Nolan's eyes drifted across the glowing text of the simulator interface.
[Selected consumption cooldown reduction time: forty-two hours]
[Current remaining cooldown reduction time: one hundred and eighteen hours]
He blinked, processing what he was seeing. The resource time he'd consumed had directly reduced the simulation cooldown. A slow grin spread across his face.
One and a half months. He'd survived for one and a half months in that simulation.
It was his longest run yet since obtaining the simulator.
Was it the Emperor's blessing? Or perhaps Commissar Cain's influence, that legendary survivor whose reputation preceded him across the Imperium? Nolan chuckled at the thought. Probably both.
He turned his attention back to the reward options hovering before him. The first two items barely registered. His hand moved without hesitation toward the third option.
Kephas Cain's masterfully crafted chainsword.
One of the iconic weapons of the Warhammer universe. Every Space Marine, every Imperial Guard officer worth their salt, every hero of mankind carried the image in their wake: a bolter in one hand, a chainsword in the other. That legendary silhouette of Imperial might.
Nolan was halfway there already. He had the plasma pistol. Now he'd have the blade to match.
Besides, he'd learned something important through all these simulations. No matter how much equipment he acquired during a run, the rewards were always random. He could only choose one from what the simulator offered. The only exception had been the Emperor's gifts, like the plasma pistol that never overheated.
Though honestly, Nolan wasn't eager to receive more divine blessings. If the Emperor turned His gaze upon him again, it wouldn't just be Chaos daemons he'd have to worry about. The attention of the Four Gods followed wherever the Emperor's light shone brightest, and Nolan had no desire to become a pawn in that eternal game.
His wandering thoughts snapped back to the present as weight materialized in his palm.
The chainsword appeared from nowhere. One meter and thirty centimeters long, half a foot wide at the blade, and five kilograms of brutal Imperial craftsmanship. Nolan surged to his feet, his arm adjusting to the weapon's balance. He gave it a few experimental swings.
Even with the motor off, the single-edged blade cut through the air with a low, threatening hum. The saw teeth lining the edge caught the light, each one sharp enough to bite through bone and ceramite alike.
Five kilograms felt perfect in his enhanced grip. Heavy enough to carry real momentum, light enough to control with precision. He could cave in a skull with the weight alone, no motor needed.
His fingers found the activation switch on the hilt. The grin on his face widened.
He flipped it.
The motor roared to life. The bedroom filled with a thunderous mechanical scream as countless adamantium teeth blurred into motion, spinning so fast they became a terrifying, shimmering edge of death. Vibrations traveled up Nolan's arm, raw power thrumming through steel and flesh. The sound was beautiful, deafening, absolutely perfect.
The door burst open.
His aunt stood in the doorway, eyes wide, staring at her nephew who stood grinning like an idiot with a roaring chainsword in his hands.
"Nolan, you..."
He slapped the switch off. The motor died with a descending whine.
"Haha, they issue these to me for my 'side gig'," Nolan said quickly, his smile turning sheepish. "I just wanted to, uh, test it out."
His aunt's shock faded almost immediately. She rolled her eyes, the gesture so casual it almost gave him whiplash.
"Why do you boys always need to play with knives and guns?" She sighed, exasperated but not angry. "Just be careful you don't hurt yourself. And if you're going to play with that thing, find somewhere without neighbors. The guy next door works night shift."
The door closed.
Nolan stood alone in his bedroom, chainsword still in hand, staring at nothing. His expression cycled through confusion, surprise, and bewilderment.
What just happened?
Had his aunt taken something? Or had all those careful conversations, all that groundwork he'd laid about his "side gig" actually paid off?
He blinked several times, trying to process it. Then he shrugged. Did it matter? His aunt's support was a good thing, however it had come about. No point overthinking it.
Reluctantly, Nolan set the chainsword on his bed. He pulled out his laptop from his desk, booted it up, and opened Chrome. There was a practical problem to solve.
Chainswords in the Warhammer universe required a specific fuel: promethium. Unlike his plasma pistol, which could recharge through heat exposure when its battery ran low, the chainsword needed that metallic compound to keep its motor running.
His frown deepened as he searched. Finally, buried in a specialized industrial forum, he found a market price.
10.000 dollar per ton.
Nolan laughed out loud. Even if he used the chainsword until it fell apart, he probably wouldn't burn through an entire ton of fuel. The cost was negligible.
His tension eased. Then another thought struck him. He navigated to Amazon and ordered a sturdy instrument case. The chainsword was 1.3 meters long, far too conspicuous to carry around openly. He'd need something to conceal it.
Transaction complete, he lay back on his bed and lifted the chainsword with one hand, admiring the weapon from different angles. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Every detail spoke of the Imperium's brutal efficiency.
Almost unconsciously, he opened the simulator again. His eyes found the cooldown timer.
One hundred and eighteen hours remaining.
It seemed like a lot. But as his simulation runs grew longer, surviving months instead of days, the cooldown would become a bottleneck. He needed more resources. Specifically, more guns.
The underworld wasn't an option. Nolan had no intention of becoming a criminal. That left legal channels, but those had their own problems.
He picked up his phone and started researching gun prices and bulk purchase requirements. What he found made him frown all over again.
New York City had some of the strictest gun control laws in the country. Even adults with legal licenses could only own weak pistols. And even if Nolan obtained a license and traveled to a state with looser laws, legal sources limited purchases to one gun every fifteen days.
For someone who consumed firearms like he consumed oxygen, it was laughably insufficient.
Nolan clicked his tongue in frustration and rolled off the bed. He set the chainsword aside, knelt down, and pulled several thick bundles of cash from beneath his mattress. Online research only told part of the story. He needed to visit actual gun shops and talk to people face to face.
After letting his aunt know he was heading out, Nolan left the apartment.
Despite the strict laws, gun shops dotted New York like convenience stores. Even some grocery stores held licenses to sell firearms. Nolan visited several, asking questions, testing the waters with each owner.
Every conversation confirmed what he'd found online. The regulations were real and enforced.
One shop owner, a heavyset man with suspicious eyes, leaned in close. "If you're willing to pay extra, I could maybe sell you ten pistols."
Nolan asked about the price.
The number the man quoted was absurd. He was clearly trying to fleece someone he assumed was a naive kid with too much money and too little sense.
Nolan smiled politely and declined.
Back on the street, he disappeared into the crowd, already thinking about his next move.