Unable to repay my student loans, I had no choice but to work part-time as a demon hunter.

"Who was that just now?" Gordon watched the three business representatives leave.

They walked out of the alley, went to the main street, took a carriage, and disappeared quickly at a speed that defied traffic regulations.

"People from Midas Industries," Sinclair said helplessly. "They want my gun blueprints."

Midas Industries.

Lundnium is a manufacturing giant with businesses spanning arms, railways, and shipbuilding.

"What kind of gun?" Gordon asked curiously.

"It reloads faster than any other gun of this era," Sinclair said mysteriously. "It's suitable for soldiers and source hunters alike... If the locking mechanism can withstand the chamber pressure of silver halide bullets, it could become the standard weapon for the next generation of hunters."

Vera glanced at her sword.

The longsword remained silent, but the times may be beginning to eliminate it.

"They want the blueprints for the new rifle? They can buy them out for a hefty price," Gordon said.

“It’s different. I want an exclusive patent for this new gun,” Sinclair said. “It’s a gamble. I’m betting that I’m the first person in all of Logris to design this rifle, and every gun I make will bring me revenue.”

After Sinclair finished speaking, he became engrossed in his vision.

"Then you don't need to apply for a patent for the whole gun," Gordon said.

Sinclair snapped out of his reverie and rubbed his mustache.

"Mr. Vic," Sinclair said skeptically, "I remember you studied biomedical engineering, why would you be interested in guns?"

"Of course I don't know about guns, but I know how someone will steal your money," Gordon explained.

"I'd like to hear more details." Sinclair's expression turned serious.

"If you take the whole gun to apply for a patent, Midas Industries can simply copy the locking mechanism, change the firing device, modify the shape of the stock and the length of the barrel, and claim that the gun is their original creation. They can then mass-produce it, and you won't get a penny. If you take it to court, your son's generation may not see the result, and even then, it may not be in your favor."

Sinclair paused for a moment.

That's true, and it even seems to be the routine operation of Midas' legal department.

He is only interested in the craftsmanship and has little experience in how to protect the results.

If the company plays dirty tricks on him, he really doesn't have any good solutions.

Gordon, on the other hand, was someone who wouldn't miss a single pound.

"What should we do then?" Sinclair couldn't help but wonder.

“Take it down to the smallest detail,” Gordon said. “You can patent the gun’s locking mechanism, the ejector, even the stock you design, or new propellant bullets, and that makes a huge difference. Any factory that uses a similar design, no matter how the gun is modified, will have to pay this address a fee.”

"Hiss..." Sinclair nodded.

He originally spoke about it with a bit of pride.

Unexpectedly, Gordon was able to point out the key to this, which could bring Sinclair huge benefits.

  

Gordon naturally understands these things very well.

He can sell a spider three times, so he can't tolerate someone selling a technology only once.

"I understand." Sinclair spoke to Gordon in an even more serious tone. "Once I invent that kind of gun and make money, I'll give you one."

"Then I'll look forward to it." Gordon greeted Sinclair, after all, he would be getting a good gun.

"Please." Sinclair invited Gordon and Vera to sit in the inner room of the workshop.

Gordon thought the craftsman's house was rather dirty, perhaps smelling of oil, or even containing unfinished products that might spontaneously combust.

Sinclair, however, had the room spotless. The fireplace was burning, and large pieces of wood were burning inside the brass bars, illuminating the clock, vases, and books with a bright and warm glow. The air was filled with the aroma of delicious food.

He and Vera sat on a floral-patterned sofa.

Sinclair brought out strong tea, beef pies, and a package of butter cookies bearing the logo of the "Style" food company, which he neatly arranged on the low table for the guests.

[Delicious beef patties. The most worthwhile death a cow could ever have.]

The aroma is delightful.

Vera, however, did not move.

She glanced at Gordon first.

That expression...

It seems to be waiting for some command.

Sinclair couldn't help but raise his eyebrows.

Gordon took out his "Health Management Record" and glanced at the clock on the wall.

"How long has it been since your last meal?" Gordon asked.

"Four hours and twenty minutes."

"You can eat 700 grams of pie, which is half the size of a meat pie. You can only eat two cookies, as they are too high in calories."

"I scared away three people just now, that's a waste of my energy."

"You only said seven words. Ignore that."

"I released my killing intent."

"Can murderous intent also be released?"

Vera glared at Gordon, who now knew that killing intent could indeed be released.

"...Give Miss Cartret two more cookies," Sinclair interjected promptly. "It's dinner time, and we can't let people think the workshop is so poor that it can only afford half a pie. We also don't want our last order of the day to be collecting Mr. Vic's corpse."

