The dull metallic hum of machinery filled Gavin Ward's command chamber. Before him, a glowing virtual turntable spun rapidly, each section flashing with bright light.
The wheel began to slow. Gavin leaned forward, eyes fixed on it, muttering under his breath, "Katyusha! AKM! Either one will do—just don't give me the useless ones!"
On the holographic wheel were five options:
1. Katyusha Multiple Rocket Launcher Designs
2. AKM Automatic Rifle Blueprints
3. L3920mm Anti-Tank Rifle
4. Type 97 Tank
5. Type 38 Rifle
The prizes shimmered like treasures from another world.
Among them, Katyusha and AKM were the two most powerful advancements Gavin's military could dream of. Katyusha's devastating barrage fire could shatter entire battalions, while AKM—the improved descendant of the AK-47—could revolutionize his infantry's firepower, granting even the lowest soldier the ability to strike like a modern army.
"Come on…" Gavin whispered. "Give me one of the good ones."
The pointer slowed.
Click.
Click.
Click.
It stopped.
> [Congratulations, Your Majesty, for obtaining the L3920mm Anti-Tank Rifle Design!]
Gavin blinked, then sighed deeply. "Not Katyusha or AKM," he murmured. A tinge of disappointment crossed his face, but it quickly faded into calm acceptance. "At least it's not the pathetic Type 97 or that antique 38 rifle."
He recalled the Type 38 rifle, once famous but utterly outdated—laughable for an army that now standardly used 98Ks. A soldier armed with that relic would be dead before even reloading.
Still, this new weapon was no small prize.
---
The Anti-Tank Rifle
The L39 20mm anti-tank rifle, a relic from the old world's Second World War, had been one of the first man-portable anti-armor weapons ever invented. With its 20mm caliber, total length of 2.2 meters, and a barrel of 1.3 meters, it was a beast of a gun.
In its prime, it could pierce 30mm of armor at a distance of 300 meters—a feat that made tank crews tremble.
But this world was different. Here, tanks were rare, yet mages with powerful shields walked the skies.
Gavin studied the data reports carefully. "Magical barriers," he muttered. "Just like steel armor—maybe even stronger."
The strength of a mage's barrier depended on their mana output. Most mages specialized in fire-type spells, focusing on magical burns rather than penetration. Against human flesh, such attacks were deadly, but against armor—or magic-resistant gear—they often fizzled out.
That was why only mages could truly fight mages. The rest of humanity was too fragile to stand against them.
But there was one exception—the Sky Mages of the Central Magic Empire. Their shields were on a completely different level.
These elite spellcasters wore newly developed mana-supply devices, allowing them to maintain double-layered shields. The first barrier came from their own mana, the second from the device. Combined, the protection could easily withstand multiple 98K bullets.
"Flying magicians with double shields…" Gavin frowned. "That's no small threat."
A regular army's bullets couldn't pierce such defense. The mages' mobility made them nearly untouchable, descending from the skies like angels of death. His troops needed a countermeasure—something that could tear through magic itself.
His gaze hardened. "The enemy has no tanks," he said to himself. "So we'll rename it."
He scribbled the new name across the blueprint:
"Anti-Mage Rifle."
It had a nice ring to it.
---
Forging the Weapon
Gavin immediately sent the design schematics to the Ross Royal Arsenal, ordering his engineers to begin production.
"Prioritize this," he commanded. "I want a working prototype within ten days."
The blacksmiths and engineers saluted. Within hours, the blueprints were under heavy analysis, and by nightfall, the first alloy components were being forged.
By the end of the week, the weapon was complete—a long, heavy, single-shot rifle designed to deliver raw power.
When fired, it could shatter magical shields with sheer kinetic force. Even the strongest barrier wavered before it.
"This is the spear that will pierce the heavens," one of the engineers said proudly as he handed the weapon to Gavin for inspection.
"Good," Gavin replied simply. "Mass-produce it."
The Anti-Mage Rifle was officially born.
---
Magic Power Endurance Crisis
At the same time, his research division continued to struggle with another major issue—the battery life of the mana-supply devices.
