Shotgun (3)
Clink-clink-clink—. The lead shot, freshly dredged from the tank and dried off, rolled across the metal tray with a crisp, clear sound. Each pellet a perfect sphere, all nearly identical in weight. Pistia still looked like she couldn't believe it, plunging her hands deep into the mound of buckshot.
"The more I see it, the more insane it gets. Flint, you're a genius for designing this! Quality this uniform...! It's better than most workshops!"
"Physics doesn't lie. No artisan's as honest as the laws of nature."
I laid out the prepped red paper shells on the workbench.
"Alright, enough gawking. Time to package 'em up."
"This is... paper?" Pistia gingerly picked up one shell. Surprisingly solid and smooth to the touch.
"Coated thick on the outside to handle moisture and shock, thin on the base for ignition."
A metal cartridge would be ideal for the hefty pressure of a 12 Gaugeshotgun, but with our current production setup, wax-impregnated paper was the best bet.
"Even so, can paper really withstand a powder explosion? There's way more powder than in a revolver, and with multiple lead balls, the pressure has to be even higher, right?"
Pistia's doubt was reasonable. By this world's common sense, paper was far too flimsy for an explosion.
"That's why we need this. It's called a wad."
To address her question, I picked up a thick disc made of layered paper and cork.
"This acts as a piston between the powder and the shot. It seals the gas from the exploding powder so nothing leaks backward, maintaining pressure while shoving the shot out all at once. The paper shell's just the wrapper—the wad handles the real pressure transfer."
With practiced motions, I started the process. Red-glossy 12 Gaugeshells piled up one by one on the bench.
"They're pretty. Like ripe fruit."
Pistia picked one up, mesmerized. The wax-coated red ammo gleamed vividly, as if biting into it would burst sweet juice everywhere.
'Like fruit, huh...'
The moment that red husk burst open, the lead pellets inside would fan out in a deadly cone, shredding everything in front. Not a point of death, but an area of slaughter. Unavoidable violence.
I lifted a freshly made red shell and muttered,
"One more means of conversation."
Pistia, sorting ammo beside me, flinched and looked up. Reading the ruthless pragmatism in my eyes, her face paled as she glanced between the red shell and me.
"......That's 'conversation'? You don't seem interested in hearing the other side at allll..."
"Conversation's always been about clearly conveying what I want to say. This'll etch my intent crystal clear."
Who the opponent is, what they spout—it doesn't matter. Every debate ends by force of my physics.
All prepped. Time for the demo.
A thick plate-mail knight's armor stood in one corner of the Engineering Department. Full kit: breastplate, helmet, joint guards—complete battle gear.
Distance to the armor: 30 meters. Too far for reliable revolver hits, and even if you connected, the power would drop off sharply.
I flipped the shotgun's locking lever. Click.
Unlocked, I broke the barrel downward. Clunk—! The crisp, heavy metallic snap unique to a break-action.
The yawning chamber gaped like a starving beast awaiting red prey.
"Time to feed our baby."
I slid in one red shell. The distinct thunk as it seated perfectly at the chamber's end—that vibration thrilled me deeper than any achievement.
'Yeah, this is the stuff.'
Wonder if that madman Tangbun could still rant about romance facing a 12 Gauge head-on. Probably not—his fancy mouth would be stuffed with lead fragments before he got a word out.
"Shall we test it?"
I snapped the barrel back up. Precision-machined metal parts meshed flawlessly. Snap—. The heavy lock engaged, silence falling like the air itself had paused.
I pulled the trigger without hesitation. The hammer drove the striker, and the magic stone at its tip slammed the shell's base. Red sparks flew, igniting the explosion.
BOOM—!
The gas, screaming between barrel and wad, finally burst free, spewing two dozen 6mm lead pellets from the muzzle.
Silver fragments fanned out in death's cone, obliterating the 30-meter gap. The shot slammed into the steel armor.
CRASH—!!
Before the onslaught of areal violence, the armor crumpled grotesquely inward.
'That much power at 30 meters.'
I broke the gun open, ejecting the shell. The paper casing, reeking of acrid smoke and heat, tumbled to the floor. I drew another from my pocket.
These weren't the rain of 6mm pellets from the Shot Tower. These were my hand-poured, precision-cast giants—over 8mm diameter. Specs like Earth's anti-personnel favorites.
Clunk, snap—! The reloaded shotgun loomed heavy once more.
Same spot, same target. I shouldered firmer and fired.
BOOM—!
Ten lead balls, charged with the stone's full fury, tore through the air. The impact sound was different this time.
CRUNCH—!!
The steel screamed and tore. Where the 6mm had crushed, these 8mm crumpled the plate. Not denting steel at 30 meters—physically folding it.
'Stronger output than Earth.'
Pistia, watching pale-faced, muttered,
"W-what the hell did we just make...?"
I rolled my aching shoulder with a satisfied grin.
