The ground trembled like an approaching storm as twenty Ferous lined up across the flat expanse of the proving grounds. The air itself seemed to tighten, humming faintly as mana conduits activated in sequence. Each armor-plated colossus stood nearly twice the height of a man, their hulking silhouettes glinting in the morning sun. The faint runes along their iron-gray plating pulsed with a soft, ominous blue, the rhythm of their glow syncing with the churn of pistons and the whir of wheels beneath their frames.
Spectators lined the raised platforms at the edge of the field—officers, guild representatives, smithing masters, and curious townsfolk who had managed to slip in despite the official restrictions. For most of them, this was the first time seeing more than one Ferous moving at once. The sight of twenty iron giants in perfect formation was enough to make even hardened veterans shift uneasily.
The command rune flared.
With a groaning hiss of hydraulics, the units tilted their massive cannons forward. Wheels bit into the packed earth as stabilizers locked.
BOOM
The first shell streaked across the air, carving a perfect arc before burrowing deep into the far end of the range.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—BOOM—BOOM
The other cannons followed in rapid sequence, their overlapping thunder echoing like a drumline of gods. Dust and debris erupted in geysers, the ground shuddering beneath the onslaught. The far edge of the proving ground collapsed inward, leaving a jagged crater smoldering with smoke.
Before the crowd could catch its breath, the Ferous shifted again. With a synchronized whirl of compartments on their reinforced backpacks, heavy canisters deployed upward. Sixteen of the twenty units launched eight smaller shells apiece, each one propelled skyward with a faint, whining spin.
They glinted in the sun like a school of metallic fish, then—
FWUMP
Each shell burst at the apex, scattering molten shrapnel in precise arcs. The sky itself seemed to rain fire, droplets of incandescent metal hissing as they struck the scorched earth. Controlled lines of fire traced patterns across the proving ground, igniting pockets of grass and leaving trails of smoking craters.
The audience gasped. Some cheered, others swore. One officer muttered, "Artillery in motion… gods help us."
On the observation line, Logos walked with hands clasped behind his back, his coat swaying with each step as if he were merely inspecting a garden. His expression betrayed no triumph, only calculation.
Lucy glanced sidelong at Masen, who stood with his arms crossed, jaw set. "Are you still upset about the duel?" she asked casually.
Masen didn't answer immediately. His eyes stayed fixed on the field. "…No."
"Then what's with that face?" Kleber teased, leaning against the railing with his glaive propped beside him.
"I mean, why wouldn't he be?" Bal barked a laugh, his hammer slung over one shoulder. "He got beaten by someone greener than a farmhand, and now his precious artillery guns are going to be replaced."
Masen's scowl deepened.
"Who told you that?" Logos' calm voice cut through the banter.
The group turned. Logos hadn't raised his tone, yet the weight in it was enough to silence the laughter.
"I mean, it's kind of obvious," Desax said carefully. He gestured toward the smoking proving ground. "These things are fast, self-propelled. They don't need to be hauled around by oxen like Masen's guns. They can keep pace with infantry."
"They don't have the range," Logos countered, pointing toward the last arc of molten debris still glowing in the distance. His eyes sharpened. "The canisters use counterweights for stabilization, yes. That allows accuracy even from a rolling platform. And the recoil is absorbed almost entirely by the frame, letting them fire continuously without toppling. But the shells are heavy. Range is limited. Worse, they're on the battlefield itself—meaning they can't be supplied in the thick of combat."
"What about those backpacks?" Desax pressed.
"At best, they're for area denial," Logos replied. "A rain of fire to scatter formations, deny cavalry charges, or break a siege line. Nothing more."
Bal nodded slowly, scratching his beard. "So you'll still need Masen's heavy guns for bombardment. Otherwise you're wasting ammunition."
"Exactly." Logos inclined his head. Then he turned sharply toward Masen. "Speaking of which. I received reports the drills with the new long-barrels I sent you have been… lax. Is there a problem?"
Masen's jaw tightened. "Some units have been treating the drills lightly. Saying there's been no conflict in years."
Before Logos could answer, Desax interrupted with a grim tone. "About that. I think we'll have one next year."
Silence.
Even the crowd's cheers from the proving field seemed distant.
Logos stopped walking. His eyes flicked toward Desax. "…Is there something I'm not aware of?"
"The Baron of Carrel is currently engaging a horde of Crimson Peak Crawlers," Desax said bluntly. "And to put it mildly, he's getting his ass handed to him."
Kleber's mouth dropped open. "Carrel? He's got ten times the treasury and a hundred times the men we do. His armors—"
"Were supposed to be the best in the province," Lucy finished.
Logos' brow furrowed. "Last I checked, his army and frames were leagues above ours. What happened?"
"Compared to Armatus, yes," Bal admitted grudgingly. "But now? I'm not so sure. Not after today. Unless I see them both fight, I can't say who'd win."
Logos tapped his chin thoughtfully. "If my knowledge serves me, the older generation frames like the Armatus were designed for defense—bulwarks for holding walls and passes. As advancements continued, the designs became more nimble. Ferous…" His lips quirked slightly. "Ferous is simply the Armatus stripped of restraint. A charging bull."
Lucy blinked. "You'll have to explain that one."
"You know a charging bull," Logos said simply. "It goes fast, runs them over, and then—" He waved a hand vaguely. "I don't know. Does something else."
"That's it?" Lucy deadpanned.
Bal slapped his knee, laughing. "That's simple! I like it."
"What do you take me for?" Logos muttered, feigning indignation.
The group chuckled, the heavy silence of Desax's revelation temporarily lifted. Yet beneath the laughter, unease lingered. War was no longer a distant rumor—it was looming on the horizon. And for the first time, the Ferous would not just be proving themselves against stone pillars or steel targets.
They would be proving themselves against the future.