From the market area, Ezra made his way toward the Arena.
The place was already lively. Shouts echoed across the open space, mixed with cheers and groans. On one side, two kids were fighting inside a marked ring while their friends crowded around, yelling advice and curses. On another side, people stood around betting boards, pointing at names and arguing over odds.
Ezra didn't stop to watch.
He walked straight to a large standing board near the center of the Arena. It was a tall rectangular screen, glowing faintly, with rows of names scrolling across it. Each name represented a registered fight—today's matches, tomorrows, and those scheduled for the day after. Beside every name were their odds of winning, along with a small image of their face.
Ezra stood quietly in front of it, hands behind his back.
He scanned the list carefully.
After a moment, he pulled out a small jotter from the space bag slung over his shoulder. One by one, he wrote down several names, only those fighting the day after tomorrow.
"This will do," he murmured as he closed the jotter.
Tomorrow, I'll watch them properly.
I can't just gamble blindly.
A faint grin tugged at his lips.
***
The betting system of the Arena wasn't as simple as it looked.
Only rankless participants were allowed to freely activate the betting system. For ranked participants, the rules were strict. You could only challenge people within a specific range. Rank eleven could challenge ranks twelve to fifteen. Rank sixteen could only challenge ranks seventeen to twenty. The same pattern applied to the higher ranks as well.
It was meant to prevent outright bullying—stronger ranked children crushing weaker ones for points.
Of course, exceptions existed.
Cases like Vera and Priscilla were only allowed because both sides signed an agreement, and one of the chief guards personally approved the match.
***
Ezra lifted his head and glanced at the sky.
The sun was already sinking, its light dimming into a soft orange glow.
"It's getting late already…" he muttered, placing a hand on his stomach.
"I haven't eaten lunch or dinner," he sighed. "I spent eight hours just buying materials."
Is this what the maids felt like when they went to the market?
The thought made him chuckle weakly.
He left the Arena and headed to the café. The place was busy at this hour. Groups sat together, talking loudly, laughing, arguing about fights, or whispering strategies. Others sat alone, staring into their food or lost in thought.
Ezra chose a seat near the far end, where he could see most of the room without being noticed.
He ate quietly, rested for a while, then stood to leave.
On his way out, he spotted Linda and some members of her group. She glared at him openly, but Ezra ignored her. He also noticed a few familiar faces from Felix's and Vera's groups scattered around the café.
He paid them no mind.
Back in his room, Ezra stretched, did push-ups and sit-ups until his arms burned, then washed up and went to sleep.
***
The next day passed much like the previous one.
Except this time, Ezra spent it watching people.
Quietly. Carefully.
He stayed at the edge of training yards and corridors, observing those he planned to bet on. He listened to how they talked, watched how they moved, how they fought, how confident they were.
I need to know their habits.
Strength alone isn't enough.
He took notes whenever he could.
By nightfall, his head throbbed lightly.
He sat on his bed, flipping through the pages of his jotter.
"I can't believe I spent a whole day spying on people," he groaned, covering his face. "Look what points have turned me into…"
Still, he smiled.
"Thanks to what Gena and Bobby told me about their group, and what I saw today…" he muttered, eyes sharp. "This should pay off."
And it did.
The next day arrived, and one by one, Ezra's chosen bets paid out.
Every win made his heart beat faster.
By the time it ended, he stared at his silver card in disbelief.
From twenty-three thousand points…
to eighty-nine thousand.
"I could get addicted to this," he said softly, smiling at the floating numbers.
But then his expression hardened.
"But now… it's time to train."
He stood in front of a massive stone structure embedded into the ground.
It wasn't an ordinary stone.
The door was forged from Adamite, one of the strongest metals in Britannia.
Ezra inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
This is my first seclusion.
He slapped his cheeks lightly, straightening himself, then inserted his card into the slot.
–5000 points
The number flashed briefly.
Gears inside the door began to turn. Steam hissed out as the heavy door pressed inward.
Ezra pushed it open.
Lights flickered on, one after another, revealing a space far larger than what the outside suggested. Training equipment lined the walls; weights, target dolls for gun practice, punching dummies, and more.
Ezra's eyes widened.
He stepped inside, and the door closed behind him, gears locking into place.
He dropped his bags and laid everything out—books, materials, food.
After checking twice, he nodded.
"I didn't forget anything."
He clapped his hands once.
"Let's get started."
The space responded at once. Warm air spread through the room as the temperature adjusted to his preference. Ezra shrugged off his coat, then pulled off his top and set it aside. His bare skin caught the light. His body had changed. His arms were firmer, his shoulders broader. His stomach no longer sank inward when he breathed. The lines of muscle were faint but clear.
For a thirteen-year-old, he was fit.
He rolled his neck, then bent forward, stretching his back. His fingers brushed the floor. He held the pose, breathing slow, then straightened and moved on. One stretch after another. Legs. Arms. Waist. He didn't rush.
