The freezing autumn wind cut through the uneven streets of Border Town like an invisible razor. William's heavy leather boots sank into the thick, fetid mud with every step, producing a sucking sound that reminded him of trenches and swamps he preferred to forget. He pulled up the collar of his makeshift cloak, his nose wrinkling at the bittersweet smell of rotten cabbage, damp woodsmoke, and open sewage that hung over the town.
"Shitty Middle Ages," William thought, his teeth gritted. "Fantasy books always forget to mention that the era of knights and maidens smelled like manure and despair." His mission for that morning, assigned not by official decree but by a silent consensus among him, Arthur, and Roland, was to find a needle in a muddy haystack. They needed a commander. The Prince was locked in the castle, designing the first flintlock pistols and sketching the layout of a cement wall. Arthur, the strategy "nerd," was bogged down in trade maps and logistics to keep the town from starving. That left William, the combat and applied physics expert, with the task of recruiting the manpower. But not just any human.
They needed Iron Axe.
William knew, thanks to the privileged information they carried from that world, that Graycastle's best hunter and marksman was rotting in the poverty of that border town, hidden beneath the stigma of being a refugee of the Sand Nation. A Mojin.
William stopped in the middle of the muddy square, dodging a broken wheelbarrow. He looked around. The villagers passing by kept their heads down, their shoulders hunched under the invisible weight of servitude and the impending cold. Faces hollowed by malnutrition peeked at him with a mix of apathy and reverential fear due to his clean clothes and intimidating physique. He needed information.
He walked over to a rotting wooden stall where a thin, toothless man was trying to sell what looked like skinned squirrels and some dirt-caked roots. The man shrank back when William's massive figure blocked the pale sunlight.
— "Morning, boss," William began, forcing a friendly tone that sounded dangerously deep. — "I'm looking for a guy. Tall, taller than your average around here. Likes to hunt. He's not from here... has darker skin, features from the far south. A Mojin."
The vendor's nervous smile vanished instantly, replaced by a grimace of genuine disgust. He spat on the ground, right next to William's boot.
— "A sand dog, you mean? Why would a nobleman be looking for desert trash? Those savages don't deserve to breathe the same air as the men of Graycastle. They bring bad luck and diseases."
William felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. Human ignorance was a universal constant, no matter the century or the world. He leaned over the stall, resting his two large hands on the fragile wood, which creaked in protest under his weight. His face came within inches of the vendor's, his eyes half-closed.
— "Hey you worm, are you deaf?? — I don't give a fuck about your opinion on immigration politics around here. I asked if you know where he is. Think carefully, because I'm out of time and have very little patience for a mere shitty peasant."
The man gulped, his eyes wide with panic as he realized the "nobleman" had the look of a veteran assassin. — "I... I don't know exactly, milord! But those bastards usually hang around the western edge. Near the old graveyard, where the forest begins. No one rents houses to them in the center."
— "See? That wasn't so hard," William smiled without showing his teeth. He tossed a small copper coin onto the dead squirrels.
He walked away, leaving the man trembling, and headed west. "This is going to be a pain in the ass," William reflected as he marched through alleys that became increasingly narrow and wretched. "Roland's army is going to need blind discipline. If these idiots can't stand in formation with a Mojin without wanting to stab him in the back, our musket squad is going to crumble before the first Demonic Beast even roars. We need to break this prejudice by beating it out of them. It's almost unbelievable that Roland managed to keep order in the original; doing things personally is always harder."
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As he moved further from the center, the density of the houses decreased, replaced by rotting wooden hovels and patchy thatched roofs. The wind howled louder here, without the protection of the castle walls. Near a cluster of dead trees that marked the beginning of the forest, William stopped.
He saw him.
Even from thirty meters away, the figure stood out. Iron Axe was in the muddy backyard of a tiny cabin, chopping firewood. He was exactly as the anime records illustrated: incredibly tall, shoulders as broad as a double door frame, skin tanned by the unforgiving southern desert sun, and his hair shaved on the sides, with faded tribal tattoos marking his neck and muscular arms. Every swing of the ax he held came down with surgical precision and lethal force. The wooden stump split in two perfectly, with no apparent effort.
