Misty Valley – 2 Kilometers Behind Iron Hearth Castle. Pre-Dawn – T-Minus 3 Days Before Invasion.
The thick, cold fog still blanketed the valley floor, limiting visibility to less than ten meters. The damp morning air bit into the skin, yet the five figures lying prone atop the rocky hill did not move an inch. They blended perfectly with the terrain, covered in mud-gray camouflage cloaks.
No sound of breathing. No restless movements.
In their hands, they held weapons the likes of which this world had never seen. Long, sleek, and finished in a light-absorbing matte black. The barrels weren't large-bore like Muskets; instead, they were surrounded by copper coils and faintly glowing blue crystals.
Sir Riven Sudrath stood behind them, observing through magical binoculars. His face was stern, his eyes narrowed as he stared at the target across the valley—a straw dummy dressed in standard Iron Empire plate armor, 800 meters away.
"Target locked," one of the shooters whispered. His voice was flat, devoid of emotion. It was Borch, the former Iron Merc who had once succumbed to hallucinations in the cave, now the leader of this new unit.
"Wind speed, two knots east. High humidity. Zero angle correction," Borch muttered, his eye pressed against the optical sight crafted by Rianor.
In this era, hitting a target 800 meters away was an impossibility. The best arrows were only effective at 150 meters. The enemy's Muskets were only accurate at 50 meters.
"Permission to engage, Commander," Borch requested.
Riven lowered his binoculars slightly. "Permission granted. Keep it silent."
Borch didn't pull a heavy mechanical trigger. He merely tapped an electronic trigger button with his fingertip.
There was no explosion of black powder. No spark of fire. No puff of white smoke that usually informed the enemy of the shooter's position.
Only a sharp, brief hum of electricity.
ZIIING!
A solid iron needle projectile, the size of a pinky finger, shot out from the electromagnetic barrel. Its velocity reached Mach 5—five times the speed of sound. The air around the muzzle split, creating a momentary spiral of distortion.
A fraction of a second later.
Across the valley, 800 meters away.
BOOM!
The straw dummy didn't just have a hole in it. It exploded.
The kinetic energy carried by the needle bullet was so immense that the plate armor cladding the dummy shattered into fragments like a cracker hit by a sledgehammer. Shards of straw and metal were hurled into the air.
The sound of the impact—a sonic boom—only reached them several seconds after the target was obliterated.
Silence returned.
The valley was still. No one would ever know where the shot had come from.
Riven swallowed hard. The hair on his neck stood on end. As a knight who had spent his life fighting with swords and honor, this weapon felt... unfair. And terrifying.
"Insane," Riven muttered. "No smoke. No muzzle blast here. The enemy will die before they even hear the sound."
He walked over to Borch and patted his shoulder.
"Good. Very good."
Riven turned to face the other four shooters.
"Listen to me carefully. From today on, you are no longer Iron Mercs. You aren't knights who fight in the front lines shouting the King's name."
Riven pointed to the Gauss Rifle MK-1 in their hands.
"You are the Ghost Squad. Your task isn't to win the battle. Your task is to create terror. You will kill their officers, their cannon operators, and their mages from a distance where they can't even see you."
"When the war begins the day after tomorrow," Riven stared into the silent valley. "I want Morvath to feel like every shadow of every tree can kill him."
"Yes, Commander!" they whispered in unison.
Main Workshop – Iron Hearth Castle. Midday.
If the training valley was deathly silent, the castle's main workshop was the definition of a noisy industrial hell.
The sound of hammers forging metal, the hiss of magical welding, and the roar of power saws filled the hot, metal-scented air.
In the midst of the chaos stood the prima donna undergoing a massive "plastic surgery": the TITAN MK-1.
The boxy tank that once looked crude and "ugly" had now transformed.
Sir Rianor and Lady Rumina were leading a team of technicians to install a new layer of armor. They were no longer using recycled monster plates.
They were installing Adamantite plates.
The bluish-black metal they had looted from the Underground City now clad the frontal hull and the turret of the Titan. Adamantite was the hardest metal known to this world—rumored to be forgeable only by dragon fire or lost technology.
"Careful! That's two tons!" Rianor shouted, giving instructions to the lifting team assisted by Elara's levitation magic.
The black steel plate was slowly fitted onto the Titan's body.
CLANG!
The sound was heavy and solid.
"Now, weld it!" Rianor ordered.
Elara and three other fire mages shot concentrated bursts of blue flame at the plate joints, fusing the Adamantite to the steel frame beneath.
"With this layer," Rumina said, wiping oil from her cheek, "Ordinary cannons will only scratch the paint, Brother. Riven can ram a fortress wall without feeling the vibration."
