The Rise Of A Billionaire 1943-Chapter 28: New Skill — Weapons Design

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?]

→ Yes.

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.

Click.

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.

And then he blinked.

Wait.

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.

A new idea sparked.

"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?]

→ "Learn. Now."

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.

He was a designer.

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.

Piece by piece.

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.

A car had pulled up.

Someone was bringing him money.

Of course they were.