By the time Adrian reached Manila's industrial district, the sun was already beginning to sink behind the western skyline.
The city changed the farther he moved away from the polished glass towers of Makati and the manicured streets of Bonifacio Global City. The roads here were narrower, cracked by years of overloaded trucks and poor maintenance. Rusted warehouses lined the blocks like old veterans that refused to die. Corrugated steel roofs sagged under heat and rain damage. Faded company signs hung crooked above aging workshops where sparks still flew behind half-open shutters.
This was not the world Adrian had once lived in.
Not the boardrooms. Not the private clubs. Not the quiet confidence of men wearing tailored suits while discussing contracts worth hundreds of millions.
This was a different kind of industry.
Real industry.
Metal. Oil. Noise. Sweat.
The air itself smelled different here. Burnt steel, machine grease, welding fumes, old concrete baked by tropical heat. Every few minutes a truck rumbled past, carrying scrap metal, industrial parts, or crates hidden beneath tarpaulins. Men in stained coveralls smoked beside loading bays. A welder's torch flashed somewhere down the street like lightning trapped behind a metal gate.
Adrian walked through it all wearing plain clothes—dark jeans, a gray shirt, and a cheap jacket. Nothing about him stood out. No designer watch. No family driver. No polished shoes. Just another young man moving through a working district where no one had time to care.
That suited him perfectly.
He kept his pace slow and deliberate, eyes moving from building to building as memory guided him.
Ten years ago, in his first life, this district had barely registered in his mind. It had simply been one of many places he passed over while chasing legal contracts and corporate expansion plans for Valenrique Arms. Later, when the underworld began whispering about an emerging gunsmith route hidden inside Manila's industrial belt, he had learned this block's significance.
It had begun here.
With one small machining workshop that went bankrupt.
Then quietly changed hands.
Then disappeared from official records altogether.
Adrian stopped in front of a narrow two-story building wedged between a radiator repair shop and a warehouse selling machine parts. A fading sign hung above the rolling shutter.
RIVERA PRECISION MACHINING
He looked at it for a few seconds.
The paint was peeling. One side of the sign had rusted through near the mounting bolts. The display window was dusty enough to obscure most of the interior, but through the grime he could still make out old lathes, tool cabinets, and a milling machine pushed against the back wall.
The place looked tired.
Struggling.
Exactly as he remembered.
Adrian stepped closer. A hand-painted notice taped to the glass read:
OPEN — 8:00 AM TO 6:00 PM
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
CUSTOM PARTS, REPAIR WORK, INDUSTRIAL FABRICATION
No customers were inside.
That alone told him plenty.
He pushed open the door.
A small bell rang above his head.
The interior was dim, lit by fluorescent tubes that buzzed faintly overhead. The workshop was cleaner than he expected, though age showed in everything. Metal shelves. Tool racks worn smooth by years of use. A large lathe with chipped paint. A precision milling machine old enough to belong in another decade but carefully maintained. Boxes of machine parts sat stacked near the wall, each labeled in neat handwriting.
From behind a partition, an older man stepped out wiping his hands with a rag.
He was probably in his late fifties, maybe early sixties, with graying hair, a broad back, and the permanently calloused hands of someone who had spent his entire life shaping metal. His expression sharpened the moment he saw Adrian.
"You looking for something?" the man asked.
Adrian nodded politely. "Are you Mr. Rivera?"
The man gave him a wary look. "Depends who's asking."
"Adrian."
No surname.
Not here.
Mr. Rivera folded the rag and set it on the table beside him. "You need a part made?"
"In a way."
That answer didn't help Adrian's case. Rivera's suspicion deepened immediately.
"I don't do nonsense jobs," the machinist said flatly. "If you want a discount, try the next block. If you want something illegal, try somewhere else."
Adrian almost smiled.
Straight to the point.
"I'm not here for nonsense," he said.
Rivera crossed his arms. "Then talk."
Adrian glanced around the shop once more, taking in the machines. Old, but not dead. More importantly, they were accurate enough to be useful if handled properly.
He turned back to Rivera.
"I need workshop access."
Rivera's eyes narrowed.
"What kind of access?"
"Night access."
Silence settled between them.
Then the old machinist let out a short laugh.
"You walk into my shop out of nowhere and ask to use my machines at night?"
"I'd pay."
"That supposed to make it less suspicious?"
"It should make it worth listening to."
Rivera studied him carefully now, as if deciding whether Adrian was a fool, a liar, or both.
Adrian didn't rush him.
He had expected suspicion.
A struggling workshop owner didn't survive long in a place like this by trusting strangers.
