The Black Sand's Thunder
The basic training for the technology demonstration model was complete, but by the time I had passed on a systematic physical conditioning regimen, shared my know-how on constructing field fortifications (the A-frame tents made of wood and cloth were serviceable enough), and drilled the simple stir-fried pork recipe using shovels and cauldrons into the cook Liu Bei had personally hired, the snow had melted.
“Thank you for everything, Master. And Big Brother.”
“Aye.”
“Big Brother.”
After receiving their farewells, I turned to head back to the academy, but Liu Bei called me to a stop.
“What is it?”
“One last request. A sparring match, if you would.”
Her eyes were bright. “Why not.”
Ever since our first bout, every morning had begun with a match against her. I knew little of the swordsmanship of this era, so I had taught her what I could of CQB-oriented MCMAP and Krav Maga in the spare moments. Even that was incomplete; she knew nothing of long-sword techniques, so her blade had grown steadily shorter. Now it was… about the length of a short gladius.
She and I closed until the tips of our left-hand blades nearly touched, while the second sword hidden behind each of our backs was reversed, gauging the distance. Even the blink of an eye could gift the opponent an opening, so the extended left hands clashed desperately, each seeking any advantage by beating the other’s blade aside.
—Swish!
Liu Bei’s rear foot sprang forward and her outstretched left hand thrust straight for my eyes. I twisted at the waist to slip the thrust and drove my own point toward her right flank.
—Clack!
Her right-hand dagger, held in reverse grip, knocked my left dagger aside and rebounded toward my solar plexus. In the ultra-close quarters where even an arm could barely fit between us, our crossed daggers blocked the incoming strike; I shoved her back with my weight and stomped down on her knee pit.
“Ghh!”
Her toes sank into the packed earth. Her already extended left hand could not be withdrawn in time; we were now close enough to embrace. I drove my elbow into her temple.
—Whoosh!
The wide sleeves of her robe flared as her waist bent backward. My vision was obscured for an instant; I rolled away with a back handspring I could never have performed in my previous life, creating distance.
“Haa… I still can’t beat you.”
“If a few months of training let you beat me, how would I make a living?”
“Haha! Fair point. Thank you for everything. Should you ever visit, this Liu Bei will treat you with the utmost sincerity.”
A full-course meal in Takhyeon… or was it that old Gyeongsang-do line everyone used? “Well, if the chance comes.”
She left. The fifty ruffians who had once followed her now marched behind her as fifty proper soldiers.
“Miss her already?”
“A little, I suppose.”
“I thought you were going to keep two households.”
“Fortunately, I didn’t inherit that wandering eye.”
“Kehaha! Then all’s well. If you’d messed around with the wrong woman, I’d have sent word straight to Lady Yu—ah, Lady Gongsun.”
Master laughed heartily and pounded my back. Though I had spent far more time on personal training than during my days as a mere Scribe and had put on noticeable muscle, his palm still stung. The strength that had once felled barbarians had not faded.
---
Winter passed and spring approached. I was re-leveling the academy courtyard, now a sea of mud from the melting ice, when I found it in the kitchen—where I had been spending more time lately because Master kept stealing my free moments.
Soil mixed with ancient dust and wood ash, salty to the tongue. In a single word: saltpeter earth. And what we refined from it was potassium nitrate—saltpeter, as it was called here.
Of course, it was useless in its current state. Refinement was required, then mixing with charcoal and sulfur to create green mix, followed by the addition of dextrin and alcohol, drying, and grinding before true black powder could be obtained. Refined dextrin or alcohol could not be procured in this era, and even if I somehow improvised black powder, forging a firearm was impossible. Ironworking had only just entered the Iron Age at the tail end of the first dynasty; no smelting technique existed that could produce a barrel strong enough to contain a gunpowder detonation. Unless one possessed the legendary skill of a master smith, even a single iron ingot would have inconsistent composition. The notion of crafting a proper gun had been abandoned long ago.
Still, that did not mean gunpowder weapons were impossible.
“What did you make?”
“A Jincheonroe.”
“Jincheonroe?”
“Yes.”
“What is it for?”
“Defense.”
“Defense, you say?”
