The valley floor of Oakhaven, once a patchwork of dormant wheat fields and frozen peat, had become the testing ground for a new breed of heraldry. The morning air was bitingly cold, a sharp, crystalline wind howling off the northern peaks, but the gathered militia didn't shiver. They stood in disciplined ranks, their eyes fixed on the massive wooden doors of the tower's lower motor pool. For weeks, the sound of rhythmic hammering and the hiss of high-pressure steam had leaked from behind those doors, fueling rumors of a "Steel Behemoth." Today, the rumors took form.
The doors groaned open, and the first "Cassian Long-Range Harvester" rolled out into the pale winter light. To a casual observer from the Capital, it appeared to be an oversized, armored reaping wagon, featuring a series of rotating blades and a heavy timber chassis. But to a trained eye—the eye of a man like Deacon—it was a mobile artillery platform. Built on the reinforced axle of an Imperial siege engine and powered by a hidden, steam-jacketed tension system Miller had perfected, it was the first piece of "Mechanized Infantry" this world had ever seen.
Deacon stood on a raised stone dais, his midnight-blue greatcoat snapping in the wind. Beside him stood Julian, looking significantly healthier but still possessing a wiry, nervous energy. The younger brother held a leather-bound clipboard, his fingers tracing the technical specifications of the harvester's secondary function: the concealed ballista.
"The tension on the primary spring is holding at eighty percent capacity," Julian reported, his voice crisp and professional, devoid of the jagged spite that had characterized their early interactions. "Miller is worried about the recoil on the frozen ground. If the stabilizers aren't hammered in deep enough, the first bolt will flip the entire chassis. We need a live-fire test, David. The men need to see that it's a weapon, not just a farm tool."
Deacon nodded, his sapphire eyes glowing with a faint, tactical light. "Give the order, Julian. You're the Hand of Command today. Show them what the House of Cassian produces."
Julian's chest swelled almost imperceptibly with the weight of the responsibility. He stepped forward and raised a red signaling flag. "Harvester One! Engage target! Three hundred yards, the scorched oak!"
The harvester creaked as the crew—trained by Staff Sergeant Blake—pulled a series of heavy iron levers. The "agricultural" facade shifted. The front reaping blades retracted, and the upper timber housing slid back to reveal a massive, triple-stringed ballista made of tempered Oryn iron. There was no magic, no violet glow of the Rose Guard. There was only the brutal, screaming tension of twisted hemp and steel.
With a sound like a thunderclap, the harvester fired. The six-foot iron bolt didn't just hit the target; it obliterated it. The scorched oak tree, a landmark for a century, was reduced to a spray of splinters. The recoil rocked the massive wagon, the iron stabilizers biting deep into the frost-covered earth, but it held. The militia erupted into a roar of approval—a sound of raw, primitive power that echoed across the valley.
"Efficiency is the ultimate form of intimidation," Deacon remarked, looking at the smoking wreckage of the tree. "If the Rose Guard returns, they won't be fighting a Lord. They'll be fighting an industrial process."
But the victory was short-lived. From the southern watchtower, a horn blast sounded—three long, mournful notes. It wasn't the "Imperial Audit" signal, nor was it the "Goblin Raid" alarm. It was the signal for a "Royal Messenger."
A single rider, draped in the muted grays and blacks of the Imperial Court's diplomatic corps, galloped into the valley. He didn't carry a lance or a sword. He carried a silver scroll-tube and the sigil of the Empress herself—not the Governor, and not the Inquisitors. This was a message from the heart of the sun, the very center of the Empire's power.
Deacon and Julian met the messenger in the center of the testing field, the smoking harvester standing behind them like a silent threat. The messenger dismounted, his face pale and caked with the dust of a thousand-mile ride. He looked at the machine, then at Deacon, his eyes widening with a mix of awe and terror.
"Lord Cassian," the messenger gasped, dropping to one knee. "I am sent by the Grand Chamberlain. The Empress has heard of the 'Northern Reconstruction.' She does not seek an audit. She seeks... an audience."
He handed the silver tube to Deacon. As Deacon broke the seal, his "Logistical Insight" scanned the text, but it wasn't the words that stopped his heart. It was the wax imprint on the bottom of the parchment. It wasn't a rose, and it wasn't a crown. It was a serialized barcode—a faded, centuries-old mark that looked remarkably like a United States Army logistical stamp from a "Project: Phoenix."
Deacon felt a cold sweat break out on his neck. The original Lord Cassian hadn't just been a noble; he had been a part of a much larger, much older plan that involved men like Deacon.
"What is it?" Julian asked, sensing the sudden shift in his brother's energy. "Is it an ultimatum?"
"No," Deacon whispered, his mind racing through a dozen new variables. "It's an invitation to find out who we really are. Julian, get the tower ready. We aren't just defending Oakhaven anymore. We're digging up the past."
The messenger looked up, his voice trembling. "My Lord... the Empress also commanded me to tell you one thing. She said: 'The Sergeant is late for his debrief.'"
The world of Oakhaven, with its foundries and its drills and its iron walls, suddenly felt very small. The "Isekai" wasn't a random accident of fate; it was a deployment. And as the sun set over the valley, casting the shadow of the harvester across the snow, the Sergeant First Class realized that the real war was only just beginning.