Chapter 84: Enchanted Bullets

After loading, Old Biggs stepped up to the shooting position, his belly nearly pressed against the edge of the partition.

But from the waist up, he suddenly went completely still.

His shoulders dropped and his spine straightened. The way he held the gun completely defied his usual sloppy appearance.

He didn't aim for long.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Three evenly spaced shots rang out, the concussive blasts bouncing off the concrete walls.

Gunsmoke drifted from the muzzle, catching the light as three quick-dissipating clouds of white mist.

"Come take a look." Old Biggs set the gun aside, turning the muzzle inward to avoid any misunderstandings.

Richard walked over to inspect the paper target.

Three bullet holes clustered tightly together, placed just left of dead center on the silhouette's chest.

"See that?" Old Biggs called from behind.

"The key isn't how perfectly you aim—it's whether you can hold the exact same rhythm between every shot."

"Shooting is like practicing anything else.

"Start slow. Aim every shot carefully, pull the trigger carefully, and really feel how the recoil travels through your wrist.

"Once you've put five hundred rounds downrange, the muscle memory will naturally take over. There'll be plenty of time to practice rapid fire and shooting on the move then."

He slotted the gun back into his waist holster and patted his round belly.

"But your breathing method foundation is way better than mine was back then. I figure you'll have it down in about three hundred rounds."

Richard didn't take the bait on the "breathing method" comment.

But the fact that Old Biggs could sense his foundation meant the man was also involved in the occult. At the very least, he had a decent level of ether Perception.

Over the next forty minutes, Old Biggs walked him step-by-step through the fundamentals of shooting.

Stance, grip, aim, and trigger rhythm.

"Pulling the trigger isn't a yank—it's a press.

"Keep your finger flat against the trigger and use your first knuckle to ease it back. Your entire arm stays dead still, except for that index finger."

Richard fired his first shot.

The shot went wide, hitting the target on the right shoulder.

"Too low. Aim half an inch higher. Squeeze the trigger halfway through your exhale—never while breathing in."

The second shot landed closer to the chest, but still drifted right.

"You're gripping too tight with your right hand. Give your fingers some slack around the frame—give the gun room to breathe in your hand."

His third shot hit the chest, though a bit high, clipping the collarbone.

"Much better." Old Biggs rubbed his hands together.

"Your problem is that you're overthinking it. You're trying to mentally correct your trajectory with every single shot.

"There's nothing wrong with correcting, but your window for doing it is too long.

"Your finger is hesitating between pulling the trigger and the gun actually firing. Hesitation guarantees a miss."

Twenty-four rounds later, the webbing of Richard's right hand was numb from the recoil.

The bullet holes on the target were scattered across the chest and stomach. The widest shot strayed onto the left arm, while the tightest grouping barely managed to stay within the chest cavity.

For someone handling a gun for the first time, it wasn't a terrible result.

But compared to the tight cluster of Old Biggs' three shots, the skill gap was glaring.

Old Biggs had him set the gun down and relax his arm.

Reaching into his canvas bag, he fished out a small Iron Box.

He popped the lid to reveal a neatly arranged row of bullets that looked distinctly different from standard lead rounds.

"These are Enchanted Bullets." Old Biggs plucked one out, holding it up for Richard to inspect.

Extremely dense, microscopic symbols were etched into the surface of the bullet tip.

Each symbol was no larger than a sesame seed, perfectly arranged around the bullet's conical tip to form a complete, miniature runic ring.

"Silver casings, lead-silver alloy tips, with the most basic exorcism runes carved onto the surface."

Old Biggs explained as he showed it off, his tone shifting from his previous joking manner into something much more serious.

"Against bottom-tier evil creatures like ghouls, ordinary bullets will blow right through their physical bodies, but won't put a dent in their core on the ether level.

"You can shoot a ghoul full of holes and put it on the ground, but as long as its core stays intact, it'll just stitch itself back together in a few hours."

"The runes on Enchanted Bullets solve exactly that problem.

"When the bullet hits the target, the runes discharge an exorcism effect on the ether level. It's the equivalent of slamming their core at the exact same moment you punch through their flesh."

He held the bullet up to the light so Richard could get a clear look at the runic ring's layout.

"Etching runes onto a surface this small requires absolute precision.

"It requires specialized micro-engraving tools and a magnifying glass. Even a master engraver can only churn out about a hundred of these a day."

"And against mid-level evil creatures or higher?" Richard asked.

Old Biggs shook his head. "One shot won't cut it, and ten shots might not even be enough. But it still beats tickling them with plain lead."

He carefully snapped the lid of the Iron Box shut, treating it like a treasure.

"Enchanted Bullets don't run cheap. Just one standard exorcism round will cost you as much as dozens of regular bullets.

"These things are consumables—once they're fired, they're gone for good.

"I've got exactly twelve rounds in this box. I never use them unless I absolutely have to, and I'll only thumb them into the cylinder when there's a real need."

Richard noticed that aside from the brass pot in the toolbox, there were several other small items bundled in cloth.

This was a man who hauled his entire livelihood with him wherever he went.

Old Biggs checked his wristwatch.

"Let's call it a day."

He hopped down from the ammo crate and dusted off his pants.

"Your fundamentals are still a long way off, but they'll pull together after a few hundred more rounds.

"Don't rush out to buy your own gun just yet. Get a solid grip on the feel of the Practice Firearm first."

He zipped up his tool bag, hooked his tin cup back onto its ring, and sauntered off toward the stairs.

He took two steps before looking back.

"Oh, by the way. Keep the Enchanted Bullets to yourself. Don't go running your mouth about them outside.

"This stuff isn't sold on the open market. Where they come from and where they end up isn't something a lot of people need to know."

"Understood."

"Good." Old Biggs nodded in satisfaction.

"Come back next week if you've got the time. I usually kill half the day here on weekends.

"Just head straight down to the basement when you get here. No need to announce yourself."

"Alright. See you next week."

"See you next week, kid."

Richard unloaded the Practice Firearm, cleared the chamber, wiped it down, and locked it back in the iron cabinet.

He signed the return log, grabbed his bag, and headed upstairs.

Passing through the ground floor lobby, he noticed the clerk on duty had swapped out his magazine for a new one.

This one was a special horse racing issue, featuring a chestnut horse frozen mid-jump over a hurdle, all four hooves off the ground.

Pushing through the main doors, Richard followed the narrow alleyway along the wall toward Grafton Street, his mind still lingering on the Enchanted Bullets.

The application of micro-runes was likely a field that crossed between the Secret path and the Hearth Fire Tradition.

Old Biggs might have looked sloppy and careless, but he was actually hiding a wealth of experience.

But the conversation had ended at the Enchanted Bullets today. Old Biggs hadn't elaborated any further, and Richard hadn't pushed.

There was no reason for two people who'd known each other for less than half a day to bare their souls right out of the gate.

He'd learn what he needed to know eventually. There was no point rushing things that couldn't be rushed.

He popped his coat collar against the chill and quickened his pace toward home.