One month later.
I stood in Velusia's workshop, a spacious room that smelled of oil, metal, and the faint scent of ozone from concentrated mana. Artificial sunlight from the ceiling illuminated a large wooden workbench cluttered with sketches, tools, and scattered weapon components.
Velusia stood across the table, her posture straight, her ice-blue eyes watching me with a mix of anticipation and suppressed pride.
"My Lord, is this weapon to your liking?" she asked, her voice calm but with an urgent edge.
On the table lay a long-barreled rifle. I reached out, my fingers tracing the cold metal surface.
The rifle was… beautiful. Too beautiful.
The stock was made of finely polished ebony, carved with intricate vine motifs typical of Elven craftsmanship, reminding me of a musket from the Napoleonic era. However, the barrel and mechanism looked like a blend of art and technology, with sharp lines and matte black metal.
