"Shield test!"
The command echoed through the lab like a drumbeat. The heavy door swung open and Yara burst in, cheeks flushed with excitement and eyes alight with hope. She moved like a live fuse—no hesitation, no fear.
"Keep hitting the shield with fireballs—continuously!" the chief researcher instructed, clipboard poised and voice controlled.
"Got it!" Yara replied, and in an instant her hands began to glow. Mana spun across her palms and one by one the familiar orange spheres of flame condensed from will alone. These were not exotic spells—just the basic fireballs every novice learned first—yet in her hands they felt fierce and precise.
She launched them in a steady stream at the barrier surrounding Tanya, who stood like a calm statue in the center of the test chamber. The orbs streaked through the air and struck the shimmering dome.
Boom! Boom! The first impacts sent a spray of sparks into the air, and for a heartbeat the shield trembled, its surface rippling like a pond struck by stones. The flames expanded wildly and then, as if someone had turned a valve, collapsed into fading motes and hung for a moment before dissipating.
When the smoke cleared, the shield still held—intact and humming with residual energy. The observation team erupted into scribbles and data checks. "Primary test passed," the lead scientist breathed, pleased enough to let a smile crease his face.
They pushed further. Spells climbed in power and variety—concentrated jets of flame, layered barrages that burned with different intensities. Each attack tested an edge of the barrier's strength until the room smelled faintly of singed ozone and burnt wick. Still the shield remained.
Next came the dangerous phase: kinetic resistance.
No one would fire live rounds directly at Tanya without protections, but Tanya was not the sort to hide behind others. She removed the device casing and activated the shield herself for the live-fire demonstration. With the hum of magic in her chest, she hefted the long Kar98k rifle in her arms. The weapon nearly matched her in length; her short legs looked comically small beneath its weight, but her expression was stone-cold.
"Start!" came the signal.
Boom. Crack. Boom. Click. The Kar98k's report was sharp and commanding in the testing field. Tanya squeezed off five rounds in rapid succession. Each bullet slammed into the barrier with bone-jarring force; the shield flickered between brilliant and dim, yet held its ground. The bolt clicked, the magazine cycled, and she reloaded, precise and unhurried.
On the sixth shot the barrier failed—the dome fractured into flashing ribbons and dissolved. Dust motes danced in the sudden wind of the collapse. For a moment everyone froze; then the room filled with relieved, excited murmurs.
"Very good," the doctor declared, nodding as he logged the results. Surviving five hits from a full-power World War II round was no small feat. The Kar98k fired full-power ammunition; its penetration was legendary among bolt-action rifles. A shield that could stand against five such impacts had proven itself worthy of serious consideration.
The researchers quickly ran scenarios and extrapolations. If the device were worn on a half-orc soldier—one of the giant girls whose physiology harmonized better with enchanted tech—its defensive threshold should climb significantly. The half-orc's natural mana affinity could augment the device's power, shifting the shield from impressive to near-indomitable. In the cold ledger of war, that margin could mean a thousand saved lives.
Still, the team found a glaring flaw after the dozen follow-up trials: battery life. Under full output the device lasted just ten minutes. After that, its mana banks exhausted, it went dark and useless until recharged. In a real battle, ten minutes would not be nearly enough; worse, downtime might leave a unit exposed when the enemy expected them to be shielded.
They experimented with everything—bigger nodes, denser crystals, alternate sigils—but the drain remained obscene. Then came an odd, bold experiment from a junior engineer: what if we tried to recharge the device with electricity?
Magic researchers scoffed at the suggestion. For centuries magic and electricity were taught as entirely separate phenomena—the former ethereal and capricious, the latter quantifiable and obeying laws. Yet the engineer, stubborn and curious, attached the device to a small generator and fed it current.
The lab watched.
The crystals inside the module brightened. The gauge crept upward. The device accepted the charge.
There was stunned silence, then exhilaration. Electricity—mere electrons—could replenish a mana reservoir. The two supposedly incompatible energies did, in fact, talk to each other. It was an ungraceful, elegant bridge between two worlds.
