darthv3rsil

Vekom never expected much from life. He was just a low-ranking enforcer working for a private arms-dealing outfit the kind of guy who took orders, cleaned up messes, and kept his head down. Between blood-soaked missions in war zones, he found peace only in war games: Call of Duty, Counter-Strike, Resident Evil  places where he had control, where death was just a respawn away.

But reality had no pause button.

Betrayed by the only people he thought he could rely on, gunned down in the dirt after a weapons deal with African rebels, Vekom died with bitterness in his heart. No prayers. No hope. Just one burning wish:

“Next time, I decide who lives… and who dies.”

And somehow… someone listened.

Reborn in an alternate version of Earth Colombia, 1989, where drug lords rule and bullets decide fate Vekom awakens with a strange voice in his mind: the Lord of Arms System. It gives him access to every weapon ever created by mankind, from ancient blades to cutting-edge firearms. But there’s a catch: nothing comes free. Every bullet, every gun, every upgrade must be bought and money only flows to those who seize it.

Thrust into a brutal new world, Vekom isn’t trying to be a hero. He’s not out for revenge or redemption. All he wants is to survive on his own terms  and never be used again.

But as his arsenal grows, so does the weight of his choices.
Because when you can arm an army with a thought… what kind of man do you become?

Lord of arms

The city was louder at night. Horns. Screams. The occasional crack of distant gunfire. But Vekom had learned long ago that noise was normal in a place built on crime. It was silence that meant death was nearby.

He walked with purpose now. Same tattered tank top. Same boots scavenged from a dead man's closet. But his eyes moved different. He was watching. Listening.

The System was quiet in his head unless called, but it was always there. A subtle hum behind his thoughts. He now had a small stash of credits and a modest catalog of weapons. Pistols, shotguns, a few pre-war automatics. Basic, but deadly in the right hands. And in this world, that was more than enough to make people listen.

He kept to the shadows and alleys, avoiding the cartel hot zones. Medellín wasn't just dangerous — it was layered. The police were corrupt. The military stretched thin. And the cartels ran like kingdoms inside a crumbling republic. Escobar was the king. But kings couldn't rule forever.

A young man named Mateo found him the next day. Word was already spreading — a quiet outsider, fast trigger, clean deals, no bullshit. Mateo was thin, anxious, with a broken nose and the twitchy hands of someone used to being beat down by life.

"You're the one who sold to Jorge's crew, right?" he asked.

Vekom didn't answer. He just lit a smoke and waited.

"They said you got more. That true?"

"That depends," Vekom said, exhaling. "You looking to make noise? Or bury someone?"

Mateo looked around, then leaned closer. "A deal went bad with a guy from La Familia. He took a shotgun to my brother's chest. I want him gone."

Vekom looked him over. "Then you're gonna need more than anger."

They moved into an abandoned garage. Vekom summoned the interface. It flickered to life in front of his eyes, unseen by Mateo. He purchased a pump-action Winchester 1897 and loaded it with six shells. It dropped into his hands clean, gleaming in the dusty light.

"Half up front," Vekom said. "Other half when I hear you used it."

Mateo nodded, handed over the cash without flinching.

"₱1,500 earned. Reputation increased. System Stability: +1%."

When the kid left, Vekom turned his gaze to the growing number in his ledger. The system tracked everything — sales, clients, geography, weapon types. It was a war merchant's dream.

He needed roots. Storage. Contacts. Clean fronts. Eyes in every neighborhood.

He spent the next three days mapping the local underground. He didn't interfere. Just watched. He learned which clubs trafficked drugs and which ones ran guns. He noted which police took bribes and which ones simply looked the other way. He listened to every whisper about Escobar's supply routes and which barrios were loyal to rival factions.

Then he made his second sale. A cache of revolvers and ammo to a bar owner who doubled as an enforcer for a small gang caught between Escobar's shadow and the city's decaying justice system. It earned him twice what Mateo had paid, and more importantly, the bar owner owed him a favor.

That night, he used his profits to upgrade.

"Unlocking 1960s-era small arms. Submachine guns available. Tier One threshold reached."

A new set of weapons appeared in his catalog — UZIs, MAC-10s, AR-18s, and the first bolt-action sniper rifle in the store.

And the world didn't even know his name yet.

Chapter 2