Beast Devourer: I Grow Stronger by Eating Monsters

Raven had discovered that building a rifle was expensive. Learning that maintaining one would be expensive too was considerably less satisfying.

The sun had barely risen over Kharad when he was already walking through the market with a folded list in his pocket and the Prototype Rifle Mk.I hidden inside the long case strapped across his back.

He didn’t need to carry the weapon just to buy supplies, but he still didn’t trust it enough to leave it in an inn room. After spending weeks gathering five physical components that were probably worth more than some buildings, abandoning the result behind a wooden door seemed particularly stupid.

Valeria walked beside him while Roland had separated from them to argue over horse feed with a merchant who, according to him, was charging as though every sack had been personally transported by a king.

Raven didn’t know how the argument had started, and he had no particular interest in finding out.

He had problems of his own.

”I need steel.”

Valeria looked along the row of stalls.

”There’s a smithy behind us.”

”Not just any steel.”

”You’ve been saying that about everything lately.”

Raven ignored the comment.

Hadrik was already finishing Raven’s first standardized batch that morning: eight projectiles made from the alloy they had selected the previous day, each one individually measured and hand-finished as closely as his tools allowed.

Eight wasn’t much.

That was intentional.

Raven still expected the ammunition specifications to change as calibration improved, and paying for twenty identical rounds before knowing whether he would want the same design a week from now would have been wasteful.

The four provisional calibration rounds they had fired yesterday were gone.

The eight Hadrik was making now would be the first ammunition Raven was willing to call standardized.

What Raven needed from the market was material for whatever came after those eight.

Preferably enough stock for another dozen projectiles if the current specifications survived field testing.

Hadrik had recommended two suppliers, though even he had warned Raven that ordinary tool bars weren’t produced with ballistic tolerances in mind.

Which made sense.

Nobody in Veyr manufactured bullets yet.

Raven found the first stall. The merchant had organized his metal bars by quality and origin, with common iron on one side, tool steel and mining alloys in the center, and several mana-treated pieces displayed separately.

Raven rejected the enchanted materials immediately. He had no intention of introducing another variable into the ammunition before he understood the ones he already had.

He picked up a short bar.

FORGE reacted.

[Potential Projectile Material Detected.]

[Material Consistency: MODERATE.]

[Density Variance: 4.8%.]

[Recommended for Calibration Ammunition: ACCEPTABLE.]

Raven frowned.

”Four point eight.”

The merchant looked up.

”What?”

”Nothing.”

Valeria leaned slightly toward him.

”You’re talking to something nobody else can see again.”

”FORGE.”

”I know. I just enjoy pointing it out when you do it in public.”

Raven picked up another bar.

[Material Consistency: GOOD.]

[Density Variance: 2.1%.]

[Projectile Compatibility: 94%.]

Better.

Then he checked the price.

Worse.

”This one.”

The merchant smiled.

”Excellent choice.”

”That’s what people say when you buy the expensive option.”

”It’s also what people say when someone recognizes quality.”

Raven placed the bar on the counter.

”How much of this do you have from the same batch?”

The merchant indicated several matching lengths.

”All of those.”

Raven calculated the approximate usable mass against the current projectile weight.

”Give me enough for twelve.”

The man paused.

”Twelve what?”

”Pieces.”

”For tools?”

”Ammunition.”

The man blinked.

”For a bow?”

”No.”

”Crossbow?”

”No.”

Valeria raised one hand.

”Don’t ask. It will save all of us time.”

The merchant looked at her, then at Raven, and finally at the long case across Raven’s back.

Curiosity appeared.

Raven met his eyes.

The curiosity disappeared.

Good decision.

The merchant weighed out enough matching steel for approximately twelve projectiles at Raven’s current specifications.

Approximately was important.

Hadrik would lose some material during shaping and finishing, and if FORGE rejected part of a bar for inconsistent density, the final number could be lower.

Raven wasn’t buying twelve bullets.

He was buying enough raw metal to attempt to make twelve more later.

For now, his actual field ammunition would consist of the eight standardized rounds waiting at Hadrik’s workshop.

The steel turned out to be the easy part.

The oil wasn’t.

