Three days later, the Nord Kingdom's war council was in chaos.
"Boom!"
A thunderous crack echoed across the hall as Prince Ragnar slammed his fists into the table, shattering the heavy oak into splinters. The shards bounced against the cold steel armor of the knights standing guard, but not one of them dared to flinch. Their faces were frozen, their spines stiff, as though even the act of breathing too loudly would provoke their furious prince.
"Fifty thousand troops!" Ragnar roared, his voice vibrating against the stone walls. His eyes were wild, his cheeks flushed with rage. "I just returned from the Tongsley Empire today—and you tell me this! Fifty thousand soldiers, led by my father himself, destroyed by an enemy with barely a thousand men! And the knights—our elite—crushed by no more than a hundred!"
The chamber fell silent, broken only by Ragnar's ragged breathing. His voice was the only sound, and it carried the weight of thunder.
At the center of the floor, three surviving soldiers knelt on both knees, their armor dented and their faces dripping with sweat. Their trembling hands pressed against the ground as if clinging to life itself. None dared to look Ragnar in the eye.
"Your Highness," one of them stammered, "they… they had magicians… and His Majesty the King—"
He never finished. Ragnar moved like a storm, gripping the man by the collar and yanking him upward as though he weighed nothing. The soldier gasped, his boots dangling above the floor.
"What happened to my father?! Speak!" Ragnar's voice was guttural, his eyes bloodshot, more beast than man.
The soldier's lips trembled. Sweat poured down his brow. "We… we never saw His Majesty after the battle was lost… It is very likely… very likely His Majesty has…"
"Impossible!" Ragnar roared.
His knees gave out, and he collapsed back onto the shattered remains of the table. For a brief moment, the mask of the warrior prince cracked, and grief showed through. His fists clenched until blood seeped from his palms.
"Gavin Ward! If I don't kill you, I swear I will no longer be human!"
The roar tore from his throat, high and shrill, echoing through the chamber like the cry of a wounded beast. The walls trembled, the roof seemed to shake, and every knight in the room bowed his head, not daring to meet his prince's eyes.
At last, Ragnar rose again, his grief hardening into hate. His voice was low but laced with venom. "Send word to King Lot of the Kiswell Kingdom. Invite them to march with us. If they refuse—remind them they insult not only me, but also my teacher."
A soft sigh came from the doorway.
"Ragnar…"
The prince froze. He turned sharply and saw an old man step into the hall, his white robes fluttering as if stirred by an unseen wind.
"Teacher!" Ragnar rushed forward and bowed deeply, his rage momentarily forgotten. He took the old man's arm with reverence.
This was Leander, one of the greatest magicians of the Tongsley Empire. When Ragnar was a boy, King Ragnor IV had sent him to study under Leander's care. The old mage had guided his mind, sharpened his skills, and molded him into the warrior he was now.
Leander looked at his pupil with kind but weary eyes. "The Kingdom of Nalos has gathered wild mages from the far reaches of the land. To ensure victory, you must not fight them alone. I will leave you the escort that came with me—twelve magicians, loyal and strong."
Ragnar's heart surged with joy. He bowed his head again. "Thank you, Teacher!"
"There is no need for thanks," Leander replied gently, waving his hand. "We are master and student. We share honor and burden alike." Without another word, he turned and left the chamber.
Ragnar remained standing, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked. The kind words of his teacher could not soften the hatred boiling in his chest. His father was gone. His kingdom humiliated. His blood demanded vengeance.
"Gavin Ward! This time, I will have your head!"
From that day, Ragnar threw himself into preparation. He called upon every noble house of Nord. He demanded soldiers from every banner lord. Under Leander's pressure, the Kiswell Kingdom agreed to send troops as well.
When all forces were counted, Ragnar's coalition was staggering:
Twelve magicians from Leander's escort.
Three great knights, the most powerful warriors of Nord.
1,200 mounted knights in gleaming armor.
100,000 infantry soldiers drawn from Nord and Kiswell combined.
Within two weeks, this mighty host would march on Ross, their goal simple and merciless—to capture the city and sever Gavin Ward's head from his shoulders, offering it to King Ragnor IV's spirit in heaven.
---
Lowes City – Gavin Ward's Camp
While Ragnar gathered his armies, Gavin Ward was building something far greater than an army of men.
Inside the reclaimed city of Lowes, Commander Rotis knelt before him. His armor was scratched, his face weary, but his spirit burned bright.
"Your Majesty, we fulfilled your orders!" Rotis reported with pride. "With the combined efforts of our remaining forces, we have recovered seven towns in just three days! Only six remain before the entire land is ours again!"
Beside him, another officer spoke with awe. "And the magic weapons you provided us, Your Majesty—they are beyond anything I have ever seen. A single strike can fell even a knight!"
Gavin Ward smiled faintly, his hands clasped behind his back. He motioned to the long object resting on a nearby table.
"Rotis, take a look at this."
The commander's eyes widened as he picked up the weapon. It resembled the ones the hired mercenaries carried, sleek and deadly. The steel was polished, the mechanism alien yet elegant.
It was the 98k bolt-action rifle.
The past three days had been a whirlwind. With the flood of gold from the merchants, Gavin had established ten more arsenals. The furnaces roared day and night. Workers hammered steel, carved stocks, and oiled parts. But manpower was scarce, and though the designs were brilliant, production lagged.
At best, they could now produce two hundred rifles and five MG42 machine guns a day.
"Our nation is still too small," Gavin muttered, staring out at the city skyline. His voice carried a quiet weight. "If we are to stand against the world, we need more—more land, more hands, more power."
Rotis dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty, I will gladly give my life!"
But another voice entered the chamber.
"Your Majesty!" It was Stephens, one of Gavin's most loyal advisors. His face was grim. "Our spies bring troubling news. The Nord Kingdom gathers all its might. Their allies in Kiswell march as well. Together, they raise an army of one hundred thousand. We have, at most, two thousand."
The room fell heavy with silence.
But Gavin Ward did not frown. He did not tremble. Instead, his lips curled into a cold, knowing smile.
"Well done," he said softly. His eyes gleamed like steel under firelight. "That is the news I was waiting for."
The two men looked at him in confusion. But Gavin continued, his voice calm, almost amused.
"They have numbers. We have time. Their march will take half a month. That is fifteen days of training. Fifteen days to forge my two thousand into a weapon sharper than any blade."
He turned back to the rifles stacked neatly against the wall. "Accuracy may be poor, but line them in formation. Two thousand rifles firing as one… it will be a storm of iron. And with machine guns, the fire will not stop. Let them come with a hundred thousand men. They will find only death."
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Stephens and Rotis exchanged a glance, and both dropped to their knees.
"We will follow you to the end, Your Majesty!"
---