Finally Rivera jerked his head toward a side table. "Sit."
Adrian did.
Rivera remained standing.
"What are you planning to make?" the older man asked.
"Precision components."
"For what?"
Adrian met his gaze without flinching. "Private engineering work."
Rivera snorted. "That answer usually means one of two things. Either you think you're smarter than me, or you don't want to tell me the truth."
"Both can be true."
For the first time, Rivera's expression shifted—just slightly. Not friendlier, but more interested.
"You don't look like a machinist."
"I'm not."
"Student?"
"Yes."
Rivera glanced at Adrian's hands. "Hands are too clean."
"I learn fast."
The old man leaned back against the workbench. "You got money?"
"Some."
"Enough to rent a machine shop?"
"No."
Rivera gave him a dry, unsurprised look. "Then this conversation's already over."
Adrian reached into his jacket pocket and placed an envelope on the table.
Rivera didn't touch it immediately.
"Advance payment," Adrian said. "For night access. Limited hours. No questions asked."
Rivera opened the envelope and checked the money inside. It wasn't a fortune. Adrian knew that. It was nearly all the liquid cash he could spare without jeopardizing the rest of his immediate plans.
But it was enough to make an old machinist hesitate.
Rivera looked up. "You're serious."
"Yes."
"What are you really building?"
Adrian looked toward the milling machine. "If your vertical mill is still calibrated to within two hundredths, and if your lathe spindle runout hasn't worsened in the last six months, then I can work around the rest."
Rivera stared at him.
Adrian continued calmly.
"The cross-slide on the lathe needs adjustment. Your toolpost alignment is slightly off-center. The mill's feed screw has backlash, but not enough to ruin tolerance if cuts are taken slow. Your coolant system also needs cleaning."
Silence.
The fluorescent buzz overhead suddenly felt louder.
Rivera straightened slowly. "Who told you that?"
"No one."
"You inspected all that from the door?"
"I listened when the machines were running."
That was only partially true. Adrian had seen enough from the room, and the rest was inference built on years of engineering and manufacturing knowledge. But the effect was immediate.
Rivera's suspicion didn't disappear.
It changed shape.
Now it was mixed with respect.
"You know machining," Rivera said.
"I know enough."
Rivera looked around his own shop as if seeing it from Adrian's perspective. Then he glanced back down at the envelope in his hand.
"You said night access."
"Yes."
"You touch nothing I didn't agree to."
"Fine."
"You clean everything before you leave."
"Obviously."
"You break anything, you pay for it."
Adrian gave a slight nod. "Reasonable."
Rivera exhaled through his nose. "I close at six. You come after that, you work until morning if you want. But if I find anything suspicious, you're out. No second chance."
Adrian rose from his chair and extended his hand.
Rivera looked at it for a second before shaking it.
His grip was strong.
"Don't make me regret this, kid."
Adrian's expression remained calm. "You won't."
By the time night settled over the district, the block had changed.
The daytime noise of repairs and deliveries faded into something quieter and more dangerous. Trucks still moved through the streets, but less openly. Shadows deepened between warehouses. Half the shutters were closed. Dogs barked somewhere in the distance. A radio played faintly from a nearby garage, then cut out.
Adrian unlocked Rivera Precision Machining using the key he had been given and stepped inside.
The shop felt different at night.
Private.
Still.
Like a place waiting for secrets.
He switched on only the lights he needed. Pale fluorescent glow spilled across steel surfaces and tool cabinets. Dust drifted lazily through the air. The smell of machine oil thickened as the enclosed shop warmed around him.
For a few moments Adrian simply stood there.
This was it.
Not a corporate weapons lab.
Not a family-owned production floor.
No executives. No board members. No stolen designs.
Just him.
A workshop.
And a weapon blueprint no one else in the world possessed.
Adrian approached the central workbench and activated the Weapon Design System.
The interface unfolded instantly in front of him.
Prototype Development: VRS-01 "Ghost Pistol"
Manufacturing Guidance Available
Real-Time Tolerance Monitoring Enabled
A wireframe model of the pistol appeared above the bench, then separated into components.
Slide.
Barrel.
Frame.
Trigger mechanism.
Recoil spring assembly.
Each part rotated slowly with dimensions and machining instructions displayed beside it.
Adrian's eyes sharpened.
"So you really are an engineering assistant."
He selected the slide first.
If he could complete the upper assembly cleanly, the rest of the project would move faster.
The system overlaid measurements directly onto a block of metal he had purchased earlier that afternoon.
Cut lines glowed faintly in his vision.
Recommended tool selection appeared beside the milling machine.
Cut depth.
