[Year 1507, Mad Hat Island]
That day, the sky over Mad Hat was as gray as usual. The smoke from the drug labs in the western district filled the air, creating a sharp stench that burned the nose. Bastien didn't mind it. The burlap sack on his back was more important. Inside: a package of short-range weapons, two old pistols, and three knives. His destination: the headquarters of a thug named Roten in the eastern market. A small gang, but brutal.
"Don't open the package, don't ask what's inside, and don't talk more than necessary," said the thin man, the one who sent him, before handing over the sack. Bastien nodded. He was used to it. No one cared about couriers. Not until they made a mistake.
Roten's hideout was behind a large wooden warehouse near the meat market. Two guards let him pass after seeing the red symbol on the sack. Roten was sitting, sorting money, and cleaning his knife. Bastien placed the sack down, then turned to leave.
One voice stopped him.
"This isn't the weapon I ordered."
Roten's tone was cold. Bastien stopped, slowly turned. His eyes met the man's. Empty, yet hungry.
"Are you the courier?" Roten asked.
Bastien nodded. "Just delivering it."
Roten stood. Slowly, but surely. "If it's not the weapon I ordered... it means you're trying to fool me."
Bastien wanted to explain, but Roten's voice had already called for two others. One pulled out a knife, the other locked the door.
Instinct took over. Bastien jumped behind a stack of crates, his small body making him agile. As one of the thugs approached, Bastien grabbed a knife from the sack. He stabbed him—not recklessly, but as he had seen in movies: the neck, the soft part. Blood sprayed.
The other one came. In the chaos of instinct and adrenaline, Bastien grabbed a pistol from the sack. His fingers trembled, but he pulled the trigger.
'CLICK'. Empty.
The thug laughed at his fear. Bastien didn't wait. He smashed the man's head with the gun's handle, again and again, until the laughter stopped. Until the body stopped moving.
Roten ran. Bastien was too slow to chase him. But he didn't care. His heart was pounding, his hands covered in blood. But... he didn't vomit. He didn't cry. He just stayed silent, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
He brought the sack back. Full of blood. Full of weapons. Weapons that saved his life.
That night, in his hiding place, he reflected.
"I can't keep hoping to survive just by luck."
Bastien began to open the weapons. Disassemble them. Trying to understand. The old pistols with simple mechanisms, worn-out triggers, rusty bullet chambers. But he learned. He noted it all in his mind. Remembering the position of screws, springs, and small levers that controlled the shots.
Months passed.
He stole tools from an old workshop. Traded stolen goods for scrap metal. Took apart weapons, copied the parts, combined the pieces that could still be used. No mentor. No books. Only memory and perseverance.
His hands were often injured. His fingers callused. But he didn't stop.
Until one night... he succeeded.
A small pistol. A makeshift one. Not pretty. Not strong. But it had bullets. And it could shoot.
When he fired it for the first time, the bang echoed through the narrow alley where he lived.
It wasn't the sound of a gun. For Bastien, it was the sound of will. The sound that he chose to survive, not just wait to die.