Legend

The world of Transcendents had clearly defined ranks.

For an ordinary person to become a Transcendent, they needed to undergo the Soul Transformation Ritual, experience their first soul metamorphosis, and fully awaken their soul's fusion ability.

After successfully completing the Soul Transformation, they could choose to fuse with different Demon Souls and become the corresponding Transcendent profession.

Demon Soul was a collective term for the souls of magical beasts, strange creatures, insects, monsters, and demons. It did not include the souls of intelligent races; the two were distinguished separately.

The first Demon Soul fused was called the Primary Soul.

The Primary Soul could exert the greatest effect, provided the highest boost to a Transcendent's strength, and determined their professional direction. As their strength increased, their soul would grow ever more powerful until it underwent a Soul Ascension, allowing them to fuse with another new Demon Soul, generally called a Secondary Soul.

Each time they fused with a Demon Soul, a Transcendent's professional level rose by one.

Levels one through three belonged to Beginner Transcendents, who possessed one Primary Soul and two Secondary Souls. Level three was a rank bottleneck. To break through to the Intermediate Tier, levels four through six, they had to undergo another Soul Transformation and then fuse with a new Primary Soul.

As one's rank rose, Soul Transformation became increasingly difficult.

For a Transcendent to rise from Beginner Tier level one to Advanced Tier level nine, they needed to undergo three Soul Transformations and six Soul Ascensions, fusing with a total of nine Demon Souls.

Above the Advanced Tier, undergoing the fourth Soul Transformation Ritual meant entering Legend!

All Transcendents above level ten were Legendary Transcendents. They broke through the limits of human lifespan and possessed power beyond ordinary imagination.

Many people spent their entire lives hearing only tales of Legends, never encountering one in person.

Yet now, Rayne had seen a Demon Hunter who was suspected to be a Legend!

However, aside from possibly the dwarf Zoltan, no one in the inn realized that a Legend was beside them. They merely regarded Roger as a relatively powerful Demon Hunter.

"Sometimes, not knowing the truth is a kind of blessing."

Rayne muttered to himself.

He had an extremely direct sense of just how powerful this Demon Hunter was. Compared with an ordinary person's soul, Roger's soul was as dazzling as the sun, almost impossible to look upon directly.

Just one glance had caused him backlash. He could not imagine how terrifying Roger would be when he acted!

Rayne did not dare look around again, afraid of provoking this Legend, who seemed to have a rather cold personality.

He hurriedly finished the rest of his potato stew, then quickly went upstairs to his room.

However, Rayne did not know that after he went upstairs, Roger glanced at his retreating figure and asked Zoltan, "What's that young man's background? Are you familiar with him?"

"Not particularly. He's a lad who just arrived in Lien District. Either he was just expelled from an academy, or he fell out with his family. He's only been staying here for one day, but he's quite an impressive Mechanical Craftsman." Zoltan stroked his beard, recalling the tube he had seen earlier, and could not help asking, "How did you know?"

"He smells like a workshop. The scent carried all the way from your yard. I could smell it from three streets away."

Zoltan exclaimed, "Your nose is sharper than a dog's."

"An interesting young man." Roger withdrew his gaze, a thoughtful look flickering through his catlike eyes.

"Enough about Rayne." Zoltan put down his wineglass, pulled out a deck of cards from his pocket, and called out, "Come on, let's play a few rounds and scratch the itch. We haven't met in ten years, so let me see whether your card skills have gotten rusty. Heh heh, I've collected quite a few rare cards over the years. If you're still at the level you were ten years ago, then prepare to die!"

Roger's expression changed slightly. He sat up straight and said seriously, "Even if I've spent the past few years sleeping, you still won't beat me."

As he spoke, he took a thick stack of cards from the leather pouch at his waist.

The next morning, an energetic Rayne came downstairs to the inn lobby, only to find Zoltan and Roger still sitting at the counter, playing cards.

They had not even changed seats. Clearly, they had been playing from last night until now.

Rayne did not disturb them. He walked past, ate the free breakfast, then entered the workshop at the back and continued making shotgun parts.

For several days in a row, Rayne stayed in the workshop from morning until night, successfully producing one part after another.

Twice each day, once in the morning and once in the evening, he went to the inn lobby to eat, and each time he saw Zoltan and Roger playing cards.

Zoltan handed the inn over to his employees and ignored everything else.

Roger was the same. A dignified Legendary Transcendent sat there playing cards day and night, practically like an internet-addicted teenager who had lived in an internet café for months.

The image of a master that Rayne had once held in his mind instantly collapsed.

Five days later, Rayne held the freshly polished black wooden stock in his hands and let out a long breath.

This was the shotgun's final component!

The other seventy parts had already been made. With this stock, he could assemble a complete Remington M870 shotgun.

He carried the stock to the Crafting Table, where all the parts lay neatly arranged on a piece of coarse cloth.

Without any hesitation, Rayne began assembling it.

Though this was his first time assembling a physical one, he had assembled it hundreds of times in games and on his phone. He knew the sequence by heart; he could install every part with his eyes closed.

His hands moved continuously, smooth as flowing clouds and running water. Before long, a pure black shotgun appeared in his hands, displaying the beauty of craftsmanship.