"Flawless physics," William evaluated mentally, his fighter's eyes analyzing the man. "He doesn't just use his arms; he throws the weight of his torso and anchors his heels in the mud. Perfect kinetic chain. This guy isn't just a squirrel hunter; he's a war veteran who knows how to kill efficiently. The perfect fit."
William walked deliberately, stepping heavily to announce his presence. He didn't want to surprise a man with an ax in his hands.
When he was ten paces away, Iron Axe stopped. He didn't turn around immediately, but the tension in his back shifted. His muscles tightened, ready for action, like those of a wolf sniffing out danger. Slowly, he lowered the chopping ax and pivoted his body, his dark, sharp eyes locking onto William. There was a tired hostility in his posture, the guard of someone expecting to be stoned or cursed at any moment.
— "You are very far from the paved streets, sir," Iron Axe's voice was deep, with a slight, harsh southern accent. — "If you came to buy pelts, I have none today. If you came looking for trouble with the Sand Nation, I suggest you bring more men."
William let out a genuine laugh, short and gruff, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He stopped at a safe distance, maintaining a relaxed posture, but with his center of gravity perfectly balanced.
— "HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA, I haven't laughed that hard since I got here. If I wanted trouble, big guy, I wouldn't need more men. But rest assured, I come in peace." William pointed his chin at the ax in the stump. — "Nice swing. But you're wasting that motor coordination splitting damp wood. My name is William. I am the new military instructor at the castle."
Iron Axe's eyes narrowed, suspicion clouding his hard features. A military instructor at the castle? In this pigsty? — "The castle has no army. Only the patrol guard and the noble knights who spit on the ground I walk on. What do you want from a Mojin?"
— "Straight to the point. I like that," William uncrossed his arms and took a step forward, his expression turning deadly serious. — "Your life up until now has been shit, hasn't it? You have the skills of an elite warrior, but you have to survive by selling pelts to crooked merchants who pay you half their worth just because your skin is dark. You live in a cabin that will collapse in the first snowstorm and are treated like a leprous dog by the very peasants who wouldn't last ten minutes in the forest."
Iron Axe's jaw locked. His hand instinctively slid half a centimeter toward the handle of the battleax leaning against the cabin wall. — "Watch your words. I have no patience for noblemen's sermons."
— "I am not a nobleman," retorted William. — "And I'm not giving a sermon. I'm describing a problem. And I bring the solution. His Royal Highness, Prince Roland Wimbledon, wants to see you. Now."
The silence that followed was filled only by the howling of the wind. Iron Axe blinked, processing the absurdity of the sentence. — "The Prince? The Fourth Prince, known for drinking all day, wants to see a Mojin refugee? Why? Does he need someone to blame for a theft in the castle? Or is he going to use me as a target for arrows for his amusement?"
"Yeah, yeah, the old Roland really left a shitty legacy," William thought, shaking his head.
— "But things have changed at the castle in the last few days. A lot. Prince Roland is not the idiot the rumors say he is. He is building something new. A new army. A new way of fighting. One where shiny steel swords and noble last names won't be worth a piece of dung. He doesn't care where you came from, what God you pray to, or what the ignorant people think of you. He only cares about one thing: if you can follow orders and if you can shoot better than the rest. And I was told you are the best hunter in this ditch."
Iron Axe remained motionless. Suspicion was a thick armor, forged by years of betrayal and survival. — "And why should I believe you?"
William smiled, the pragmatic smile of someone who understands war and the souls of soldiers. — "Because I am standing here alone. If I wanted to arrest you, I'd bring the guard with crossbows. Because if you don't come, you will starve to death in the winter or be torn apart by the Demonic Beasts. And because, deep down in your warrior's pride, you know that splitting firewood is an insult to your talents. Come with me. If you don't like what you hear, you can come back to this 'luxurious' cabin of yours."
Iron Axe looked at his own hovel, then at the mud beneath his boots. Winter was coming, the Beasts were stirring. He had nothing to lose but his life, and that wasn't worth much here anyway. With a grunt of resignation, he didn't pick up his woodcutter's ax, but instead grabbed his recurve bow from the porch, slinging it over his back.
— "Lead the way."
