The sky over Border Town was heavy, covered by a vault of leaden clouds that seemed to physically press down on the thatched roofs of the houses and the newly erected cement walls. The wind blew relentlessly from the north, bringing with it a damp, biting cold that pierced even the bones of the hardiest citizens. However, in the vast training courtyard of the castle, the mood ignored the freezing temperature; the air there pulsed with a feverish concentration and palpable tension.
William stood, with the upright and dominant posture of a general inspecting his troops, before four men who represented, at that exact moment, the backbone and the last line of the new defense idealized by Prince Roland. There was Carter Lannis, the Chief Knight with blond hair and a severe gaze; Iron Axe, the lethal and silent warrior from the Sand Nation; Trevor, the veteran patrolman with a constitution like a mountain, who now acted as William's personal shadow; and Van'er, the former miner whose precision and analytical mind had pulled him from the mud and placed him at the vanguard of military artillery.
On a long rustic oak table, carefully arranged over a thick linen cloth, rested the deadly marvels of the new era. They were the first fully functional flintlock muskets produced under Roland's strict orders. Their long, heavy barrels of polished iron gleamed under the dull light of the cloudy day, contrasting with the dark, perfectly sanded wooden stocks. Beside the weapons, there were horns filled with granulated black powder, small leather pouches containing solid lead spheres, and small wads of greased cloth.
William swept his gaze over the four men, evaluating their expressions, which ranged from genuine curiosity to deep suspicion.
— "Listen well and pay close attention," — William began, his voice ringing loud and clear over the constant howl of the wind, laden with an unquestionable authority that blended his natural charisma with the absolute seriousness of someone who knew the apocalypse was about to march upon them. — "From now on, I want you to erase from your minds everything you know about the honor of a knight's duel. Forget the complex forms of traditional swordsmanship. Forget the tales of glory in melee combat." —
He pointed to the weapons on the table.
— "These tools do not care about the size of your biceps, the years you spent wielding swords, or the lineage of noble or common blood running in your veins. They do not feel fear and they do not retreat. They obey a single law: physics. The violent expansion of gases in a confined tube and the terminal velocity of an armor-piercing projectile." —
Silence reigned for a moment, broken only by the rustling of the men's winter cloaks. It was Trevor, ever pragmatic and with his bodyguard eyes sweeping the environment, who frowned upon noticing an obvious mathematical discrepancy. He cleared his throat, breaking military protocol.
— "Excuse me, Lord William," — Trevor's deep voice echoed, respectfully pointing to the oak table. — "You said we are the front line of this training. There are five men present. But I only counted four of these new weapon. Is someone in our formation going to have to fight with a bow and arrow, or fetch a sword?" —
Carter Lannis also noticed the detail, narrowing his eyes. Iron Axe remained impassive, awaiting the answer, while Van'er silently counted the muskets once more, confirming Trevor's observation.
William looked at the four lined-up weapons, and then displayed a calm and dangerously confident smile. He crossed his arms over his broad chest.
— "Your observation is correct, Trevor. There are only four firearms. And they belong to the four of you." — William uncrossed his arms and struck the knuckles of his right hand against his left palm, producing a sharp crack. — "Someone would have to go without, and that someone is me. I am not going to use one of these." —
Carter took a step forward, confusion mixed with noble indignation coloring his face.
— "Lord William, this is madness! You just said yourself that these weapons dictate the rules of the new era of war. You do not intend to go to the top of the wall to face the demonic beasts empty-handed, do you? As His Highness's Chief Knight, I cannot allow you to commit tactical suicide." —
William's laugh was short, but carried the weight of the astonishing Strength and Endurance the System had granted him.
— "HAHAHAHAHA, do not misunderstand the situation, my dear Carter. I will not use a musket because, frankly, I don't need one." — William took two steps toward Carter, looking the knight closely in the eye. — "Your role is to act as the lethal artillery, the death that strikes from a distance, eliminating the armored beasts before they have a chance to test the strength of our gates. You will clear the field. But if any of those monstrosities manages to slip past your barrage of lead... it will have to deal with me in close combat. I am the final shock resort. My hands and whatever I decide to use as a melee weapon will do just as much damage as the gunpowder does." —
William stepped back, returning the focus to the training, ending the subject with an aura that left no room for further questioning. William's confidence was contagious; if he said he could stop a demonic beast without a firearm, the demonstration in the underground tunnel left Trevor without a single drop of doubt that he could do it.
