The weapons district began to thin out the farther Ethan moved from the mag-bright main avenues.
Gone were the holo-ads and corporate flash. Here, the light dimmed into a steady industrial amber, and the air smelled faintly of carbon scoring, old metals, and oil-treated cloth.
It was in one of these back alleys, tucked behind a loading station and a faded kinetic shield generator shop, that he found it:
Quiet Steel.
The shop had no glowing signs. No flashy windows. Just a simple black placard bolted above a thick alloy door.
The only marking was an emblem: a stylized hammer crossed over a laser rifle, faded with time but still distinct.
Ethan keyed the door chime.
A half-second later, the door slid open with a low mechanical hiss.
Inside, the world changed again.
The shop was small, no bigger than a long freight container, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in atmosphere.
Racks of weapons lined the walls like museum displays, each one cradled in magnetic brackets.
Handcrafted plasma pistols. Rail-accelerated rifles. Ballistic coilguns. A row of ancient slugthrowers modified with modern stabilizers.
Each piece was polished, balanced, deadly. No clutter. No gaudy marketing tags. Just hardware and the quiet hum of precision.
Behind the main counter stood a man who seemed carved from the same alloy as his shop.
Old but not frail, with short gray hair, deep crow's feet, and hands that looked like they'd built and broken, more weapons than most people ever fired.
His clothes were practical: reinforced work vest, utility boots, and a belt loaded with diagnostic tools.
But it was his eyes that caught Ethan's attention: sharp, assessing, and respectful without being deferential. The kind of eyes that had seen firefights from behind both a gunsight and a field hospital wall.
The man nodded once, no words.
Ethan stepped inside, boots clicking quietly against the polished black deck plates.
He wandered slowly through the narrow aisles, letting the craftsmanship speak first.
No mass-produced corner-cutting here.
The weapons here were meant.
Built to last through rain, dust, and vacuum.
Built by someone who understood what it meant to trust your life to the weight in your hand.
"You're looking," the man said finally, voice a gravel scrape softened by long use. "Not shopping yet."
Ethan offered a small smile. "Good eye."
"Good gear needs good reason. No point arming someone who doesn't know what they're signing up for."
Ethan nodded, appreciating the straight talk. "I'm browsing for upgrades. Maybe something practical. Reliable."
The man tilted his head slightly, considering.
"Core sector, frontier, or something uglier?"
"Bit of everything," Ethan said truthfully. "Ashen sector for now. Could be moving closer to the core later."
A glint of understanding flickered in the older man's gaze.
"You'll need flexible tools, then. Not heavy flashy pieces that'll get you flagged at every checkpoint. And not antique junk that'll jam when you're counting seconds."
He gestured toward a side rack where several compact sidearms were laid out. Minimal designs, no oversized muzzles or fragile components.
"Take a look. These aren't mass-line weapons. Every one of 'em's been customized for field reliability. Sealed rails, modifiable power cells, adjustable plasma regulators."
Ethan moved closer, letting his fingers hover above the display without touching.
A particular model caught his attention, a slimline laser pistol, dull gunmetal with brushed grip panels.
Compact enough to holster discreetly but carrying a full eight-cell discharge capacity. Modular mounting ports lined the barrel frame, adaptable for silencers, smart sights, or enhanced output stabilizers.
"Local build?" Ethan asked.
The man grunted, pleased by the question. "Gavran Armsmith Collective. Frontier company. Got run out of the Athenis Rift by a contract war a few years back. Set up private labs in outstation rings after that. No frills, just tech that works when you're ten minutes from backup and out of oxygen."
Ethan picked it up, feeling the weight.
Balanced. Smooth. Deadly without announcing itself.
He set it back down with care, impressed.
"Weapon types favored out there," Ethan said, keeping his voice casual, "different from the core?"
The armsmith chuckled dryly.
"In the frontier, you want something you can fix with a medpack and a solder gun. You want parts that cannibalize easy. Core sector fights?"
He leaned in slightly, voice lowering.
"You need armor-penetrating microflechettes, counter-psionic inhibitors, and hacking-grade disruptors built into your ammo feeds. Because the core ain't about survival. It's about advantage. Psychological, technological, political."
Ethan digested that.
"Ever heard rumors about psionic-reactive molecular weapons?" Ethan asked, keeping his tone casual, though the weight of the Astral Slayer pulsed faintly at the edge of his awareness.
The old man stilled, studying him for a beat longer than was comfortable. A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or old memories best left buried.
"Rare," he said at last, voice dropping a shade lower. "Very rare. The military tried to replicate 'em a few centuries back. Black projects, deep vault stuff. Most ended in failure, energy sinks, feedback loops that fried the minds of anyone foolish enough to wield them. Dangerous even to the ones who forged them."
He wiped a rag over a nearby coilgun, almost absently.
"Couple real ones are still rumored to exist. Authentic pieces, proper artifacts, not imitations made by mortal hands. The few in our Federation were probably lost during the last Separation Wars. Others... well."
He shrugged, a tight, mechanical motion.
"They belong to powerful hands now. People who can keep secrets buried under fleets and fortresses."
Ethan tilted his head slightly, pressing just enough.
"And these days?"
The armsmith gave a quiet, humorless laugh.
"These days? Weapons like that are myths. Museum pieces you never see. Tools you don't survive holding, unless you were born for them. If one shows up again?"
He tapped two fingers against the counter.
"Galactic nations will move to claim it. Mercenaries, governments, pirates.. doesn't matter. Something like that?"
His eyes gleamed faintly.
"It's worth wars."
Ethan nodded slowly, letting the conversation drift.
No need to push harder. Not here.
Not when the truth pulsed quietly against his skin like a second heartbeat.
Best not to draw attention to the ghost weapon stitched to his very soul.
Not yet.
After another few minutes, he made his decision.
"I'll take the compact laser pistol," Ethan said.
The armsmith gave a nod. No upsell. No smug grin.
Just respect.
Ethan pulled out his datapad, tapping it against the sales terminal.
A soft glyph appeared: "Transaction Verified. 31,700 Galactic Credits Transferred."
"Delivery preference?" the old man asked.
"Ship hold," Ethan said. "Obsidian Wraith. Docking bay 22-G."
The man keyed a few commands into his terminal.
"Drone dispatch within the hour. No signatures, no tags."
Perfect.
As Ethan turned to leave, the old man added, almost offhand:
"You're smart, picking what you need. Not what you want. Lot of people blow their savings on toys. Toys don't save you when the airlock fails."
Ethan smiled faintly. "I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that," the man said, already returning to calibrating a stripped-down energy rifle on the counter. "Quiet steel carries longer than loud victories."
The door hissed open again, letting Ethan step back into the flow of Ashen Prime.
The weapon district buzzed around him still, full of neon noise and kinetic motion, but he moved through it like a stone in a river.
Quieter.
Sharper.
Better prepared.