! Cole, you're with me — center lane! Torres, Diaz — right side, use the forklift for cover and cut off their retreat!"
"Copy!" came the chorus over comms.
One of the officers behind the SUV muttered to his partner, "These guys are moving like Spetsnaz…"
The first shots cracked — sharp, deafening. Muzzle flashes lit the darkness. A round smacked into the crate beside Aleksandr, splintering wood inches from his head.
"Contact left!" Vega shouted. His M4 barked in controlled bursts. Mason moved low and fast, sliding into position behind a steel drum, returning fire.
"Cole, smoke front!" Aleksandr ordered.
Cole popped a smoke grenade, the hiss and bloom of white vapor swallowing the center of the pier.
"Move! Move!" Aleksandr sprinted forward, AK‑47 tight to his shoulder. Through the smoke, he caught the silhouette of a center‑lane officer trying to reposition. He squeezed the trigger — three‑round burst — the man dropped.
"Two down, center!" Cole called out.
On the right, Torres's voice came over comms. "They're pinned behind the SUV, but one's trying to get a bead on us!"
"Suppress him!" Aleksandr barked.
Diaz's M249 roared, sending a stream of rounds into the SUV's front end. Sparks flew as bullets chewed through metal.
"Reloading!" Mason shouted from the left.
"Cover him!" Vega replied, leaning out just enough to send a burst toward the container corner.
Aleksandr swapped magazines, then leaned out. He spotted the last officer on the left flank trying to retreat. One shot — center mass — the man crumpled.
"Left flank clear!" Vega confirmed.
"Right side, push!" Aleksandr commanded.
Torres and Diaz advanced in a staggered formation, one firing while the other moved. The officers behind the SUV tried to return fire, but Aleksandr's team had the angles now.
One of the pinned officers shouted, panic in his voice, "We're boxed in! Fall back!"
"Negative!" his partner snapped. "We hold—" His words were cut short by a burst from Diaz's SAW.
"Cole, with me — center push!" Aleksandr vaulted the crate, moving up the pier. Cole was right behind him, firing short, precise bursts.
A final exchange of gunfire, then silence. The only sound was the lapping of the water against the pilings.
"All clear," Cole reported.
Rashid stepped out from behind the van, eyes wide. "You… you just took out a police unit like it was nothing."
Karim muttered, "This guy's not human."
Aleksandr scanned the pier — six Rapid Response officers down, zero survivors. Rashid's men were already slamming the van doors shut.
"Load up and go," Aleksandr told Rashid.
Rashid gave him a long look. "You're not just talk, James. You're dangerous."