Feed rate.
Cooling intervals.
Adrian got to work.
The first hour passed in focused silence broken only by the hum of machinery and the precise scrape of metal under cutting force. He moved with growing rhythm, years of buried skill coming back to him faster than he expected. This kind of work had always made sense to him. Measurable. Honest. Metal either fit or it didn't. No politics. No lies.
More than once the system adjusted its overlay as he worked, compensating for the shop's outdated equipment.
Reduce cutting speed by 8%
Compensate for spindle vibration
Suggested manual correction: 0.03 mm
Useful.
Very useful.
But not perfect.
When Adrian began machining one of the slide's inner guide surfaces, the problem finally appeared.
The old milling machine shuddered ever so slightly during a fine pass.
The system flashed a warning.
Manufacturing deviation detected
Predicted accuracy reduction: 7%
Adrian stopped immediately.
He checked the cut.
Too rough.
Not catastrophic, but not acceptable.
He stared at the measurement overlay for several seconds, then at the machine itself.
"This isn't a design problem," he murmured. "It's a tolerance problem."
The equipment simply couldn't sustain the precision the original blueprint demanded—not without adjustment.
Adrian's mind moved quickly.
He reopened the part geometry, changed the machining order, then modified one small internal contour to better match the workshop's capabilities without sacrificing core function. After that, he reset the workpiece, changed tools, and performed the delicate cut manually in smaller passes.
Sweat gathered at his temples despite the cooling fan.
The process was slower.
Riskier.
But when he checked the result, the system refreshed.
Deviation corrected
Current predicted accuracy reduction: 1.2%
Adrian allowed himself a faint smirk.
"That's better."
The system was powerful.
But it still needed him.
That fact pleased him more than it should have.
Hours later, sometime well past midnight, he finally set the finished slide on the workbench beneath the overhead light.
The metal gleamed softly.
Sharp lines. Clean cuts. Balanced weight.
Not perfect.
But excellent for a first prototype built in a rundown industrial shop using aging equipment.
The system displayed its evaluation:
Component Complete: Slide Assembly
Quality Rating: 92%
Adrian stared at the number and exhaled slowly.
Ninety-two percent.
For a first attempt, that was absurdly good.
He picked up the slide and turned it over in his hand. It was cool, solid, beautifully machined. More than metal. More than a component.
It was proof.
Proof that this timeline had changed.
Proof that he no longer needed Valenrique Arms.
Proof that the empire he intended to build had already begun.
He set the slide down and checked the time.
Late.
He should leave soon.
But before shutting down the system, Adrian opened the predictive map again.
The holographic city projection appeared over the workbench.
One location blinked red.
Manila Underground Auction — 6 Days Remaining
Adrian studied it in silence.
Six days.
If he could complete the Ghost Pistol in time, he wouldn't need to search blindly for buyers on message boards or hidden forums.
He could walk directly into a room full of them.
Mercenaries.
Smugglers.
Dealers.
Collectors.
Men who measured worth in lethality.
The ideal audience.
Adrian was about to close the interface when something made him pause.
A sound.
Voices.
Outside.
He killed the workshop lights instantly and moved toward the side window overlooking the alley between buildings.
A neighboring warehouse, dark and unused by day, now had its side door open.
Three vans sat outside.
Men were unloading crates.
Adrian crouched slightly in the shadows and listened.
"…shipment comes in tomorrow night."
"…security for the auction doubles after that."
"…buyers flying in from Hong Kong and Jakarta—"
His eyes narrowed.
Auction security.
Buyers arriving from overseas.
So the system had been right. The underground event wasn't some small-time criminal gathering. This was organized. Structured. Important.
One of the men turned as he spoke, exposing the side of his neck beneath the collar of his jacket.
Adrian went completely still.
A tattoo.
Black ink.
A circular insignia cut through with three diagonal lines.
He knew it.
In his previous life, that symbol belonged to the Moro Arms Syndicate, a ruthless underground network that quietly handled trafficking routes, weapons brokerage, and private conflict logistics across parts of Southeast Asia.
They were far bigger than ordinary smugglers.
Far more dangerous.
And if they were involved in auction security, then the event was operating on a scale even Adrian hadn't expected.
He watched a few seconds longer, memorizing faces, voices, crate markings.
Then he eased back from the window.
His gaze drifted toward the unfinished Ghost Pistol components laid across the bench.
Then toward the warehouse full of armed criminals next door.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"So the auction is bigger than I thought."
He picked up the completed slide once more, feeling its weight settle into his palm.
"Perfect," Adrian whispered into the darkness.
"My first customers are already here."