"Who knows."
I broke the gun. The spent shell flopped limply to the ground.
"One thing's sure—it's a loud way to talk."
After the shotgun demo.
As Pistia cleaned up the target armor's wreckage, she suddenly asked,
"By the way, Cadet Flint, what's this '12 Gauge' you've been going on about? Never heard that unit before..."
Ah, that.
"Nothing special. Take a pound of pure lead, divide it into 12 equal spheres—the diameter of those balls is the bore width for a 12 Gauge."
"..."
"...?"
Sudden silence, like the temperature plummeted. Pistia's eyes, sparkling with awe at the ammo's power moments ago, now trembled with rage.
I tilted my head, confused.
"Professor?"
Her lips quivered—then exploded.
"Flint! How dare you use that filthy Imperial Units system in my sacred Engineering Department?! Are you insane?!"
"Huh? No, what do you—"
The usual awkward-nerd vibe was gone. Pistia jabbed a finger like she might grab my collar.
"Pounds?! You uttered that inefficient, unscientific, industry-stifling abomination right in front of me!"
"Professor, calm down first—"
"Calm?! Do you know why I dedicated my life to engineering? To eradicate that trash Imperial Units from this land forever!"
"......Huh?"
I gaped blankly. Tears welled in Pistia's eyes. This wasn't mere annoyance—a deep-seated grudge screamed through her.
"Ten years ago! When I submitted all my papers in pure decimal Metric System, those shit-for-brains academy old-timers said what? 'No tradition,' 'Ignoring our ancestral weights'—they rejected every one!"
Pistia ruffled her hair, fuming.
"Do you know how many sheets of conversion equations that crap cost me? 1 pound = 16 ounces? 12 inches = 1 foot? How's that sane?! I've fought to escape that idiotic, inefficient number hell!"
Under her blazing fury, I backed away slowly. Even in my past life, I'd cursed Imperial after that Mars probe crash from unit errors—but this world's engineers harbored far deeper rage.
"Sorry, Professor. My bad—I didn't think. It was just... an old name. I love Metric too. For real."
"Prove it! Rename this barbaric gauge '18.5mm Bore Shotgun' right now, or the project's scrapped!"
"......Got it. 18.5mm it is. Absolutely."
No choice against a rampaging Metric zealot.
"But... doesn't the Dean use inches too...?"
Pistia whipped around, eyes bulging, shrieking,
"The Dean's got shit for brains too! No—I'm certain!"
"Uh, stop—hey—"
"Right? Living 1000 years yapping inefficient Imperial—that's a life way off track—"
"Ho? And how's this body's life off track?"
The Dean descended from the sky like she'd ripped through the air.
"H-ha... haha... D-Dean...?"
Where'd the empire's top 'Metric warrior' go? Before me trembled a pitiful engineer, shaking like a fawn.
The Dean picked her ear, stepping toward Pistia.
"Heard a racket, flew over—quite the tale. What's in my head? And my life's way off?"
"W-well... academically speaking... unit unification is a nation's foundation and—"
"Silence! This body has measured my span as 8 inches since 1000 years ago! My finger joints are inches, my foot length is feet! How dare you proffer rootless Metric drivel!"
I stared blankly at the Dean's tiny, spread hand.
'......Looks under 6 inches (about 15cm) no matter how you slice it.'
Any onlooker'd call it a child's palm, but she thrust it out like world standard.
"H-honestly, claiming something under 6 inches is stretching it," Pistia ventured cautiously.
The Dean glared, bellowing,
"Hold your tongue! If I say 8 inches since 1000 years past, it is 8! Chant a spell stretching my hand 8 inches, and an 8-inch fireball flies!"
"That's just magic resizing it...!"
Tears brimming under the Dean's pressure, Pistia clung to her last engineering pride—Metric—resisting desperately.
"S-see?! Standards don't match! My equations twist every time from that rubber-band units! Please, just ditch inches already!"
The Dean shoved her 12-year-old palm under my nose, proclaiming,
"Behold, Flint! Perfectly precise 8 inches, no?"
I stared blankly at the adorable, baby-leaf-sized Dean palm hovering at my nose-tip.
'......If that's 8 inches, my shoe size's like 3 meters.'
A millennium-old dragon insisting 15cm was 20cm, by Earth's sense. I'd meant to ask her about rival Lucius's location next, but.
"More importantly, Dean—where's Lucius right now...?"
"That's not priority! Teaching this ignorant engineer Imperial Units' glory comes first! Now, Pistia! My foot is precisely 1 foot—measure it thyself!"
"No! I won't! Never! Only Metric's real! Waaah!"
The Dean bounced after Pistia; Pistia screamed, circling behind my back. One, the world's strongest after 1000 years; the other, the empire's top engineer.
Yet before my eyes: an elementary school playground chase, pure childish antics.
'......Will that fight end today?'