Rayne tested the gun's weight and dimensions. They were very close to the parameters in the three-dimensional structural diagram. It felt satisfyingly heavy in his hands, and it would have been perfectly fine for smashing someone over the head.

He pressed the stock against his right shoulder, supported the fore-end with his left hand, and assumed an aiming stance.

He pulled the trigger, producing a sharp click.

His left hand pulled the fore-end back. With a crisp clack, it chambered smoothly again. He pulled the trigger once more, producing another sharp click. Several rapid dry cycles in succession revealed no problems; the internal mechanism operated with remarkable stability.

Now, all it needed was ammunition.

Rayne looked at a paper box on the table. He had made the shells yesterday.

Zoltan had a Single-Step Turret Press specifically for making ammunition. By changing the dies to the appropriate size, one could manually press shells.

The M870 used 12-Gauge Shells. Rayne had manually made a batch of brass casings, fitted them with primers and steel pellets, used up all the Black Powder, and produced thirty shotgun shells in total.

There was a target wall in the workshop, which Zoltan usually used for testing guns. It was pitted with holes, and an entire layer had been blasted off the stone wall.

Rayne loaded a shell, stood five meters away, and fired at the wall.

Bang!

A muffled blast rang out. White smoke spewed from the barrel, and a strong smell of gunpowder rushed into his nostrils.

Rayne raised a hand and swept aside the smoke before him, unable to suppress the delight on his face.

The recoil from the gun was considerable, but still within a tolerable range. He walked to the target wall and inspected it carefully, finding dozens of tiny, dense holes scattered at random. The killing area covered roughly half a square meter, and the power was quite astonishing.

If that shot hit a person, it would surely turn them into a sieve!

Next, Rayne loaded three shells at once and fired rapidly in succession. Bang! Bang! Bang! More tiny holes appeared in the target wall. However, the wall was already covered in countless pits and craters, making it a complete mess. Unless one looked closely, it would be difficult to spot these inconspicuous new holes.

"It works. There's nothing wrong with this gun. The smoke is too irritating, though. I'll improve it if I get the chance."

Rayne did not continue testing. He only had thirty shells in total, and he could not waste the rest.

"Now, it's time for revenge."

He silently disassembled the gun into parts, packed them together with the shells into a black cloth bag, and left the workshop. As he passed through the inn lobby, Zoltan and Roger were still playing cards. He went upstairs, placed the bag beneath his bed, then came back down to the counter.

"Zoltan, I won't be borrowing your workshop tomorrow."

Zoltan looked up at Rayne in surprise. "You finished that quickly?"

But his mind was entirely on the card game. Before Rayne could answer, he waved a hand. "You used the workshop for five days. I won't bother calculating the materials too carefully. Just give me three hundred Copper Liso in total."

Rayne paid readily and said sincerely, "Thank you."

He had actually gotten a bargain from this arrangement. The coal and metal materials he had used over those five days had certainly cost more than fifty Copper Liso. Without Zoltan's generous help, he did not know when he would have been able to take revenge.

Zoltan nodded indifferently and said nothing more.

Roger, sitting across from him, was even more focused on his cards and did not so much as glance at Rayne.

Rayne did not disturb them. He turned and left the inn.

He followed the route he had taken a few days ago. When he passed the Justice Church, he gave it an extra look. Unfortunately, no Fallen Ones had been judged these past few days, so he had no opportunity to absorb souls and recharge.

When he reached the station, he boarded a Public Bus. After changing buses once, Rayne arrived at Wood Street in Honeydew District.

The residents of Honeydew District were mostly merchants, white-collar workers, and chamber-of-commerce employees. Most held respectable jobs and were much better off financially than those in the slums, and the streets were not nearly as crowded.

Rayne was fairly familiar with Wood Street and quickly reached the place he was looking for.

Maloney's Sword, the Swordsmanship Hall where he had worked not long ago.

Rayne did not approach the Swordsmanship Hall, lest someone who knew him see and recognize him. Instead, he sat at an outdoor café several hundred meters away, ordered an iced tea, and took a secluded corner seat. He casually picked up a newspaper and flipped through it, occasionally opening his Soul Eye to observe the activity at the Swordsmanship Hall entrance from afar.

He was waiting for Esberg and Ramsey to come out so he could track their movements.

The first step of revenge was finding where the two lived, but Rayne had no intention of making a move within the city. The shotgun was too loud. Even if he killed them, he would very likely be arrested.

Longsand City was Duke Silverstar's territory. The duke commanded two powerful private armed forces, one of which, the Silver Armor Knights, was responsible for maintaining order in the city. Those guards were all members of the Silver Armor Knights.

There were also the Transcendent forces of the three major Churches. For an ordinary person to fire a gun in the city was no different from seeking death.

But it was not entirely without opportunity.

Based on clues from his memories, Rayne determined that he had been knocked unconscious in the city, yet after crossing over and awakening, he had been in a river outside the city.

The Feregron River did not flow rapidly. It could not possibly have carried a body that far in such a short time. There was only one explanation: Ramsey had dumped the body outside the city.

In other words, Esberg and Ramsey definitely had a secret hideout outside the city—the place where he had been beaten for several hours that night.

Moreover, this secret hideout should not have been far from the riverbank where he had crossed over.

If he could find that place, then his chance to act would come.