William picked up the first musket from the table, lifting it with frightening ease, handling the heavy kilograms of iron and wood as if they were made of light straw, a casual testament to his superhuman Strength.
— "Sir Carter," — William addressed the knight again, extending the weapon toward him. — "I know your knightly soul sighs for the balanced weight of a forged sword and the gleam of full armor. But a brilliant and decorated elite knight is just a can of meat waiting to be crushed if he cannot get close enough to strike the blow. This weapon in my hands spits a wrath that pierces thick steel armor and hard oak shields as if they were old parchment." —
Carter Lannis hesitated for a fraction of a second before letting out a heavy sigh, his leather gloves creaking as he took the offered musket. He tested the weight, clumsy with the length of the barrel.
— "It still seems like a terribly noisy, dirty, and... less dignified way to fight, Lord William," — Carter muttered, examining the flintlock. — "Where is the glory in killing an enemy who cannot see your eyes? But... I am not an ignorant fool. I saw with my own eyes what His Highness's gunpowder did to that reinforced target on the mountain days ago. If the Prince orders that this is Border Town's weapon of survival, then I will master this 'hand thunder' to protect His Highness." —
William smiled in approval, feeling the organic pride of shaping the First Army. He then turned to Iron Axe, handing over the second weapon.
— "Big guy," — William said. — "You survived the scorching sands of the desert. You have hunted deadly demonic beasts with nothing but a bow and poisoned arrows. How does your experience view this equipment?" —
The man from the Sand Nation took the firearm with reverence and immediate dexterity. His cold, observant eyes saw that mechanism as the true weapon of the gods, the pure form of annihilation. He ran his calloused thumb over the frizzen and the cock armed with the flint stone.
— "Death has no religion, code of conduct, or ballroom etiquette, Commander," — Iron Axe's voice sounded harsh, practical, and devoid of emotion. — "If this weapon of the gods can pierce the hide of a hybrid beast or blow off the head of a demonic wolf before the beast reaches our shield line... then it is the most perfect hunting tool ever created by gods or men. My people value only the outcome: who lives and who dies. The method does not matter." —
Beside them, Trevor picked up the third weapon. He didn't show Carter's noble discomfort nor Iron Axe's predatory fascination. His posture remained rigid, his broad shoulders supporting the legendary endurance that William already knew of. He nested the stock firmly against his right shoulder, testing the grip.
— "My lord," — Trevor spoke without taking his eyes off the gray horizon where the mountains lurked. — "I don't care about the stature or the nobility of the weapon. You just need to tell me where to point it. As you yourself said, you will be the final barrier. But if any of those damned demonic beasts tries to even lay a finger on you, while I have my finger on this trigger I will make sure the creature earns a smoking hole in the middle of its chest, before it takes a second step in your direction." —
— "I admire and depend on your attitude, Trevor." — William gave a firm pat on the bodyguard's broad back, the impact echoing slightly. Then, he handed the last musket from the table to the most unusual man in the group. — "Van'er. You are the man of numbers, patience, and meticulous calculation starting today. As a miner, you perfectly understand the importance of extreme precision under deadly pressure in dark tunnels. The artillery, the formations, and the line of sight depend on your mathematical mind." —
Van'er adjusted the musket on his shoulder. Unlike Carter, he seemed strangely at ease with the cold metal near his face. His dark eyes were focused and calculating.
— "It's exactly like using a pickaxe to strike the critical vein of ore in an unstable mine, Lord William," — Van'er replied, lowering the weapon and looking directly at the noble. — "If you strike a single centimeter the wrong way, the cave collapses and you lose all your men. Here on the battlefield, with these weapons, it is the same cruel logic. A centimeter of deviation in aim or a delay in the powder, and you lose your own life and the wall falls. I calculated the angles of the wall last night. I will not miss my shot." —
With the weapons distributed, the true torment of learning began. For the following hours, the cold of the courtyard was completely forgotten in favor of an excruciating routine of mechanical repetition. The sound of the wind was swallowed by the industrial and metallic rhythm imposed by William: the desperate cleaning of barrels, the sensitive handling of flint stones, and the repetitive, dry clicks of the triggers being dry-fired dozens of times so their fingers would memorize the weight of the spring.
