While Don Gambino was still dreaming of a clean future for his family empire — and silently thanking Pierre and the mysterious "big shot" behind him — Pierre himself was lounging comfortably in a padded armchair, toying with a certain... infamous Arican souvenir.
A Chicago Typewriter.
An original Thompson submachine gun.
But there was one disappointnt:
"No drum mag? Tsk. Zero points for style."
As he fiddled with the weapon, a translucent system prompt popped up in front of him:
[New skill detected: "Marksmanship." Learn this skill?]
→ Yes.
In an instant, a rush of firearms knowledge flooded his mind — how to aim, how to handle recoil, how to control breathing. All the techniques a trained shooter would master were now burned into his mory.
Pierre didn't know if the system's Level 2 Marksmanship made him a hobbyist or a military-grade specialist. But one thing was certain:
The Thompson in his hands no longer felt like a novelty from gangster movies.
It felt like an extension of his arm.
He pulled the bolt back with practiced ease and dry-fired the weapon.
Click.
The snap of an empty chamber rang clean in the room — but sothing felt off.
Frowning, Pierre instinctively field-stripped the gun in seconds.
His fingers moved with the precision of a seasoned armorer.
"Bronze H-block for delayed blowback... worn out. Needs replacing," he muttered.
And then he blinked.
Wait.
How the hell did I know that?
The realization hit: he didn't just understand how to shoot.
He understood how the damn thing worked — down to the materials and tolerances.
A new idea sparked.
"This design is so complicated... no wonder it's so expensive."
He set the Thompson down and let his mind wander — and then it hit him:
The Owen submachine gun — a weapon he'd once seen in a dusty Australian arms journal — stupidly simple, with only 17 parts total, including the mag and stock.
Made from stamped tal, welded and bolted together like a plumber's bad dream... but it worked.
"Only seventeen parts," he whispered.
"Reliable. Easy to make. Deadly enough."
And suddenly, he could see it.
The whole gun — its internal workings, the recoil system, its crude but genius engineering — ca into focus like a schematic downloaded straight into his head.
"Wait a minute... could I build this?"
He reached for a pencil and paper.
No sooner had he begun sketching than the system pinged again:
[New skill available: "Light Weapons Design." Learn this skill?]
→ "Learn. Now."
And with that, a new wave of data poured into his brain — weapons theory, tallurgy, manufacturing processes, tolerances, stress limits... even CAD-style drafting techniques.
"Oh mon Dieu... this isn't learning. This is a data dump straight from God."
He leaned back, stunned.
This system wasn't a "tutorial." It was a mastermaker.
He wasn't just a shooter now.
He wasn't even an engineer.
He was a designer.
The childish doodles he'd scribbled earlier?
Tossed into the trash.
Now, with chanical clarity and designer's grace, Pierre began sketching schematics from mory — starting with the Owen clone in his head.
Piece by piece.
Slide, barrel, trigger group, spring assembly... each labeled with precision.
Even the types of steel required for each part — all annotated in crisp block letters.
In under two hours, he had a full stack of blueprints laid across his desk.
"Seventeen parts. That's it. A child could assemble it with a wrench and a prayer."
His lips curled into a smirk.
"Now this... this is genius. Real genius."
He stood, admiring his work like a Renaissance artist basking in divine inspiration.
"Honestly," he said aloud, "I didn't ask to be this good."
He glanced to either side, then sighed dramatically.
"What a sha there's no grand piano here. I could've unlocked 'Concert Pianist' next..."
But deep down, he knew what this really was:
This system didn't just teach skills. It turned you into a master.
And not just any master — the kind people would rember for a hundred years.
He admired his blueprints once more, whispered to himself:
"I just wanted to be normal.
But I guess I was born to be brilliant..."
As if in response to his newfound divinity, a pair of headlights flickered outside his window.
A car had pulled up.
Soone was bringing him money.
Of course they were.
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