Raven spent fifteen minutes trying to explain that he needed a lubricant suitable for metal mechanisms exposed to friction and heat without damaging treated biological tissue.

The first merchant offered sword oil, which was too thick. The second had lubricant used for mining machinery, which would probably work well on the Black Mithril and much less well on the rifle’s biological filaments. The third finally produced something designed for the joints of alchemical prosthetics.

FORGE considered it compatible.

Valeria had been watching him compare small bottles for several minutes by then.

”I never expected to see someone analyze oil with this much concentration.”

”If I use the wrong one, it could degrade the insulation.”

”I understand.”

”Then what’s the problem?”

”There isn’t one. It’s simply remarkable that after watching you kill an Elite Matriarch, the most frustrating part of your morning is buying lubricant.”

Raven checked another label.

”Monsters are usually more direct.”

”That explains a great deal about your social skills.”

Raven bought two bottles.

His next problem was storage.

He didn’t want a chest or a loose bag. He needed a compact field case with enough internal separation to prevent individual projectiles from striking one another during travel.

That created another discussion.

The carpenter understood perfectly well what a box was. What confused him was Raven’s insistence on narrow internal compartments.

”How many daggers are you storing?” the man asked.

”None.”

”Then what goes inside?”

Raven took out one of the spent experimental projectile samples he had kept for measurements.

The carpenter held it between two fingers.

”This looks like an arrowhead that forgot to become an arrow.”

Valeria laughed.

Raven didn’t.

”I need twelve spaces that size.”

”Twelve?”

”Yes.”

”I could make twenty for almost the same price.”

Raven shook his head.

”Twelve is enough.”

The carpenter shrugged.

”Your money.”

”Exactly.”

The case wasn’t meant to be filled immediately.

Hadrik’s first standardized batch would occupy only eight of the twelve slots. The remaining four gave Raven room for later ammunition without forcing him to replace the case the moment production increased.

Twelve ready rounds also seemed like a reasonable eventual field load while every shot was still expensive, manually loaded, and capable of putting noticeable stress on the Mk.I. 𝐟𝑟ⅇ

If Raven reached the point where twelve rounds weren’t enough for a normal job, he had probably made several other mistakes first.

While he waited, Raven found a tool stall.

That was where his patience began dying slowly.

The tools themselves weren’t poor. The problem was that they came from a technical tradition completely different from the one Raven knew.

Some had obvious equivalents: hammers, pliers, files, hand drills, and crude calipers. Others had names that meant absolutely nothing to him, while tools he recognized from Earth existed only as strange combinations designed for smiths, artificers, or rune workers.

Raven picked up an instrument with two articulated metal arms.

”Does this measure internal diameter?”

The merchant shook his head.

”Rune-engraving depth.”

”Can it measure internal diameter?”

The man hesitated.

”I suppose.”

”Then it works.”

The merchant looked personally offended by the reinterpretation.

Raven added a small file, a fine-cutting tool, and a set of punches to the growing pile.

Valeria appeared beside him holding something.

Raven looked at her, then at the object in her hands.

It was a small dark-red leather case with silver fittings. Far too decorative for anything Raven would willingly buy and obviously expensive even before he asked.

”What is that?”

”A cosmetics case.”

Raven glanced at his tools and then back at her.

”Why?”

”Because I can.”

”That’s a terrible argument.”

Valeria handed the merchant several coins.

”And yet I still have the object.”

Raven watched her put it away.

”You already have luggage.”

”Now my luggage is better organized.”

”That cost more than my tools.”

”Then your tools were cheap.”

”They weren’t.”

Valeria smiled.

”That makes my purchase even more impressive.”

Raven shook his head.

Several meters away, Roland suddenly shouted.

”I’m not paying that!”

The feed merchant replied with something Raven couldn’t hear.

Roland lifted one of the sacks and shook it accusingly.

”This has more dust than grain!”

Valeria looked toward him.

”Should we intervene?”

Raven watched the argument for several seconds. Roland looked increasingly animated, while the merchant seemed equally determined not to surrender a single coin.

”No.”

”Why?”

”He’s enjoying himself.”

Valeria studied the scene again.

”You’re right.”