Jorgon didn't destroy; he only built destruction. Scattered on his workstation were various blueprints, most of which had failed. Among others was the grant offered to him by the Norcrest government.

Three thousand gold coins, and finally, progress was being made. After hundreds of hours, the Prototype was near completion. The fortune provided to Jorgon funded a terrible, awful future. He lifted the gun he created and observed the rotating barrel.

With this, a gunner could shoot multiple times before a reload was necessary. Some high-tech guns already had two barrels with separate charges and triggers. But with this, there were five charges ready to discharge from a single barrel. When rushed, all shots could fire in less than a minute.

But the genius wasn't the rotating cylinder that dropped the bullets into place, but the explosives attached to the bullets. In the history of firearms, preloading gunpowder into the barrels was common practice, followed by the shot itself.

Jorgon developed a small cartridge loaded with the necessary gunpowder, but at the end was the bullet, meaning they were separate no longer. When the pistol's striker struck the end, the gunpowder exploded, and the bullet launched out of the barrel with high speed.

The inner machinations rotated the cylinder, positioning the next bullet to fire. Just like that, Jorgon had created a new world of warfare.

How will it fold out? Jorgon wondered, leaning back in his chair. He hugged the pistol to his chest. I'm finally ready to reveal this. I'll be praised, compensated far beyond what I can imagine. I’ll be rich, and my family will finally have a reason to love me again!

He turned around in his swiveling chair, and looked past his trophies of ingenuity, and found what meant the most to him—Jorgon’s two sons. Little Mongen was half as tall as the hammer he held. Meanwhile, Mazon wore his bright orange construction head, dented slightly from the time Mongen’s hammer dropped on him from above. That stupid piece of plastic saved his life, and Mazon kept that on his head for two years straight before he could finally let his guard down from blunt objects raining from the sky in everyday life.

Twelve years had passed Jorgon by, and all he had to show for it was a growing belly full of booze and a triple chin, shrouded by a scruffy white beard. His young boys were now men, and they didn’t want their father anymore.

And he couldn’t blame them. He went through their later teens and early adulthoods searching for his “One Great Break.” He sacrificed everything for this moment to come. Man, would it feel good to be validated.

Jorgon froze. What if they hate me even more for this? I mean, I’m bringing a weapon that has the potential to kill hundreds of thousands. Maybe… I won’t tell them of my success. No, I’ll lie.

He couldn’t risk parting the gap between them further. But what would they buy? They were smart children, bright for their youth, no doubt even sharper now. It’s better to keep it a secret, even at the cost of public recognition.

Accept the coin for your work, then retire. Easy. Simple.

Jorgon lifted his head and took a deep sigh.

A knock tapped on the iron door.

“Come in,” Jorgon said.

He always feared an invasion of some sort, a robbery not for his coin but his invention. He carefully concealed the Prototype in his jacket, placing the framed photo of his children in its place.

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Thankfully, the security guard entered. Everything was normal so far.

“Yes?” Jorgon asked.

“It’s getting late,” the man said, the dark gray uniform sporting Norcrest’s colors. His nickname was Pong, and his full name was uncomfortably long to pronounce. The grant provided him with security as one of many benefits for inventing for the military. His work was top secret, never to be shared with anyone other than the contractor who hired him. “We will be heading home soon. Would you like an escort?”

Jorgon yawned. “I have some finishing touches to make. Then I have to start the report. I think we are about done here, so thanks for sticking with me all this time, Pong.”

“It’s been a pleasure working with you, sir,” Pong nodded. “Lock up when you leave, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jorgon dismissed him with a smile. As the door slammed shut, Jorgon brought his gun out. He had nothing to worry about—

A sudden pain struck through his chest. His mouth gaped open to scream, but a hand muffled the attempt. “Shh,” a voice whispered behind him.

Jorgon looked down and saw a large stick push through the center of his torso, his blood seeping from the wound. More than a stick, it was a spear, topped with an iron spike and rough wood dyed with blood. Jorgon whipped the Prototype back in a last-ditch effort pulling for the trigger.

But the man swiped the Prototype from his hand, sending it flying to the floor.

“A shame,” the man said. White of skin with bushy, frizzy hair, he wasn’t a native here on pigmentation alone. His accent was also completely wrong, sounding more Southern. “I was aiming for your spine, but I only brazed it. Oh well, you’re paralyzed enough.”

“W-what’s happening… who are you?” Jorgon spoke with a frantic pace. His body felt like his lifespan shrunk to only a few minutes, and the answers he wanted needed to come quickly or else not at all.

The man left his spear unattended and sauntered to the floor to pick the gun up and off the floor. He pulled the cylinder out as if he perfected it by looking at it alone. He discarded the cartridges in his hand, then removed from his cloak a jug of mead-colored liquid.

“You are here for the gun?” Jorgon asked, pleading to have even a small conversation with the man. He needed to know what was going on. The spear in his torso was agony incarnate, and slowly bleeding out was not the way he wanted to go out. “I’ll do anything; I’ll make you more. Is that what you want? Anything! I’ll do anything!”

The man cocked a smug look in Jorgon’s direction. “Poor fool, too smart for your own good but too naïve to consider what comes next. It’s always what’s next that brings humanity closer to destruction. You were a cog on that wheel, one I took out before it allowed that tragedy to spin.”

“How… how and when did you sneak in?”

“About an hour ago. What, you didn’t notice me?” The man chuckled. He picked up the picture of Jorgon’s children and flashed it in his direction. “You didn’t notice my boots on each side of the frame? I was standing in plain sight on your desk.”

“Impossible, Pong would have noticed you.”

“Yeah, he must be blind too,” the man said. He uncapped the jug of liquid and sighed. “But don’t stress over it. Most men these days are blind to what they cannot comprehend.”

“Who… who are you?”

“Truth,” he said. “I ensure the reality you live and prevent reality you cannot possibly fathom. Your intellect risked more than the lives of the warriors of tomorrow but entire generations to come. We are only fortunate I got here in time to cease you before your damage spread.”

Then, Truth started pouring the liquid over his desk. Definitely not alcohol. It smelled too much like rotten eggs, and he ran it everywhere, first removing the blueprints to his design before drenching the table.

He lifted a match and rubbed a flame off the side of the box.

“Wait!” Jorgon pleaded. “I have one last request. If you have any humanity left in you, you’ll hear me out and maybe even help me.”

Truth raised an eyebrow.

He’s listening. Good. Now, don’t butcher this!

“My sons, they mean the world to me. Could you hand those blueprints over to them? Let them sell it—”

Truth tossed the match on the table, and a surge of flames erupted. The spear pinning Jorgon through the chair caught the embers, and his demise was closing in.

“Did you not hear a word I just said?” Truth started laughing. He then tossed the blueprints into the flames, and Jorgon’s life’s work incinerated just like that. The heat from the fire soon blinded Jorgon. Sight was no longer a privilege he had. “You, my friend, are comedy! And your sons? They already came up with this very contraption two years ago. It’s not as ingenious as you thought; many have come up with this design thousands of times over. I’ve long taken care of them. So farewell. Make your amends with them in the afterlife.”

Jorgon heard the steps of boots hit the ground past the crackling flames soon to swallow him, but he didn’t see him leave. But, with heavy relief, Jorgon gave up. He embraced his death, no longer with the burden of his sons on his heart. They grew up to be the same kind of monster he was.