An everyday quarrel occurs in a corner of the Sargon underground arms market. 'This isn't what we agreed on. These aren't Blacksteel guns!' 'Give it up! Where am I gonna get Blacksteel from? We lost a guy just trying to get this stuff.' 'I need guns I can use! This shit is as good to me as a hammer!' The Vouivre bossman gets angrier, and an assortment of Vouivran musclemen line up behind him. 'How are you going to use a gun if you can't do Originium Arts? Take it or leave it, I don't refund deposits.' The Sarkaz merchant waves his hand, and one after another, his partners draw their blades behind him. 'I can fix this.' As the hostility boils over, a young Vouivran man comes out from the corner. His face is stony, his build frail enough to not even seem Vouivre, and his head of red hair majorly garish. 'I can make those guns usable, and it'd only cost you this much.' Both sides seem convinced by this conservative bid, and make way for him to approach. They watch as the youngster comes up, cracks open the toolkit he keeps on him, and picks up one of the guns. The complete firearm is reduced to parts in his hands, before becoming whole again. His movements aren't fast by any measure, but nobody can tell what happened. The youngster hands the bossman the assembled gun, who doubtfully accepts it. After cautiously fumbling with it, he points the muzzle at the air and pulls the trigger. A clear gunshot resounds through the whole black market. 'It can only fire one shot. If you want it completely functional, I'll have to take it back to my workshop.' Everyone present was ready to slit throats a moment ago, but now all are in unanimous accord. A dozen pairs of eyes focus on the youngster, as if they've found something worth far more than the goods. 'Boy, what did you do just now?' 'Don't be twitchy, just hand it over and nothing bad will happen.' As everyone closes in step by step, he suddenly grins and laughs: 'You foolish philistines! Trying to get a peek of true power with your petite experience? Let me tell you, weapons have souls! Only the truly wise, the truly noble can resonate with them!' For a moment, the chaotic scene once again falls quiet as can be. 'Lunatic,' the Sarkaz spits. The bossman pulls a whole pile of cash from his briefcase and hands it to the youngster, while the Sarkaz merchant takes the rest and leaves, not bothering with a single glance back. 'Boy, you can keep your secrets if you want. I'll give you money and a workspace, and you work for me. How does that sound?' He offers an invitation to the bizarre youth. 'Deal.' The youngster takes up residence in the workroom the bossman gives him. Late at night, he carefully fills a notepad with the quantity and models of the guns from earlier that day, annotated with 'Columbian make, smuggled into Sargon by Sarkaz merchant, circumstances unclear.' 'Good. We start from here.'