"Okay." Gordon allowed Vera to have another cookie. "The third one is on the bill for social obligations, not a real need."

"Okay." Vera took the three cookies.

Gordon cut the pie open, and thick gravy overflowed from beneath the flaky crust, releasing the aroma of onions and black pepper. He shared half with Vera.

Vera ate quickly, but no longer in a way that would leave people speechless as before.

After eating and drinking her fill, Vera placed the sword on her knees and sat upright, pretending to doze off.

It's like exercising restraint, or like mentally eating the last half of a pie.

Sinclair makes tea for Gordon.

As he got closer, he couldn't help but lower his voice.

"Excuse my bluntness," Sinclair said, "but how did you manage to do that?"

"I am a doctor, and Miss Cartrett is my patient. Monitoring her diet is part of the treatment," Gordon explained.

"...Really?" Sinclair asked, looking skeptical.

"Yes, he will manage my health and routine to prevent me from abusing Source Power and drugs," Vera said.

"See, that makes perfect sense," Gordon said.

"He would also check my wounds, examine my eyes and limbs, and sometimes order me to lie down. If I moved, he would hold me down," Vera said.

Sinclair stopped pouring tea.

"That's treatment, it's medical care!" Gordon quickly tried to salvage the situation, seeing Sinclair's increasingly strange expression.

"If I do well, he'll reward me, like he did just now, by giving me an extra cookie," Vera said seriously.

God!

What kind of training has this turned out like?

Sinclair's expression froze.

"I'm not bullying you," Gordon quickly said.

"I didn't say it was bad." Vera looked at Gordon.

The room was quieter.

Sinclair cleared his throat, unwilling to listen to this increasingly awkward conversation any longer.

"Alright, alright." He tried to keep himself composed and nodded subtly. "I know, those who understand, understand."

"...What has Mr. Sinclair produced lately?" Gordon changed the subject.

“Of course.” Sinclair went down that path. “I turned that source of sorrow into a collar that evokes painful memories in criminals and sold it to the Lundnim Police Department. The wearer will constantly recall their saddest and most unwilling memories. The patrol officers liked it and thought it was more effective than hitting them in the stomach.”

"Very good, very good, this is what civilization is all about."

"In addition, I used a source material with somewhat strange properties to create a blasting bottle and gave it to a famous hunter on Wycliff Street."

Gordon nodded.

Who knows which lucky person in the future will be hit on the head by a bottle of failure at the most crucial moment in their life?

That's what makes spiritual crafts so fascinating.

It can transform unsuitable source materials into products that humans need more.

Madness, sadness, failure, corruption... swallowing them only causes trouble, but throwing them out can bring benefits.

Sinclair is clearly an expert.

"Well then, I have an order." Gordon slowly unfolded a drawing.

Your drawing depicts a terrifyingly large baby.

After the paper was unfolded, a trace of the craftsman's solemnity finally appeared on Sinclair's face.

This blueprint...

It outlines a device that Sinclair never imagined.

It includes an elliptical core chamber, a pair of auxiliary chambers on the left and right, an inlet, a drain valve, a pressure gauge, a sampling port, an observation window, an insulation layer, and a complete set of mechanical structures that allow the chamber to simulate contraction...

Sinclair did not ask about the purpose first.

Because this picture is drawn so well and so cleanly.

The lines are straight, and the curves are precise. Sinclair tried to draw circles freehand when he was a child, and he has only now mastered the skill.

And every circle in this drawing is drawn as well as Sinclair.

The scariest thing is... this picture seems to have never been altered; it was created in one go.

"Who drew this?" he couldn't help but ask.

"I."

"What kind of equipment?"

"pencil."

"Which company makes the drafting ruler?"

"Didn't buy it, saved money."

"So this was drawn freehand?"

"Yes, yes," Gordon said.

A sense of respect arose in Sinclair's heart, and he looked at the blueprints again.

It feels as if the illustrator already has a precise image in their mind, and the pen is simply responsible for transferring it to paper; it's truly a remarkable skill.

He nodded.

"Mr. Vic, if you're ever looking for a job, you can come here and help me with my drawings," Sinclair said earnestly.

"salary?"

"13 gold pounds per year."

"That's too little," Gordon immediately rejected.

Sinclair couldn't help but feel a pang of regret.

Then, he turned his attention back to the diagram.

Although Gordon tried his best to label these contents and depict it as a proper experimental device.

But Sinclair ultimately remained silent.

think carefully.

Looking at the "structure that can autonomously twitch back and forth" and the "strangely clear tubular channels".

His first thought was...

Is Gordon going to invent the world's first automatic stirrer?