— "Reloading position!" — William shouted, pacing back and forth like a caged predator, correcting postures with shoves and slaps. — "Pull the cock to half-cock! That prevents accidents that would blow your own faces off! Number two: uncap the horn. Powder in the pan! Just enough to ignite, do not overfill or the flash will blind you before the shot goes off!" —
Carter dropped some powder on the ground, muttering a curse. William immediately reprimanded him: — "Spilled powder doesn't kill beasts, Carter! Focus on your hands!" —
— "Number three: close the frizzen! Four: Pour the main charge into the barrel!" — William kept pace with Iron Axe's accelerated movements, who already treated the process like a tribal dance, and Van'er's robotic precision. — "Five: wad and projectile. Six: draw the ramrod! Ram the lead all the way down! If the bullet is loose, the pressure will destroy the barrel and your hands along with it!" —
The sound of heavy metal rods going down and up, scraping the inside of the barrels, echoed in unison.
— "Return the ramrod! Never fire with the ramrod inside! Pull the cock back until you hear the final click!" — William ordered, feeling the pure adrenaline of building, from scratch, the embryo of the greatest military force in that world. He stopped behind the line formed by the four men. — "Raise your weapons! Tuck them firmly into the pocket of your shoulder! If you hold them like weaklings, the recoil will dislocate your collarbones!" —
Trevor, Van'er, Iron Axe, and Carter aligned their barrels toward the training scarecrows covered with thick wooden planks, situated eighty paces away.
— "Keep your arms steady! Lean your body weight slightly forward to absorb the impact! Do not close your eyes and do not fear the fire and smoke!" — William's voice roared, echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard. — "The noise that is about to deafen you is not the crash of a divine storm! It is the official sound of the end of the era of knights and nobles with shiny swords! Fire at will at the target!" —
Four fingers squeezed four triggers almost simultaneously.
The flint stones scraped violently against the curved steel of the frizzen. Bright sparks showered into the pan. There was a thousandth of a second of dense, terrifying silence as the fine powder burned — the dreaded firing delay — and then... the world seemed to explode.
Four deafening cracks tore through the skies of Border Town all at once, sounding like thunderbolts colliding with the ground. A dense, thick, and suffocating cloud of gray smoke with an acidic smell of sulfur swallowed the firing line. The recoil of the weapons violently pushed the shoulders of the four men backward. Carter staggered a step; Trevor merely stiffened his neck.
When the whitish smoke began to be slowly blown away by the freezing wind, they looked ahead. Eighty paces away, the reinforced wooden board, which swords would have enormous difficulty cutting through without a perfect strike from a knight with a battle aura, was completely shattered. Four irregular holes the size of apples pierced the thick structure. The massive destructive impact was proven. No armor, human or demonic, would survive a volley of those concentrated shots.
The shooters looked down at their weapons, their faces painted with black smudges of gunpowder, their eyes wide with the grim revelation of the power they now held in their trembling hands.
As the initial shock passed and William prepared to shout the order to swab the barrels again, the already scarce midday light seemed to darken drastically, as if an immense curtain were being drawn over the world. The wind stopped howling. The air grew astonishingly still and static. The sharp smell of burnt gunpowder was suddenly overlaid by something different, a smell that made the hairs on the back of Trevor's neck stand up. It was the freezing, putrid, and metallic stench of the miasma descending from the mountains.
William stopped speaking abruptly and looked up at the heavy sky. A single, tiny white particle, light, intricate, and silent as a celestial bird's feather, drifted slowly down, twirling. It landed gently on the scorching barrel of Trevor's smoking musket and evaporated instantly with a faint hiss.
Then, another particle fell onto William's sleeve. And ten more onto the reloading table.
A funereal silence fell oppressively over the group. The martial enthusiasm of the training evaporated. Carter and Iron Axe exchanged a grim look, laden with ancestral terror, jaws clenched. They needed no explanation; they knew that natural sign better than the backs of their own hands. Every border dweller did.
— "It has begun," — William murmured. The expression of provocative confidence completely vanished from his features, replaced by the cold, inexpressive mask of a war general who had developed the seriousness required for such a situation.
The snow, which had started timidly, suddenly transformed into a constant, thick curtain, falling mercilessly and covering the dark mud of the courtyard and the splinters of the targets with a white, silent, and deadly sheet. The toxic miasma of the Impassable Mountain Range was no longer just lurking; it was actively descending the slopes, crawling through the dead forests, and bringing with it the endless legion of crazed, black-blooded beasts that did not know the meaning of the word mercy.
The rifles had sounded the first alarm, but nature dictated the timing. The Months of the Demons had officially arrived in Border Town. And humanity's survival depended on what those five men would do in the coming blizzards.