After that came movement.
He began basic muscle exercises. Squats. Push-ups. Lunges. As he moved, Cognis spread through his body. It flowed into his muscles, reinforcing them. His steps grew lighter. His balance is steadier. Each motion felt sharper.
He glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist and activated it.
I need to know my limit.
Time passed without him noticing.
Sweat ran down his back and dripped onto the floor. His breath grew rough, then steady again as he forced a rhythm. When fatigue crept in, he didn't stop. He drank coffee. Then another stimulant drink. His stomach protested. His head throbbed. His body felt wrong, stretched too far.
But he kept going.
Hours turned into a full day. Noon passed. Night came and went.
At some point, his legs trembled. His arms refused to rise. The Cognis inside him thinned until it felt hollow.
That was the end.
Ezra collapsed onto his back. The floor was cold against his skin. His chest rose and fell fast. His thoughts scattered. He didn't even realize when his eyes closed.
Light hit his face.
Ezra groaned and rolled to his side. Afternoon light streamed in from the ceiling panels. His body screamed when he moved. Every joint felt stiff. He sat up slowly, then stretched, cracking his neck, shoulders, spine. One sharp sound followed another.
Only then did the pain ease.
He checked the watch.
"Thirty hours…" he muttered.
He picked up his jotter and wrote it down carefully.
Cognis exhaustion (physical reinforcement only): 30 hours
A small smile formed.
"Nice," he said. "My stamina's improving."
He reached for the two books he had bought and placed them in front of him.
"With that settled," he said quietly, "it's time to decide which gun formulas I should study."
He flipped through the pages, eyes moving fast but focused.
Material mattered. Purity mattered. Chemical limits mattered. Rank mattered. He already knew that. It was why he bought a Binder-rank book even though he was still a Novice. His Cognis was slightly higher than normal. Not enough to form a second star—but close.
"There's more here than I thought," he said, scanning the Novice section. "A lot of these are usable."
But not all were practical.
"I can't learn everything this year," he said, rubbing his chin. "I need the ones that matter."
Something stirred in his mind. His ability Activated.
Blueprints. Steel. Weight in his hand.
A gun he felt familiar with.
The image sharpened.
The Colt 1911.
***
The Colt M1911 is a semi-automatic handgun developed in the early 20th century.
It was created through standardized production, not individual craftsmanship.
Its strength lies in balance, precision, and reliability.
High-grade steel is forged and machined into separate components: the frame, slide, barrel, and internal parts. Each piece is made within strict limits. Heat treatment follows, strengthening the metal and improving wear resistance.
Assembly comes next. Each part must align perfectly. Feeding. Firing. Extraction. Ejection. Reset. A single failure disrupts the whole cycle.
Behind it all are simple principles:
Durability = Material Quality × Heat Treatment × Structural DesignReliability = Precision + Alignment + Tolerance ControlStability = Mass Distribution ÷ Energy ReleaseFunction = Feed → Fire → Extract → Eject → ResetLongevity = Surface Treatment × Wear Resistance
***
Ezra opened his eyes.
"Hm… high-grade steel."
Ezra took out the steel bar he had bought earlier and held it up, turning it slowly in his hand. The metal caught the light as he rotated it, smooth and clean, without visible impurities. He tapped it lightly with his finger and listened to the sound.
"From the purity alone, this will work well," he said. Then he shrugged. "Not that it really matters that much."
He smiled faintly.
"With a gun that can fire seven rounds," he continued, picturing it in his mind, "and smoother aim with better shot flow… things should get easier for me."
The thought settled, but only for a moment.
But I still need more.
The steel bar lowered as his focus shifted inward. His gaze dulled slightly as he scrolled through the other guns stored within his shard memories. Shapes, structures, and mechanisms passed through his mind one after another.
Then a thought surfaced.
Does it really have to be a weapon meant for killing?
As soon as that idea formed, something changed.
A new page opened.
This time, the designs were different.
Orthodox-looking gun weapons appeared one by one.
Stun gun.
Pepperball launcher. That sounds weird.
Rubber bullet launcher. "That looks safer."
Tranquilizer gun.
Flash launcher.
Net gun.
Then…
Harpoon Cannon.
Ezra's thoughts stopped.
The image stayed.
The structure was heavy, reinforced. The barrel was thick, built to withstand pressure. And there it was—rope tightly wound and connected to the harpoon.
"This looks similar to the Stormpiercer," Ezra muttered.
His expression turned serious.
"One of the strongest guns created by the Ashenlocke," he continued. "Only eight- to nine-star Alchemists can use it properly. Though… if done right, a seven-star Alchemist could barely manage it."
He leaned deeper into the image, comparing it with what he knew.
"The difference," he said slowly, "is the purpose."
His eyes lingered on the rope.
"Less destruction. More control."
Silence followed.
Then Ezra smiled.
"Yes," he said softly, satisfied.
"This will work."