Excellent Means of Conversation (1)
As soon as the sun rose, I'd plow the fields under the blazing sun. When work wrapped up, I'd scour workshops and smithies, collecting scrapped junk. Before I knew it, our backyard had turned into a full-blown junkyard. But that was a good thing. A pile of materials meant more chances to experiment.
Still, having materials didn't magically produce a gun. What I was building wasn't some crude pipe cannon—it was the intricate mechanical marvel known as a flintlock pistol.
Clang! Kang!
"Agh, it broke again! Damn this durability!"
Hundreds of times, I'd heat metal scraps with the mana refinery furnace I'd set up next to the workbench. If not for the industrial mana stone chunk I'd gotten from that traffic accident settlement, I wouldn't have even attempted it.
The biggest hurdle was carving a spring strong enough to make the flint scrape hard against the steel frizzen and spark. I'd bash scrap from wagon axles, pour in coolant, and when it lost tension and snapped, shove it back into the forge. My palms were shredded with burns and blisters, and covered in dirt and metal dust, I looked every bit the beast.
"That damn author... I'll chase him to the ends of hell...."
My teeth ground together, but I couldn't stop. In this romance fantasy world of five years in the military hell—or worse, getting shredded by the heroine and her psycho entourage—surviving as a commoner meant this lump of metal was my only lifeline.
Tears of blood streaming, I kept forging parts. After a month of soul-crushing failures,
With trembling hands, I cocked the hammer back. Click.
A satisfying metallic snick as it locked in place. Deep breath. Pull the trigger.
Bang!
The flint raked the steel frizzen hard, sending a vivid orange spark lighting up the dark backyard.
"......!"
No illusion. A perfect firing mechanism. And today, finally, I fitted all the parts securely into the wooden grip. The prototype was complete.
"Yeehaw! Yeehaw!"
I let out a primal screech and tore around the house like a madman.
"Dear... what are we going to do with our Flint?"
"Beats me. I still think the Gos Merchant Group's compensation wasn't enough. If only he hadn't hurt his head back then...."
My parents' worried voices drifted over, but I didn't care. All my focus was on the metal lump in my hands. The slightly rough surface brushing my fingers felt sweeter than any comfort in the world.
"Hah... hah... prototype... you seductive beast!"
Just looking at it had my lips stretching to my ears. Of course, don't expect a sleek 21st-century semi-auto. What I'd poured a month's blood and sweat into was a crude flintlock pistol.
Cock the hammer, sprinkle powder on the pan. Pull the trigger: flint strikes steel, sparks ignite the powder, boom—bullet away. Old-school of the old-school.
But to my eyes, it shone brighter than Excalibur.
...Field test. I need a field test.
Using the excuse of prepping for the academy entrance exam, I wheedled a week off farm work from Dad. Packed some cheap lead bullets I'd melted down and headed straight for the back hills.
Soon enough, a plump rabbit hopped into view. I held my breath, aimed the barrel. Sight alignment. Perfect. Cock—
Screeech—BOOM!!
A deafening roar hammered my eardrums. Acrid powder smoke stung my nose amid the recoil. The gun worked fine! Perfect ignition.
So the target?
Hop.
"......Huh?"
The rabbit bounded away unscathed. My shot had gouged a random tree trunk behind it instead.
"It was close enough to kiss if it fell—why'd I miss?"
Thud-thud-thud! Watching it flee leisurely sparked my competitive fire.
For the rest of the day, I scoured the hills hunting rabbits. And reached a grim conclusion.
Power: pass. Accuracy: utter trash.
Fifteen paces. Beyond that, even perfect aim meant constant misses. Obvious reason: no rifling in the barrel to spin the bullet, so it tumbled wildly like a smoothbore musket's limit.
And no way was I rifling a barrel precisely with this backwater forge setup. My skills hit a wall, despair creeping in.
"Sigh, pack it in for today...."
Turning home with a heavy heart—
Grrrrr....
From behind me. A chilling, ominous beast growl that froze me to the bone.
Shit...!
I whipped around to lock eyes with a bloodshot wolf-type mana beast. It lunged straight for my throat without hesitation.
"Guh!"
Reflexively raised the gun, but crap. Flintlocks need powder in the pan each time. And my powder horn was empty.
