The rest floor of the dungeon had a strange, unsettling tranquility about it. Michael paced in the dim glow of the ancient, flickering lightstones embedded in the ceiling, his hand resting on the weapon he had recently crafted. It was still warm from the last round of testing, the crude coilgun now much more than a simple weapon. It seemed to hum faintly, as though the metallic frame were alive.
Michael's eyes traced the rough edges of the weapon. It was by no means pretty—the coilgun was still crude in its design. Sharp edges poked out where Michael had hastily slapped pieces of metal together, and the barrel was made from bits and pieces of scavenged material that didn't quite fit. The bolts were uneven, the wiring visible in some places, and the grip felt like holding an unfinished tool. Yet despite its ugliness, the weapon worked—far more effectively than Michael had anticipated.
Lifting it in his hand, he admired the makeshift e-shotgun, if only for its practicality. The coilgun was unnaturally light, almost disarmingly so. It lacked the weight of the heavy armaments he'd seen in the dungeon's more advanced floors. Even though its appearance was jagged, rough, and unrefined, it was functional—no, lethal—in a way that belied its patchwork structure.
He turned to face the wall of the rest floor again, dark mana swirling through his veins as he gripped the weapon tighter. Taking a slow breath, he aimed and squeezed the trigger.
CRACK!
The sound split the air like thunder. A streak of dark energy shot out of the coilgun's barrel, sending a chunk of stone blasting off the wall ahead. Dust and debris rained down, coating the ground in a fine powder.
Michael lowered the weapon, blinking through the haze of smoke and stone. His breath was heavy, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. That shot had been powerful—far more powerful than before. The recoil was still there, but it was less intense, more manageable. He could feel the coilgun responding to him, adapting to the flow of his mana in real time.
"It's drawing from you," Valencia's voice came from behind him, her tone steady but tinged with concern.
Michael turned slightly, meeting her gaze. Her crimson eyes glimmered in the low light, sharp and perceptive. She had been watching him closely for the past hour, silently studying the weapon as he tested it.
"Yeah," he muttered, frowning as he examined the coilgun. "It's... different. I can feel it feeding off my mana every time I fire it."
Valencia stepped closer, her gaze narrowing as she looked at the gun. "Not just your mana. It's like it's taking something deeper."
She gestured toward the barrel, which now gleamed faintly under the dungeon's weak light. Michael followed her gaze and realized she was right. The metal, once jagged and unrefined, had begun to smooth out. The imperfections were still there, but they were less obvious. The gun was no longer the patchwork contraption it had been when he first put it together. It was evolving.
"It's refining itself," Valencia said, her voice quiet. "The more you use it, the more it... changes."
Michael's frown deepened. He lifted the weapon again, studying the faint glow of runes that had begun to etch themselves into the surface of the barrel. Those weren't there when he'd first assembled it. He hadn't carved them; they had appeared on their own. And they weren't just decorative—they pulsed with power, with a faint, dark energy that mirrored the mana Michael used to fire it.
He aimed at the wall again and pulled the trigger.
The coilgun barked loudly, the blast sending another shockwave through the chamber. But this time, the shot was smoother, faster, more efficient. There was no sharp recoil, no jarring feedback. The weapon felt like an extension of his own body, as though it had been tailored to his exact specifications.
Michael's breath caught in his throat. The coilgun wasn't just evolving—it was syncing with him. His mana, his essence, was being absorbed by the weapon, and in return, the weapon was reshaping itself to fit him. With each shot, it became more efficient, more powerful. But at the same time, it was taking more from him, feeding on his dark mana in a way that felt... alive.
"It's becoming part of you," Valencia said softly, her eyes wide. "Or you're becoming part of it."
Michael lowered the gun, a cold shiver running down his spine. He could feel it now, a connection between him and the weapon, something deeper than mere mana exchange. It was as if the coilgun was whispering to him, calling out to the darkness within him. The darkness that had been growing since his transformation into the Overlord of Death.
He turned to Valencia, his voice low. "We need to see how far this goes."
For the next few hours, they tested the weapon in every way they could think of. Michael fired off dozens of rounds, each one smoother and more precise than the last. With every shot, the coilgun seemed to refine itself, drawing more of his mana and reshaping its structure. The jagged edges smoothed out completely, and the barrel extended, becoming sleeker, more balanced. The handle molded to fit perfectly in Michael's hand, no longer uncomfortable or too angular.
But with each transformation, Michael felt the toll it was taking on him. His mana was being drained faster than usual. He could feel the darkness inside him stirring, growing, as though the weapon was feeding on more than just his energy. It was feeding on his very essence—on the sinister power that had been awakened within him.
By the time they finished, the coilgun had completely transformed. What had once been a rough, crude weapon was now sleek and deadly. The runes that lined the barrel glowed faintly with dark mana, pulsating with a steady rhythm that matched Michael's heartbeat. The gun had become something more than a tool—it had become alive.
"It's... beautiful," Valencia whispered, stepping closer to inspect the weapon. Her fingers traced the glowing runes, her expression a mix of awe and wariness.
Michael wasn't so sure. The weapon felt too light in his hand now, almost weightless. But there was a heaviness to it, a dark presence that clung to the coilgun like a shadow. He could feel it, a bond between him and the weapon, something deep and unbreakable.
"It's not just a weapon anymore," he murmured, staring down at the coilgun. "It's... a part of me."
Valencia nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving the gun. "Be careful, Michael. That kind of power... it's dangerous."
Michael didn't need her to tell him that. He could feel the danger radiating from the coilgun, a constant reminder of the price he was paying to wield it. But he couldn't let go of it now. The weapon had become too important, too powerful. He needed it.
Later that night, as Michael tried to rest, he felt a sudden chill wash over him. His eyes snapped open, and the air around him seemed to grow thick with darkness. Shadows twisted and writhed, pulling themselves together into a familiar, towering figure—the God of Death.
Michael sat up, his heart racing. "Azrael," the god's voice echoed in the room, deep and cold. "You've created something dangerous."
The figure loomed over him, its hollow eyes glowing with an eerie light. Michael clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the god's presence pressing down on him.
"What do you mean?" Michael asked, his voice hoarse.
The god's gaze shifted to the coilgun, which lay nearby, its runes still faintly glowing in the dark. "The weapon you wield... it is more than just a tool. It is alive, and it feeds on your power—on the darkness within you."
Michael swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "It's evolving," he said slowly. "Changing."
The God of Death nodded. "Yes. It will grow stronger as you do, absorbing more of your essence. But be warned—its power comes at a cost. The more it takes from you, the closer you come to losing yourself."
Michael's breath caught in his throat. The coilgun, the weapon he had crafted to help him survive the dungeon, was now a double-edged sword. It was growing stronger, but at the same time, it was pulling him deeper into the darkness, feeding on the very power that had already twisted his soul.
"What should I do?" Michael asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The god's gaze bore into him, unblinking and cold. "Embrace it," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "But know this—true power always demands a price. The question is, how much are you willing to pay?"
With that, the god vanished, leaving Michael alone in the dark, the weight of his words hanging heavily in the air.
Michael stared at the coilgun, his thoughts racing. He had created a weapon to help him survive, but in doing so, he had also created something far more dangerous. It was a living weapon, bound to him, feeding on his power and growing stronger with every shot.
And now, they were both bound to each other, for better or for worse.