Inside the palace at Lowes City, the atmosphere was tense but orderly. The guards on duty stood tall in their new black uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders and long swords at their waists. The hall itself looked more like a military headquarters than a royal court.
Stephens stood before Gavin Ward, holding a thick account book. His voice was steady but tinged with urgency.
"Your Majesty, after this week's intensive training and selection, more than six hundred men failed to persevere. They were sent home. Currently, the army stands at 2,357 soldiers."
He turned a page. "The new uniforms, helmets, and breastplates are nearly completed. They can be distributed at once. But we are still short by about a thousand rifles."
Gavin, reclining on a long bench, listened with half-lidded eyes. By his side stood Lina, the young half-orc girl rescued from slavery, now dressed neatly in a maid's uniform. She held a tray of grapes, dutifully feeding him whenever he gestured.
The orc girls who had once trembled in fear of human cruelty now walked the palace halls freely. They had discovered something unimaginable: a human ruler who treated them with kindness. Once, they had been slaves—starved, beaten, scorned. Now they were clothed, fed, and safe. For Lina, it was nothing short of a miracle.
Stephens continued. "As for the MG42 machine guns, production has been slow. But there are enough to equip every company with five."
"That is sufficient," Gavin replied calmly. He sat up, eyes gleaming with cold determination. "It is time to begin queue-firing drills. A thousand rifles will do for now. What of the Nord and Kiswell armies?"
Stephens's tone grew heavier. "Prince Ragnar of Nord has assembled twenty thousand troops. Two hundred knights have already crossed the border, and their total force is expected to reach thirty thousand. Meanwhile, the Kiswell Kingdom has gathered eighty thousand soldiers and a thousand knights. They have already crossed into Sloan Town. Within a week, they will join Nord's army."
The numbers hung in the air like thunderclouds. 110,000 enemies.
Even Lina, usually quiet, trembled. Her hands shook as she held the tray. She had never seen so many people gathered in one place, let alone soldiers. The thought of Gavin facing such a force filled her chest with dread.
Her lips moved without thinking. "Must… must we win…" she whispered.
Gavin turned to her, his sharp expression softening for just a moment. He reached out, ruffling her hair gently, his fingers brushing against the soft fur of her half-orc ears.
"Do not fear," he said quietly. "It's just a group of chickens and dogs. No matter their number, they are still ants before us. Two thousand soldiers with rifles are more than enough to shatter one hundred thousand wielding spears."
The words were light, almost casual, but they carried iron conviction. Lina's heart, so fragile with worry, was set ablaze. She could feel his confidence, his unshakable pride in his weapons and his men. In that moment, she believed.
---
The Border – The Gathering Storm
Meanwhile, far from Lowes, the plains near the border quaked under the weight of armies.
Flags of countless noble houses flapped in the wind. Spears rose like forests, helmets glistened in the sun, and the line of soldiers stretched so far it seemed endless.
Prince Ragnar of Nord rode at the head of his forces. He was encased in full plate armor engraved with glowing magical runes. His eyes burned with hatred as he gazed toward Rossian territory.
"Where is the Kiswell army?" he demanded.
A knight bowed. "Your Highness, they have crossed the border. By their letters, we will meet them at Sloan Town in seven days' time."
Ragnar nodded grimly, but before he could speak, a voice called out.
"Junior Brother," said a young mage striding forward, his robe embroidered with sigils of power. His face was handsome but twisted with arrogance. "Why do we need them? They are only wild mages. We are certified by the Central Magic Empire. The enemy numbers barely five thousand, if that. Our Nord army alone is enough."
Another mage, eyes gleaming with cruel delight, stepped up beside him. "That's right, Brother Ragnar. I alone could slaughter those fools. In fact, I've perfected a new spell. I inject mana into a man's body, and it writhes like worms inside his flesh. Imagine it—their faces contorted, their screams filling the air. Oh, how I long to test it on Gavin Ward himself!"
He threw back his head and laughed, his voice full of perverse glee.
Ragnar's lips twisted into a snarl. "You may say that, but I want more. I don't merely wish to defeat Gavin Ward—I want to crush him completely. I want to see his eyes filled with despair as he looks upon our one hundred thousand. I want him to beg, to weep, to wail before I cut off his head."
His breath grew heavier, his words dripping with hatred. He closed his eyes and inhaled, his armor glowing faintly with the runes etched upon it.
"I can already see it," Ragnar whispered. "His face pale, his voice broken, crying out for mercy… and then the blade comes down."
The vision alone brought him happiness. His knights and mages watched in silence, some smiling, others uneasy.
But Ragnar's resolve was unshakable. The Nord and Kiswell Kingdoms had gathered their strength, and soon they would unleash it upon Ross.
---
Back in Lowes City
Gavin Ward rose from his bench. He stretched his arms, then turned to Stephens.
"In seven days, they will come," he said. "We will be ready. Let them bring their tide of bodies. We will drown them in rivers of fire and steel."
His eyes gleamed with ruthless confidence. To him, the coming war was not a burden, but an opportunity—a chance to prove, once and for all, that modern weapons and discipline could annihilate even the mightiest medieval army.
The soldiers of Ross trained day and night, their rifles clicking, their boots pounding the ground. Their uniforms gleamed black, their helmets cast long shadows. They were no longer farmers with swords, nor peasants with spears.
They were Gavin Ward's army—an army forged in steel, fire, and pride.
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