The Mafia Empire

Apologizing, he looked up, only to find himself facing another group of young m.

The leader wore a flat cap and a trch coat, its op front revealing a checkered wool sweater underneath.

"Watch where you're going!" the young man said.

The vagrant nodded repeatedly. The young man seemed to reconsider something, th reached into his pocket, pulling out a one dollar bill and tucking it into the vagrant's coat.

"It's getting cold. Go buy yourself something warm for the winter."

Stunned, the vagrant watched as the group walked away. It wasn't until they were out of sight that he finally looked down at his torn pocket, where the one dollar bill lay siltly.

"How do you use this thing?" Graf asked as he toyed with the handgun he had tak from the unconscious police officer. He wasn't guinely interested in learning how to use the weapon, but he needed something to distract him from the fear gnawing at him after the attack on the police.

In the momt he knocked out the officer, Graf had felt a surge of bloodthirsty excitemt, as if some long suppressed instinct had suddly be unleashed. But after that brief rush, he returned to being a regular person, filled with anxiety and fear.

Wh people cross the boundary of law, they feel an overwhelming power in that momt, as if they are no longer restrained by law, morality, or society, and can become a differt person tirely, free to do as they please.

However, once they step back from that boundary, they, like Graf, start to worry. The chains of law, society, and morality bind the most complete version of a person, locking their true self deep within their soul, never to see the light of day.

That's why he needed something to occupy his mind, to keep from dwelling on the consequces of attacking a police officer.

His question was a good one, because most of the boys in this group came from single-part homes—fathers who had be forcibly drafted to the front lines as cannon fodder. Because of this, they all had some familiarity with firearms.

No sooner had Graf finished speaking than a boy named Simoric took the gun from him, holding it expertly.

"First, you need to decide whether you actually plan to use it. See this part?" Simoric pointed to a small button near the grip of the gun. "You press this down, th push this up... and you're ready to shoot."

In this world, firearms still used crystal ergy as their driving force. It seemed the whole world revolved a these crystals—large machines of war were powered by them, as were steam gines. The base of the handgun's grip housed a sealed ergy chamber, and as long as the heat ergy from the crystal wasn't fully depleted, the steam pressure would keep the chamber sealed.

Wh the safety mechanism was toggled, the crystal was pushed into a catalyst chamber, triggering a reaction.

Once the trigger was pulled, the projectile, or "bullet," was launched by the immse pressure, capable of causing lethal damage.

The bullet was a hollow metal cylinder, just 7 millimeters in diameter and ctimeter long, with a conical tip. The range of this police-issued handgun was only about twty meters, with a firing rate of just two s per second.

In the military, there were larger firearms with a variety of uses—over a doz types in total. Some could fire continuously, with rates reportedly reaching five s per second. The most powerful automatic weapon, however, was likely the heavy gun mounted on the AT platform, with twelve barrels...

Graf quickly learned how to operate the relatively simple handgun. After fiddling with it for a bit, the Wild Rose Bar came into view.

Compared to the dark stretch of road they had just traversed, tering the cter of Ternell City was like stepping into a differt world—brighter, more bustling. Nearly all the city's wealth and activity were conctrated within these few blocks. The wagons circled a to the back alley of the Wild Rose Bar, avoiding the front trance.

The bar's employees, already waiting, quickly called out for Mr. Colt. As soon as Colt saw Graf, he spread his arms wide, stepping forward to give the large man an awkward hug. Wh they parted, Colt glanced down at his clothes, noticing a smudge of dirt. Though he inwardly cursed Graf, his face showed nothing but happiness. "Fantastic!

I must say, your stuff is amazing. I didn't expect we'd need to restock so soon. So, did you bring my goods?"

Graf stepped back, uncomfortable with the perfumed man's embrace. "Of course. Where's the money?"

"Right here!" Colt pulled out a check and handed it over. He did have cash, but that was his own. The check, however, was Wood's. Checks were the most widely used form of currcy in the world of capital, ingrained in everyday life. The Imperial Ctral Bank had ev issued checkbooks with a maximum limit of five thousand dollars per check.

As long as the amount did not exceed the check's limit and had the proper signatures and codes, it could be cashed at the bank.

Graf couldn't tell if the check was guine, but he remembered Julian's advice: don't worry about Colt not paying up—unless Colt didn't want to see the sunrise the next day. It wasn't an idle threat. As a businessman dabbling in illegal activities, Colt knew full well the consequces of cheating. If he took what wasn't his, he had better be prepared to lose the hand that reached for it.

After pocketing the check, Graf looked at him again. "There's more."

"More?!" Colt froze for a momt. "I just gave it to you!"

Graf gave him a strange look, forcing Colt to check himself for anything out of place. He was acting so naturally that Graf couldn't tell whether he had truly forgott or was putting on a show.

"The balance from the last shipmt. You've sold most of the goods already, so it's time to settle the account." Graf reminded him, and Colt's face fell.

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