"It's not just defense, Rumi," Rianor interjected. He was fiddling with a large, glass-disc-shaped object atop the Titan's turret.
The object was a massive Searchlight.
Inside, Rianor had installed an ancient Xenon bulb he'd taken from the underground city's airport tower, powered directly by a high-capacity Mana Capacitor.
"Our enemies are ordinary humans. They fear the dark," Rianor said as he connected the last cable. "And Morvath's forces will surely plan to attack at night to avoid the midday heat."
"Elara, test fire!" Rianor commanded.
Elara channeled a bit of mana into the capacitor.
HUMMM...
The sound of the charging power hummed upward.
FLASH!
Instantly, the entire workshop turned white.
The light erupting from the searchlight was so bright, so blinding, that even the shadows in the corners of the room vanished. The workers had to shield their eyes with their arms. It was like placing a sun on top of a tank.
"Turn it off! Turn it off! I'm blind!" Riven shouted, having just entered the workshop, immediately covering his face.
The light died. Leaving black spots in everyone's vision.
"Perfect," Rianor smiled with satisfaction, adjusting his glasses which had now become black welding goggles. "This is a psychological weapon. When we turn this on in the middle of a night battlefield... the enemy will be completely blind, while we can pick them off like ducks in a pond."
Riven approached, stroking the new, cold, jet-black body of the Titan.
"It needs a new name, Brother. MK-1 sounds like a failed prototype."
"How about 'The Black Behemoth'?" Rumina suggested.
"Too long," Riven said. He looked at the Railgun barrel above him.
"Iron Duke. Call it the Iron Duke. It'll make Father happy."
Southern Border of Northreach – Scout Hill. Evening.
While the Sudraths were busy reinforcing themselves with future technology, their enemy approached with the lethal power of the past.
Duke Lucian stood atop the scout hill, accompanied by Riven and Rianor. They stared toward the southern horizon using long-range binoculars.
What they saw made their blood chill slightly.
Not bandits. Not hired thugs.
It was an Army.
Thousands of maroon tents stretched as far as the eye could see, filling the arid plains at the border. Flags bearing the Iron Eagle (Iron Empire) flew alongside Morvath's Serpent banners.
"Their numbers..." Rianor whispered, calculating rapidly. "At least five thousand infantry. Five hundred heavy cavalry. And..."
Rianor stopped his binoculars at a single point in the enemy's rear lines.
There, pulled by giant oxen, were rows of war machines made of massive cast iron. Their wide muzzles gaped toward the sky.
"Howitzers," Rianor hissed. "105mm Artillery Cannons. Siege type."
There were ten units.
Those weapons were designed to crumble city walls from a distance of 5 kilometers. Far beyond the reach of arrows or ordinary magic. If those cannons started firing, Iron Hearth Castle would be leveled in a single night before Riven's forces could even get close.
In the middle of the enemy camp, a large, luxurious tent was visible.
Standing before it was a tall, massive man in a military uniform covered in gold medals. He didn't wear knight's armor but a modern officer's coat with a red beret. He held a command baton, pointing arrogantly toward Northreach.
Colonel Varg.
Commander of the Red Skulls Mercenaries, an elite unit from the Iron Empire known for being the most sadistic and having no code of ethics.
"Morvath is truly intent on killing us," Lucian said, his voice heavy. "He hired the Red Skulls. Their hiring cost is more than the taxes of an entire city."
"He doesn't just want to win, Dad," Riven said, his hand clenching. "He wants to erase us from the map. He brought artillery to ensure not a single stone remains standing in Iron Hearth."
Lucian turned to his sons.
"The enemy has the numbers. The enemy has long-range cannons. In conventional military theory, we have already lost decisively."
"But we aren't playing conventionally, are we?" Lucian looked at Rianor.
Rianor adjusted his glasses. The reflection of the enemy army was visible in his lenses.
"They brought cannons to destroy stone walls, Dad. They think we'll stay inside the castle like turtles."
Rianor smiled coldly.
"They're wrong. We aren't going to wait in the castle."
Riven smirked, a predatory grin that had long been missing resurfaced.
"Exactly. We aren't going to defend. We're going to strike first."
"Tonight. While they sleep soundly dreaming of victory... the Iron Duke and the Ghost Squad will knock on their front door."
"Let's teach them," Riven said while turning to head down the hill. "That bringing cannons to a lion's den is a fatal mistake."
The evening sky turned blood-red, as if prophesying what was to come. The war between Ancient Magic, Industrial Technology, and Future Magitech was about to erupt.
And tonight, Northreach would not sleep.