In other words, this damn thing was less useful than a club right now—pure scrap.
I didn't even go deep into the hills—why the hell is a mana beast here?!
Skimping on powder to save hassle was my eternal mistake. Not just regret—not saving powder nearly cost my life.
Ignoring the cold sweat down my spine, I yanked my dagger from my belt. The wolf beast flinched back at my desperate move.
The tense standoff resumed.
Grrrrr....
It bunched its hind legs and leaped. My dagger hand shook. No way this flimsy blade pierced that thick hide.
As its gaping maw closed in, fumbling in my pocket, my fingers brushed something odd. A pitiful thumbnail-sized low-grade mana stone shard I'd mindlessly pocketed from a workshop trash bin days ago.
A mad idea flashed.
Powder or mana stone—both are just explosive energy sources, right?!
This was suicide beyond gambling. Jamming unrefined mana stone dust into the pan and firing was like pulling a grenade pin in my hand.
But better to bet my wrist than stand there as dog food!
Crunch! I smashed the stone to powder with my dagger hilt and jammed it into the pan.
"Eat this and die, you bastard!"
Its crimson maw filled my vision. I shoved the muzzle down its throat and pulled the trigger.
Click. Flint struck steel. Tiny spark hit the crushed mana dust—
KABOOOOOM————!!!
A blinding cyan-white flash and pressure wave erupted, leagues beyond black powder.
"Gahk!"
The bone-crushing recoil launched me tumbling through the air. Wracking pain made my wrist flop like jelly, ears ringing with a piercing eeeee.
Through the haze of dirt and blue mana residue, the beast's corpse lay flipped, not even screaming. Half its head had vaporized.
"..."
My prototype was twisted like taffy, barrel glowing cherry-red.
"Ha, haha...."
Smoking and shaking, I stared at the mangled gun.
Residue powder soot in the pan. Crushed mana dust.... Did they catalyze each other? Chemistry meets magic?!
Get the mix right, and I could boost power and accuracy without melting the barrel. Accuracy sucks? Can't rifle it?
"Just mix in magic."
That moment, modern engineering and fantasy magic fused grotesquely perfect in my hands.
Nothing worth looting from the wolf's headless corpse. Hell, I lacked the wits or strength to skin it.
Clutching my dangling wrist with the other hand, stumbling down the mountain was pure hell. Adrenaline fading, agony surged.
"Guh, hah...."
Every step burned my scorched wrist like fire, wind seeping into torn flesh. Yet my pale lips kept leaking mad chuckles.
I survived. And found the perfect answer.
Tucked safely in my bosom: the taffy-twisted flintlock ruins. My lifeline, first step of the master plan.
"I'm home......"
"Flint! What time is it, why are you— KYAAAH?!"
"Deina! Grab the first aid kit! Now!"
Mom screamed at my wretched state upon entering; Dad went pale and bellowed.
Small wonder. My clothes shredded, beast blood and soot caking me, right wrist flopping loose.
Mom trembled like an aspen fetching the kit; Dad approached silently.
"......"
"......"
Heavy silence. Dad's callused farmer hands moved with unbelievable skill on first aid. Was the rumor true—he'd been a mercenary?
Mashed herbs stung my burns to tears, but he steadily splinted my wrist with cloth. His calm eyes reading the wound held fury, relief, and odd resignation.
...Stings like hell. Hope holy power from the chapel fades these scars.
After eyeing my wounds and grimy face, Dad sighed deeply.
"......Can't take it anymore. Your reckless streak's too much like mine."
"......"
"No farm work till the academy exam. But no more life-risking insanity."
Gruff words, deep worry. I nodded meekly.
"Yes, Father."
Then.
As my bloodied mess flipped the house upside down,
In the cramped, shabby living room's rickety table—legs mismatched, creaking—a voice utterly out of place spoke.
"Flint. Long time no see, but you're a mess."
A leisurely, refined tone clashing with the blood-and-powder hut. There sat Laurie Gos, head of the continent's top merchant group and empire's honorary countess, legs elegantly crossed.
Her sharp, graceful gaze raked my dangling wrist and soot-streaked form with amused interest. Like she'd found a fascinating new toy.