Yes—an IED could be made. Under Master’s tutelage, time was the only resource I possessed in abundance. I paid the local blacksmith for several apple-sized plates of steel. Because it was steel rather than wrought iron, shaping the plates with a hammer during idle hours proved easy. Filling them with powder and inserting an oil-soaked fuse presented no great difficulty either. I scored the convex face that would face the enemy with a dull knife to create stress risers, then meticulously checked every seam except the fuse hole for gaps.
Compared with a proper Claymore or booby trap, the explosive yield would be pathetic, but this was still the late second century. More than a thousand years remained before gunpowder’s existence would be widely known. For safety, I dug a pit deep enough to hold a man beside the stream and buried one of the finished Jincheonroe inside.
“And now… if I light the fuse—”
—Fwoosh!
Flame raced along the thickly oiled cord. The convex plate swallowed the spark.
“You should cover your ears. It will be rather loud.”
—BOOM!
The ground shook. One wall of the pit collapsed.
“Wh-what in the—?!”
In truth, its lethality was nothing special. At best it might possess twenty percent of a modern Claymore’s killing power. I was a soldier, not a chemist or ordnance technician, and the only powder formula I knew was the low-grade mix used by local insurgents. I had fired nothing but pristine U.S. military M855A1; handling local powder had been limited to a brief familiarization course on enemy weapons. Even then, one round in a hundred would cook off inside the barrel—only fanatics used that stuff. With the technological limitations of the late second century, where even proper refining was impossible, and with a crude device that could not even disperse fragments effectively, there was no chance of earning a passing grade.
Nor could it be mass-produced. Its value lay solely in the fact that only I could use it. This IED was, in short, a proof-of-concept model meant to demonstrate that I possessed an extraordinary technology. There was no need to reveal the manufacturing method or raw materials and thereby diminish my own worth.
“Remarkable. Truly remarkable.”
“I cannot make many. It was a chance discovery to begin with.”
“Hmm. A discovery, you say?”
“I was lighting kindling when some fell to the ground and continued to burn fiercely instead of going out. I found that strange, so I gathered the black sand around it.”
“Heh… And how much of that black sand remains?”
“After what we have used, roughly one mal left.”
“Each Jincheonroe holds about one hop, so that is not a great quantity.”
“No, it is not.”
“Hmm… The amount is small, yet ninety-nine Jincheonroe of this power would guarantee the success of at least one ambush.”
“Likely so.”
“For now, I recommend you tell no one about the black sand. Had such a thing been discovered in times of peace, it would have been a great blessing… Ahem. Forgive me. To force my disciple to hide his discovery makes me a poor master indeed.”
“It is fine. I expected as much.”
“Yet you still showed it to me?”
“How could a disciple conceal anything from his master?”
“I see… Yes, that is how it should be.”
Master rested his chin on his hand and fell into thought.
…My conscience pricked. You Province was vast; saltpeter earth could be found elsewhere if one searched. Primitive grenades rather than booby traps could be manufactured in limited numbers. With even crude grenades, a small force could hold its own against a larger army. Greater numbers would naturally allow claims over larger territories, and larger territories might one day include open deposits of saltpeter. To achieve that, it was wise to minimize any benefit that might fall to others.
After all, the Yellow Turban Rebellion was certain to erupt within the next ten years. The people’s anger had already exceeded its limit, and the President’s political skill was insufficient to contain it. Warlords who suppressed the Yellow Turbans would become warlords in truth, and a state fractured by rival warlords could no longer function. Come to think of it, had deployment to Africa during the great warlord era been harsher than Afghanistan? I could not remember. Afghanistan had already been hot enough to kill; how people survived farther south was beyond me.
“I have sealed the black sand—the black gravel—in a jar and buried it. It reacts too violently to fire, and moisture causes it to harden so it cannot be used properly.”
“It must be thoroughly dried before use, then.”
“Yes.”
“…Let us hope there is never a need to use it.”
“I hope the same.”
Truly, a soldier’s ideal life was to eat, sleep, and dig fortifications. I had prepared a technology demonstration model against the day everything went wrong, but the best outcome would be for it to remain buried for a thousand years and be unearthed as a relic.
“Though it seems that will not be possible.”
“No.”
Yes—the peace of our era had already ended. All that remained was to wait for the cavalry of war that would set the entire Central Plains ablaze. Ah, they probably did not even know what cavalry was yet. And yet, to our great misfortune, Master and I understood that fact all too well.