Each unit lasted barely ten minutes before depleting all stored energy.
"Ten minutes of protection," the chief scientist said bitterly. "Then nothing."
The only temporary solution was recharging with electricity, a bizarre discovery that had already stunned the research community. Still, even with generators, it was impractical for long battles.
Thus, scientists worked day and night, seeking a way to enhance endurance—perhaps through compressed mana crystals or a hybrid fuel system.
The end goal was simple: to extend the combat time of the half-orc aerial unit, whose mobility and power made them a decisive force on the battlefield.
---
The War Machine of Ross
Meanwhile, construction across the Kingdom of Ross was in full swing.
The royal port—a massive naval base project—had already reached more than half completion. Every engineer and laborer in the kingdom worked tirelessly, driven by Gavin's ambition to establish the mightiest military-industrial system on the continent.
But progress came at a cost. Despite their efforts, industrial power lagged far behind the ancient industrial giants of Earth's history.
Half a month had passed since the BF109 fighter jet project began, and they had only just completed the first prototype. It was undergoing test flights now—barely staying aloft.
At present, there were only a handful of trainee pilots still fumbling through emergency drills.
Gavin sighed as he looked over the reports. "Compared to the old powers of Earth… we're still crawling."
He remembered the incredible numbers of the United States during World War II—87,000 tanks, 296,000 aircraft, and 53 million tons of ships built in just six years.
They once bragged they could build an airplane every five minutes.
When would his own kingdom reach such might?
He placed his hands behind his back, staring out the window toward the sprawling factories and rising smoke stacks. "Someday," he murmured. "Someday we'll reach that level."
---
The Nord Restoration Council
Far away, beyond the fortified borders of Ross, a small group of ten figures moved stealthily through the shadows of the mountains. The wind bit at their cloaks as they crossed into Ross territory under cover of darkness.
They were Nords—the remnants of a fallen kingdom.
Each of them carried the bloodline of ancient nobles, once proud heirs of Nord's ruling houses. When their homeland fell to Ross, their families were slaughtered or executed by the Royal Pickets. Only a handful survived, sent away as students to the Tongsley Empire's Magic Academy before the war erupted.
When they learned of their homeland's destruction, rage filled their hearts.
After years in exile, they finally gathered to form a secret organization—the Nord Restoration Council. Ten members in total. Ten ghosts of a dead kingdom.
Now, after a month of secret travel from the imperial capital of Tongsley to the Rossian border, they had arrived.
Their leader—a young man with sharp eyes and a hard expression—stood at the front.
"Your Highness, what's our next move?" asked one of the nobles.
The man turned. His name was Rathord, illegitimate son of King Ragnor IV. While his half-brother Prince Ragnar had inherited both talent and royal favor, Rathord had been cast aside—sent away to study in foreign lands.
Now, he was the last living link to Nord's royal bloodline.
"Our plan is simple," Rathord said, his voice cold and steady. "Since the Kingdom of Ross conquered our land by winning the hearts of the commoners, we will do the same."
He gazed across the valley, where the distant lights of a Ross border town flickered faintly. "The people are the key. They once served our families—they will again."
"We'll use our noble heritage and gold to recruit followers. Promise them titles when Nord rises again. Even peasants dream of power."
The young nobles nodded eagerly.
"Step by step," Rathord continued. "We may need ten years, twenty even. But we will rebuild our kingdom. We are the last nobles of Nord—and we will bring it back from the ashes!"
He raised his hand high and shouted, "Down with the tyranny of Gavin Ward! The territory belongs to the Nords! The Nords will rise again!"
The others echoed his cry with fervor:
"Down with the tyranny of Gavin Ward! The territory belongs to the Nords! The Nords will rise again!"
Their shouts echoed across the cold plains, swallowed by the night wind. The rebellion had begun—not with an army, but with ten determined souls.
---
As dawn broke, the group moved cautiously toward a small Rossian border post, unaware that they were being watched.
The border guards, trained to handle both refugees and spies, spotted the silhouettes moving through the mist.
The first confrontation between Ross's might and Nord's revenge was about to begin.
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