"Full of lies," Nightingale said as Roland returned to the office after dealing with the alchemist. "That ancient text from four hundred and fifty years ago—wasn't' Elementary Chemistry 'the textbook you wrote for the Book Memory? That knowledge would eventually be taught to the subjects, wouldn't it?" "Just a well-intentioned lie," Roland said, sipping his tea. After merchant Margery from the capital gifted him a packet of black tea, he could finally say goodbye to his days of drinking plain water or ale. "A prince in the royal palace—how could he know alchemy in detail? If he did, it must have come from the capital's alchemists. Giving him a textbook to study on his own is far more acceptable than me teaching him alchemy. After all, people always trust themselves the most." "Oh?" Nightingale suddenly bent down, leaning close to Roland. "Then who taught you this knowledge?" "Uh..." Roland had barely opened his mouth when Nightingale pressed her finger to his lips. "If you don't want to say something, don't say it. I don't want to hear you lie." He blinked, and only then did she withdraw her finger.
"With five days left until the match," Roland seized the opportunity to steer the conversation, "we need Carter to get the hang of the new weapon early." "But didn't you say the ammunition issue remains unresolved?" "Cotton powder only affects its practical combat performance. For a match, firing a single round per gun is still feasible. After all, during the match, there's no need to worry about transporting bullets or reloading repeatedly—ten rounds are more than enough to determine the outcome," Roland explained. Of course, the reduced firing rate caused by the lack of cotton powder is purely a matter of probability, and that's something to be decided by fate and Carter's reputation.
...
West of the town wall.
Carter returned to the former explosive testing site to carry out a new mission assigned by Roland.
"Confronting a Witch?" Chief Knight was taken aback. "Can I wear the God's Stone?" "Certainly," Roland smiled. "But this is a unique Witch—the God's Stone won't work on her. She fights like a warrior, using a broadsword." "So she's a Witch who excels in close combat?" Carter glanced at the nightingale beside Roland.
"Pretty much, but since her ability is self-enhancement, both strength and speed far surpass ordinary humans," Roland said. "You need to brace yourself—your opponent's physical condition is probably several times stronger than the death row inmate used to test the pill before." "Several times... Your Highness, do you know what that means?" Carter stared wide-eyed. "Even if I could observe her movements, my body probably wouldn't keep up. If she's truly as powerful as you say, I'd probably have no chance of defeating her." "Theoretically, your odds of winning are zero," Prince handed over a peculiar-looking firearm. "But with this, your chances of victory will increase dramatically." "This... a new musket?" Carter took it with both hands—its trigger and barrel were strikingly similar to a flintlock, leading Knight to conclude they belonged to the same weapon category. Though compact in size, it felt heavy in the hand, weighing several pounds more than a flintlock. What particularly caught attention was that, apart from the wooden grip, the entire barrel was made of metal. Its smooth lines and angles, along with the grayish-white metallic sheen, exuded an indescribable beauty.
Carter instantly fell for this weapon.
"It's called the revolver," Roland pulled out another weapon of identical design, its honeycomb-shaped wheels bulging outward. "Now I'll show you how to use it." Carter quickly realized its operation was simpler than a flintlock—bullet and gunpowder fused into a single unit, ready to fire when loaded into the central rotating wheel. The wheel's five holes allowed five rounds to be loaded at once, explaining its name. A small hole at the revolver's rear aligned with the rotating mechanism would emit sparks and produce a hissing friction sound when the trigger was pulled. "Maybe it's hidden flint," he mused. But the bullet's design was ingenious: its pale yellow casing, likely made of thin copper plates, formed a perfect circular shape with flawless smoothness, showing no seams. The bullet tapered from thin at the front to thick at the back, its tail about the width of an index finger, fitting snugly into the chamber's hole. How on earth was this achieved?
"This is an unfinished project, so you must keep a close eye on the bullet's bottom opening," Roland demonstrated the firing motion. "Like me, tilt the muzzle slightly downward to prevent gunpowder from leaking through the opening. After each shot, clean the cartridge chamber to avoid gunpowder buildup in the holes." "An unfinished project?" "Exactly," Prince shrugged. "There's one crucial technique still to be perfected. If everything goes smoothly, you might catch up before the competition. Once sealed, the bullet's bottom opening will be permanently closed, eliminating any gunpowder leakage concerns. Let's begin with the target practice." But how could they ignite the gunpowder inside a sealed bullet? Carter pondered but decided to abandon the seemingly impossible task—after all, he wasn't Your Highness's erudite and resourceful counterpart.
Indeed, it is the mark of erudition and versatility. Carter now holds Your Royal Highness in such awe that no one—be it court scholars, alchemists, or astrologers—has ever invented as many ingenious gadgets as Your Highness, each with exceptional practical value. Unlike trivial inventions like snow powder or manned kites, which would merely become Noble's toys, Your Highness's steam engines power mining operations and water pumping, while his firearms and cannons repel evil beasts and the Duke's allied forces. Carter is now convinced that given time, Roland Wimbledon Your Highness will undoubtedly ascend the throne of Graycastle.
The target stood fifteen meters away, a human-shaped figure no larger than a palm. Following Your Highness's instructions on two-handed gun handling, he tilted his body slightly, aligned the barrel's center of gravity with the target, and pulled the trigger.
Spark and gas spewed from both sides of the rotating wheel, the deafening roar jarring his ears. He felt as if someone had shoved him violently, his wrist involuntarily lifting upward. When the smoke cleared, the target appeared unscathed.
"Continue," Roland said.
Carter took a deep breath and fired the remaining four bullets, yet none of them hit the mark.
"This..." Carter turned to Your Royal Highness, who appeared completely unfazed.
"Pistols have shorter barrels, so their range and accuracy are inferior to rifles—missing the mark is completely normal. With bullets nearly twelve millimeters in caliber, the recoil is far more intense than that of flintlock guns," he continued, explaining something Carter found hard to grasp. "In short, practice diligently using my method. You must hit the target with all five shots before the match to stand a chance of winning. Oh, and don't forget to collect the spent cartridges—they'll be useful for many more rounds when reloaded."