The small script was Papa Oliver's, but he would never have jotted down such an ambiguous note in his own inventory list. Strangely enough, Jenkins had read the line multiple times before discovering the other errors and had never noticed anything amiss. It was only after confirming the information for this particular item was wrong that he could finally grasp what Papa Oliver had written.
Of course, he had also completely forgotten about the gun from the restaurant at noon.
"A gun. I believe it was a handgun, since the shop has never purchased hunting rifles or any other type of firearm."
Papa Oliver raised a hand to his temples, his brow furrowing.
"We've identified the target, but we still don't know what it is..."
Papa Oliver's index finger drummed a steady rhythm on the armrest of Jenkins's sofa. Jenkins, too, was wrestling with the problem.
This unknown influence was clearly affecting him as well. The effect was subtle, but it was undeniably present. Given the current strength of his soul, that should have been impossible. In other words, the supernatural power connected to that gun had to originate from, at the very least, an evil entity from the void—or perhaps even a god.
Jenkins had no idea where to even begin searching, and Papa Oliver refused to seek help from a heretical demigod, remaining utterly stubborn on the matter. After a long moment of deliberation, Papa Oliver called for Jenkins to accompany him out.
"Of course, sir. But where are we going?"
The sky was overcast, and combined with the foul air, the entire street was shrouded in a hazy mist. Letting Papa Oliver lead the way, Jenkins turned and deadbolted his door, sensing they likely wouldn't be back before dawn.
Their destination was the Oil Ink Mister Club, where Jenkins practiced his marksmanship. It was only after an incident last year that he'd learned the place was a stronghold for the believers of the pseudo-god known as the "God of Firearms." Papa Oliver was obviously hoping to find some leads there. While they were still heretics, dealing with them was a far cry from seeking the aid of a heretical demigod.
The Oil Ink Mister Club wasn't far from St. George Avenue, so Jenkins and Papa Oliver decided to simply walk. Along the way, Oliver brought up some news he'd heard at the church earlier, thinking it would interest Jenkins:
"Do you remember that woman who devoured Mr. Stein? The one whose ancient bloodline awakened."
They rounded a corner together, the street ahead illuminated only by the faint, yellow glow of the gaslights.
"Of course I remember."
The words brought back memories of the unfortunate Miss Rick and Garcia.
"It was discovered some time ago that her bloodline awakening wasn't entirely natural. The Keeper of Secrets has now concluded that her blood contained trace amounts of some alchemical substance. To put it plainly, someone injected her with a potion, and that's what led to the tragedy..."
"A potion? Yes, the Keeper of Secrets did mention that."
Chocolate squirmed restlessly in his arms. Having been woken, the cat was no longer sleepy.
"Right, that's the stuff. The exact composition hasn't been analyzed yet, but there's no doubt about the conclusion."
As he spoke, the pair left the gaslit main road and turned into a dark alley—it was a shortcut.
"But that's horrifying, isn't it? To think that the awakening of an exotic bloodline can be induced with a potion."
Jenkins imagined the kind of army a person could raise if they could mass-produce such a thing.
"It's not that simple."
Papa Oliver scoffed, his foot crunching on what sounded like a discarded nutshell.
"That kind of potion could never be universal. The formula has to be precisely calculated and adjusted for the specific strength and type of the bloodline, not to mention the individual's own physiology. Old Jack mentioned something like it once. It's incredibly complex and ridiculously expensive."
"How expensive are we talking?"
"The issue isn't so much the cost as it is the rarity of the ingredients and the scarcity of alchemists capable of making it. In short, it's not a potion that can ever be mass-produced."
It was nearly one in the morning by the time they reached the Oil Ink Mister Club. Unsurprisingly, it was closed. Thıs content belongs to novel⦿fire.net
After a long while of knocking, a doorman finally appeared, lazily shouting through the door to ask if they were robbers. It was only after Papa Oliver and Jenkins provided their membership numbers that they earned his trust. By the time they were finally able to meet with the club's manager, nearly an hour had passed.
They were led to an office inside the club. The walls on either side were lined with antique firearms displayed under glass domes. One was even made of solid gold—Jenkins couldn't mistake the brilliant luster it gave off in the warm light of the paraffin lamp.
"It’s not for eating,"
While Chocolate could be prone to oversleeping, as long as it got enough rest during the day, it was more than happy to roam about at night. In that respect, at least, its habits were just like any other cat's.
"Please, have a seat. Oh, gods, I'm absolutely exhausted. Papa Oliver, some tea? And Mr. Williams, what can I get for you? I think we could all use a little something to wake us up."
The man who greeted them was middle-aged and half-bald, but he carried himself with a remarkable sharpness. Even now, so tired he could barely keep his eyes open, his brisk and decisive manner was startling.
He had to be a believer in the God of Firearms; Jenkins deduced as much from the man's status as a level 3 Enchanter.
The coffee and tea certainly did the trick, especially since whoever brewed them was quite skilled. The three men lifted their cups, took a sip, and let out a collective sigh of relief.
"So, Papa Oliver, what brings you here at this hour? I can assure you, the club isn't harboring any suspicious characters."
From that remark, it was clear the man knew of Papa Oliver's connection to the Church, but it also suggested their relationship was a decent one.
"If you were harboring suspicious characters, I wouldn't be the one paying you a visit."
Papa Oliver retorted, then briefly explained the situation with the gun. He emphasized its memory-altering effects, but it seemed the man, just like everyone else, couldn't retain any of Oliver's specific descriptions of the firearm.
The lack of sleep had made Papa Oliver short-tempered, though it was just as likely he was frustrated from having wasted so much breath. His voice suddenly boomed, jolting Jenkins, who had nearly dozed off, back to full attention:
"I need to know—are there any firearms with the property of being 'unrecordable'?"
"There are many items like that. Which one are you referring to?"
Just as he'd hoped, that line of questioning was effective.