As Rosa gently pats me on the head, she comments, "You're awake, sorry, I have to let you sleep." I notice that my thumb no longer hurts and lift my left hand to see that it is missing, replaced by a row of skin stitches. It's as if my thumb was never there, to begin with. Rosa must have sawed off the rest of the bone for aesthetic purposes. Even though my whole hand is covered in a thin layer of bandage, I can tell what she has done.

"I hope you don't mind losing one of your thumbs," Rosa says.

She is wearing the same lab coat as Ostwald but also has a rubber glove on. "I wonder, though," she adds, sighing. "Your sister came here with the exact same complaint."

Rosa points to the rifle that we created together, which looks otherworldly. "Albert is certainly one hell of a gunsmith, creating a rifle like that," she says. "Of course, the only thing missing is a proper scope."

As I lie down in the sterile-ish room, I can't help but feel something is off about Rosa. She looks like a modern-day doctor, complete with a lab coat and glove, and her demeanor and the care she takes with the anesthetic make me wonder if she's more accustomed to modern medicines instead of the classic one I expect from this era.

"He is. what happened outside?" I ask Rosa, trying to take my mind off the procedure.

"Albert is probably just chasing down some varmints," she replies smoothly, with a casual ease that makes me suspicious.

I know that someone was trying to kill me and the only reason I'm still alive is thanks to the thick, cumbersome helmet that Albert gave me. It might be impractical and more likely to break my neck than protect me, but it did its job by deflecting a bullet. I wonder if the helmet was specially tailored for Albert's head or if it's just a general protective measure against the risk of a firearm explosion. Regardless, I know I have to thank him for it.

"Anyway, it won't be long before someone tells your parents that you're missing a thumb," Rosa adds, trying to change the subject. "In fact, Rachel is waiting for you outside."

As I emerge from the room, Rachel is waiting for me, dressed in her usual outfit of a long brown skirt and a white shirt paired with a brown bowtie. She approaches me and grabs my left hand, letting out a sigh of relief.

"I thought you lost your whole hand there," Rachel says, her tone conveying a mixture of 'I told you so' and relief that she's not the only one without a thumb.

"Well, I'm glad that I'm not losing my whole left hand," I reply, looking down at my blood-stained white shirt. It seems that I lost a lot of blood in the process of losing my thumb. Albert had carried me in a princess carry, holding my thumb above my chest as it bled from the hole where it used to be.

“Anyway, what have you been doing with Albert for three days straight?” Rachel asks me about the situation.

“I’m testing a new gun design that I found in father’s library,” I reply.

Rachel looks at the black rifle lying on the ground and picks it up. "It feels lighter and shorter, which is a good thing," she says. The M4 is significantly shorter than the MH rifle, even though it's about the same weight. But it has better ergonomics thanks to the pistol grip and even weight distribution.

I take the rifle from Rachel and examine it. The rail system is scratched, probably from the bullet that almost hit me earlier. I'm still impressed by the crude steel helmet that saved my life.

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"What do you think of my rifle?" I ask Rachel.

"It's cool, I guess," she replies. "But I doubt it will be as powerful as the MH rifle because the barrel is shorter than I like."

“Do you like it?”

“I don’t like shooting rifles.” Rachel shows her thumbless right hand. "So, princess," Rachel says with a smile. "Are you going to return home or what?"

As Rachel and I stroll down the winding road leading back to our grand mansion, the presence of guards is more palpable than ever before. I can see mercenaries wielding muskets on every corner, their piercing gazes scanning the surroundings for any sign of danger. It's clear that my father has doubled the security in the village, likely in response to the recent attempt on my life.

Despite the added protection, a sense of unease lingers in the air. Someone out there wants me dead, but for what purpose? The only reason my death would serve as a profitable move would be as a warning to my father not to mess with them. And yet, the failed assassination attempt only seems to have fueled their determination to send a stronger message.

I can't shake the feeling that something bigger is at play here, a storm brewing on the horizon. All I can do is stay alert and hope that the increased security will be enough to keep me safe.

"Helen, are you okay? Is your head shaking?" Rachel asks me with concern in her voice.

"I'm fine, what's going on?" I reply, trying to figure out the situation.

“It’s the second time something happens to you,” Rachel mumbles, but it was unclear what she is trying to say.

“Huh?”

"It's nothing, my lip just slipped," Rachel mumbles, closing her mouth tightly.

I can't help but wonder what my family is hiding from me. Helen seems like a juicy target. If I were still working with the military and were asked to send a strong message to the government's enemies, I would kill Helen, or even better, kidnap her. But for some reason, there has been no attempt at kidnapping yet.

Rachel and I eventually make our way to the village, the center of it all. The village is eerily quiet, with no one daring to open their shops and soldiers and mercenaries roaming the streets, searching for anyone who could be guilty of something. It's like a ghost town, with an eerie aura of stillness. Our footsteps echo loudly in the silence.

As we approach the mansion, I can see that every curtain is drawn and guards stand at attention along the perimeter. Larse opens the gate for us and practically pushes us inside, slamming the door shut behind us.

"I understand, secure the forest," my father instructs one of the mercenaries, who nods and rushes to the front door, slamming it shut with little regard for the door itself. It's clear that the mansion is on high alert.

Inside, the mansion is eerily quiet, the lamps illuminating every corner of the room. It's clear that my father is paranoid, but I can't blame him after my near assassination. I walk over to him, noticing the sweat dripping down his face. It's a natural reaction, given that his youngest daughter was just targeted.

"Come on, we need to go back to our room," Rachel urges me, her voice laced with urgency. "Father's busy right now."

I nod and follow her, my M4 clutched tightly in my hand. I still have one magazine left in my pocket, along with a box of small rifle primers - enough to keep me well-stocked for a while.

As we walk, Larse approaches me, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Young miss, Albert visited earlier and brought some blueprints to the library. I think you might want to see them." He then scurries off to the kitchen.

I pause, considering my options. I can't leave those blueprints lying around. I need to keep them safe. Instead of heading back to our room, I turn on my heel and head back to the library. When I push open the door, the room is dark, save for a faint glow coming from a lantern on the table. Rachel's chemistry sets and the ingots I purchased with Albert's money are still scattered about.

Even without my left thumb, it’s not an excuse to stop being productive, besides, my thumb isn’t that painful. Time to make more bullets and more magazines.

I put my rifle next to the table and grab a container filled with brass dust. I grab the container and start making more cartridges for the 5.56x45 bullets. My parents are probably too busy dealing with the rising security issues.

Right now, the best defense relies on being aware of the problem itself in the first place. Rachel is too oblivious to this, but I hope my father takes the right step for this. In the meantime, I better craft more bullets for now.