While Don Gambino was still dreaming of a clean future for his family empire — and silently thanking Pierre and the mysterious "big shot" behind him — Pierre himself was lounging comfortably in a padded armchair, toying with a certain... infamous American souvenir. A Chicago Typewriter. An original Thompson submachine gun. But there was one disappointment: "No drum mag? Tsk. Zero points for style." As he fiddled with the weapon, a translucent system prompt popped up in front of him: [New skill detected: "Marksmanship." Learn this skill?] In an instant, a rush of firearms knowledge flooded his mind — how to aim, how to handle recoil, how to control breathing. All the techniques a trained shooter would master were now burned into his memory. Pierre didn't know if the system's Level 2 Marksmanship made him a hobbyist or a military-grade specialist. But one thing was certain: The Thompson in his hands no longer felt like a novelty from gangster movies. It felt like an extension of his arm. He pulled the bolt back with practiced ease and dry-fired the weapon. The snap of an empty chamber rang clean in the room — but something felt off. Frowning, Pierre instinctively field-stripped the gun in seconds. His fingers moved with the precision of a seasoned armorer. "Bronze H-block for delayed blowback... worn out. Needs replacing," he muttered. How the hell did I know that? The realization hit: he didn't just understand how to shoot. He understood how the damn thing worked — down to the materials and tolerances. "This design is so complicated... no wonder it's so expensive." He set the Thompson down and let his mind wander — and then it hit him: The Owen submachine gun — a weapon he'd once seen in a dusty Australian arms journal — stupidly simple, with only 17 parts total, including the mag and stock. Made from stamped metal, welded and bolted together like a plumber's bad dream... but it worked. "Only seventeen parts," he whispered. "Reliable. Easy to make. Deadly enough." And suddenly, he could see it. The whole gun — its internal workings, the recoil system, its crude but genius engineering — came into focus like a schematic downloaded straight into his head. "Wait a minute... could I build this?" He reached for a pencil and paper. No sooner had he begun sketching than the system pinged again: [New skill available: "Light Weapons Design." Learn this skill?] And with that, a new wave of data poured into his brain — weapons theory, metallurgy, manufacturing processes, tolerances, stress limits... even CAD-style drafting techniques. "Oh mon Dieu... this isn't learning. This is a data dump straight from God." He leaned back, stunned. This system wasn't a "tutorial." It was a mastermaker. He wasn't just a shooter now. He wasn't even an engineer. The childish doodles he'd scribbled earlier? Tossed into the trash. Now, with mechanical clarity and designer's grace, Pierre began sketching schematics from memory — starting with the Owen clone in his head. Slide, barrel, trigger group, spring assembly... each labeled with precision. Even the types of steel required for each part — all annotated in crisp block letters. In under two hours, he had a full stack of blueprints laid across his desk. "Seventeen parts. That's it. A child could assemble it with a wrench and a prayer." His lips curled into a smirk. "Now this... this is genius. Real genius." He stood, admiring his work like a Renaissance artist basking in divine inspiration. "Honestly," he said aloud, "I didn't ask to be this good." He glanced to either side, then sighed dramatically. "What a shame there's no grand piano here. I could've unlocked 'Concert Pianist' next..." But deep down, he knew what this really was: This system didn't just teach skills. It turned you into a master. And not just any master — the kind people would remember for a hundred years. He admired his blueprints once more, whispered to himself: "I just wanted to be normal. But I guess I was born to be brilliant..." As if in response to his newfound divinity, a pair of headlights flickered outside his window. Someone was bringing him money.