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The walk back to the castle was silent. William noted how Iron Axe walked—light footsteps, rolling from heel to toe, eyes always scanning the rooftops and alleys. Perfect situational awareness. He smiled internally. That man would be the anchor of the new military force.
When they finally crossed the iron gates of the castle, the Mojin seemed uncomfortable. The disgusted glares of the guards at the courtyard entrance confirmed all his fears, but William said nothing, merely shooting them a look so murderous that the soldiers quickly pretended to be cleaning their spears.
They climbed the cold stone stairs to the Lord's office. William pushed open the heavy oak door without knocking.
The interior was an organized chaos. Parchments were scattered everywhere, smelling of fresh ink. Near the fireplace, Roland was hunched over an intricate drawing next to Arthur, who was holding an improvised ruler and muttering about the fragility of the local metals.
At the sound of the door, the two looked up.
— "I found the missing piece for our army," William announced with his booming voice, stepping aside to reveal the massive figure of Iron Axe in the doorway.
The warrior of the Sand Nation widened his eyes slightly. He had expected an opulent hall, spilled wine, and nobles laughing in his face. Instead, he found a room that looked like a frantic workshop. The Prince of Graycastle had his sleeves rolled up, black smudges of coal and ink on his fingers, and looked at him not with the usual disdain of royalty, but with an intense speculative gleam, like someone looking at the main gear of a new engine.
Roland walked around the desk, ignoring the important papers that fluttered to the floor. His gray eyes scanned the height, the musculature, and the bow on the man's back. He instantly recalled the discussions he had with Arthur and William about the urgent need for meritocratic leadership.
— "You are Iron Axe," Roland stated, his voice calm and laced with authority. It was not a question.
Iron Axe, feeling the weight of the prince's piercing gaze, bowed stiffly, his hand on his chest in the traditional greeting of his people. — "Yes, Your Royal Highness. Although I do not know what a prince desires with an exile from the sands."
Roland crossed his arms, leaning against the edge of his oak desk. — "What I desire, Iron Axe, is to survive. And for this town to survive the Months of the Demons, I must discard tradition and embrace efficiency. William assured me that you possess tactical instincts, impeccable accuracy, and the discipline of a warrior who has learned to survive through pain."
Roland walked slowly to a side table and picked up something covered by a rough linen cloth. With a quick motion, he unveiled the object. It was a thick, elongated metal tube, fitted into a crude wooden stock. The first crude prototype of a flintlock musket.
Arthur, from the back of the room, watched the interaction with a subtle smile, his logical mind appreciating the historical encounter. The main piece was on the board.
— "You know the sword, the bow, and the spear," Roland continued, holding the peculiar weapon and placing it into Iron Axe's massive hands. The Mojin held it with confused reverence, testing its weight, marveling at the precision of the metalwork, even though he did not understand its purpose. — "Forget them all. I am about to create an army made up of farmers, miners, and hunters who don't know the difference between a shield and a plank. I will arm them with weapons that spit fire and tear through steel as if it were paper."
Roland took a step forward, closing the distance, looking the exiled warrior dead in the eyes, completely ignoring any royal protocol.
— "But a weapon is nothing without the discipline to aim when a beast is charging at you. Without the courage to stand your ground in the line of fire. I don't need knights in shining armor, Iron Axe. I need a vice-commander for my militia. I need someone who knows how to instruct marksmen and maintain formation in the midst of chaos. Do you accept the job?"
Iron Axe felt the air escape his lungs. He, a sand dog, was being offered a position to train and command the Prince's forces? He looked at the heavy, cold weapon in his hands, then at William, who nodded, confirming the absolute reality of that surreal moment.
An emotion long buried by misery surfaced in the Mojin's chest. Honor. Purpose.
He knelt on one knee, the weapon resting across his lap, and bowed his head deeply. This time, not out of coercion or fear, but out of authentic reverence.
— "My life, Your Highness. If you do not mind that the blood of the sand stains your ranks, I will mold these farmers into the most lethal force Graycastle has ever seen."
William let out a sharp, victorious whistle, breaking the solemn tension. — "That's what I'm talking about! Now get up, big guy. Let's talk about the Demonic Beasts now."