"Magic isn't always logical," the lead scientist muttered, half in awe. "But if this works, then a generator on the battlefield won't be a joke—it'll be a lifeline."
The implications were immediate and strange: half-orc aerial squads could swoop down, land on a covered ridge, plug into a field generator, and recharge mid-campaign. Engineers sketched ideas of mobile power wagons, recharging cradles, and mana-electric converters that could refuel devices during a lull.
Of course, a generator didn't solve everything. It required fuel, maintenance, and a vulnerable point for enemies to exploit. But for now it turned battery life from a fatal flaw into a solvable logistical problem, and the research teams redoubled their efforts—this time with fresh hope.
When the trials ended for the day, Gavin Ward stepped outside the testing yard to breathe air that tasted like dust and magnetism. As he walked, an energetic figure bumped into him almost before he could register her—a small girl whose grin could have lit the city.
"Sister Tanya!" she chirped, all sunshine and motion.
Tanya's otherwise unchanging face softened fractionally. The little girl's name was Lina, and she had the kind of optimism that slapped away gloom. Lina took Tanya's hand and tugged at her—"Come with me! I'll take you to eat the best pastries in the market!"—and before Tanya could protest, the two had broken into a run, a comic duo of one lively sprite and one reserved sentinel sprinting down the avenue. Their short legs moved with implausible speed, weaving through stall crowds and startled vendors.
From a second-floor window, Gavin watched them dart into the bustling streets and couldn't help but chuckle. "What a pair," he said to himself. "Short legs, big hearts—and they run like the wind."
As if on cue, a system chime whispered into Gavin's mind, a mechanical voice that never sounded completely human.
> [System Notice]
Most of the Lot Kingdom and Kiswell Kingdom populations have been integrated.
Total population: 10,000,157.
Reward unlocked: Five-Star Lucky Draw ×1.
Your Majesty, please continue your efforts.
Gavin's grin sharpened into a small, hungry smile. Ten million people—a single number, a mountain of mouths and hands and taxes and soldiers. It was progress, but not enough. He dreamed larger: only through rapid expansion could he secure territory enough to anchor his realm and defend it. He wanted scale and the solidity that only numbers and industry brought.
Another notification pinged in the same synthetic tone:
> [System Notice]
The Orc Empire has split into two kingdoms. Continue your efforts; a mysterious reward will be granted upon full separation.
Gavin rubbed his chin. A chance to draw the wheel—one more twist of fate. He had grown unexpectedly fond of gambling with destiny; the system's draws were addicting in a way nothing else was.
"Start the lottery draw," he ordered, more to amuse himself than with any real gravity.
The virtual turntable spun up once again, this time with five schematics visible in his mind's HUD: Katyusha multiple rocket launcher designs; L-3920mm anti-tank rifle blueprints; Type 97 tank schematics; AKM automatic rifle designs (AK-47 improved version); and Type 38 rifle blueprints.
He looked over the list and felt his fingers itch. Katyusha was a terror of sweeping area fire—a barrage weapon that could blanket nearly nine kilometers with explosive ordnance. Accuracy was low, but its saturation of fire could pulverize formations before they knew what hit them. AKM was the other prize: rugged, cheap, and unstoppable in the hands of a disciplined army. Either of those would shift the balance of power instantly.
He breathed, and the wheel flicked. Lights whirred. The slot machine of destiny clicked and slowed.
Gavin watched the pointer with the same intensity he used to study battle maps. The indicator ticked over, then stopped.
A congratulatory voice chimed.
> "Congratulations, Your Majesty. You have received the blueprint for the Katyusha Multiple Rocket Launcher."
A laugh burst out of him then, high and unrestrained. "Perfect," he said aloud, picturing columns of self-propelled launchers spitting death across an enemy line. It was a tool for total coverage—a way to turn any battlefield into ash and fire.
He imagined implementation teams, manufacturing yards humming with metal, and the first test volley that would mark the end of an era where small arms or even single heavy cannons could decide a fight. The industrial revolution of his military had just taken a massive step forward.
End of Chapter 93.
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