Gustav Deploys!

"Puhah! Hahahahaha!"

Archduke Harth of the South burst into thunderous laughter the moment he finished reading the letter that had landed on his desk. The sound carried all the way past the doors of his office; a moment later those doors opened and his closest aide, Leon, stepped inside to ask what was going on.

"I've never heard Your Grace laugh quite that hard. What could possibly have you in such high spirits?"

"I'm not happy—I'm laughing because it's ridiculous. Leon, read this."

Tears still prickling at the corners of his eyes from how hard he'd been laughing, Harth held the letter out. A short while later, Leon was making exactly the same face.

"Puhahaha! Oh dear, my apologies for the display in Your Grace's presence—"

"No, it's fine. Anyone who could read this and not laugh would have something wrong with their head."

"'The South's collection of transit fees constitutes unlawful extortion; abolish them immediately and return every copper of the ill-gotten gains you have skimmed. —Isaac, Superintendent of Western Demi-Human Affairs.' I did just read actual written words, didn't I, Your Grace?"

Open contempt was painted across both men's faces.

"Amazingly enough, you did. At first I thought some curse had ruined my eyesight."

"Well. You really do live long enough to see everything. Not from the Center, not from the North or the East—from the West, of all places… Isaac still seems to think he's the Archduke of the West."

"Even if he truly were the Archduke of the West, he'd be nothing but a hollow shell with a title. He's spent so long playing king over barbarians out there that he's forgotten his place."

"Hardly worth a reply. Shall I just burn it?"

Leon gave the letter a cheerful little shake. Archduke Harth shook his head.

"Not worth a reply, no—but I think that pathetic greenhorn needs a lesson in how the world works. Four years ago, when we announced we'd be collecting transit fees from the West, he didn't even manage a protest. He flattened himself on the floor. If he's going to stick his neck up again, we ought to educate him, don't you think?"

"To think you'd personally take the trouble to educate him even after a letter this insolent… it reminds me once again just how vast Your Grace's capacity truly is."

"Haha, flattery already? While you're at it, bring me paper and a pen. I'll stamp it with my own seal so he knows I wrote the answer myself."

The letter from the West had been short and simple.

An opening salvo of a declaration of war, capped with a deadline so brazen it bordered on absurd. People said that when something was truly beyond belief, you didn't get angry—you laughed. That was exactly how Harth felt.

It was true that the West had grown extraordinarily rich in recent years thanks to a flood ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of rare resources, but wealth and power were not the same thing.

Ever since the distant dawn of the Second Era, when humanity seized dominion over the world, the history of the so-called barbarian races had been one long, unbroken descent.

Their knowledge and technology had failed to pass down through the generations and had mostly been lost to time. Now, all they had left were a few natural racial traits that made them slightly superior to humans in raw physical contests—and nothing more.

Humans, by contrast, had advanced magic, aura, and every form of combat technique by leaps and bounds. The age had arrived when a full-grown orc male could no longer win a one-on-one fight against an ordinary knight. Unthinkable in the First Era, perhaps—but in the Second Era, crowned by humanity's total victory, it was simply the way of things.

Even if those barbarians gathered by the thousands or tens of thousands, a modest detachment of elite knights and mages could scatter them like autumn leaves. Being rich and powerless made you the juiciest prey in the world—and Isaac, apparently, still hadn't figured that out.

Then again, if you've spent more than a decade living among nothing but those barbarians in the West, of course you'd end up a frog in a well. Tch. Pathetic.

Harth composed his reply with care, then issued orders to his forces.

"There is a very high chance the Westerners will march on the gate leading into the South. Seal the Western Gate. Dispatch knights and mages and prepare thoroughly for an attack. Anyone who approaches the gate without authorization may be killed on sight, no questions asked."

Harth could state with absolute certainty that the Southern army losing to the West was a one-in-a-hundred-million impossibility—and until now, reality had always agreed with him. Even so, he never neglected his preparations. He was certain that the moment the Western army showed itself, he could wipe it out completely.

What he never once imagined, even in a dream, was what was actually approaching from the West.

"The South's reply is here."

It arrived the same day. The moment the Southern response came in, Lumina and everyone nearby pressed me for the contents.

"What did they say?"

"Short version: if you don't want to hold hands with a bunch of savages and march straight into hell, stay home and suck your own dick. They even stamped it with the Archduke of the South's personal seal, so he wrote it himself—no ghostwriter."

The mention of "savages" set every orc, elf, dwarf, and beastkin riding the train into a loud, simmering fury.

"For a man who calls himself an Archduke to still spit that uneducated First Era garbage…"

"We'll have to teach him a proper lesson before he comes to his senses."

"Let's see if he can still talk like that after he tastes one of Gustav's shells!"

They had already watched Gustav's trial firings once production was essentially complete; they knew exactly how much firepower it carried. Not a single demi-human of the West doubted that victory was ours.

Just then, the birdfolk scouting from the air dropped down and called to me through the window.

"Lord Isaac! We just spotted the Southern Gate beyond the horizon!"

"All stop!"

If birdfolk flying a hundred meters up could see the Southern Gate on the horizon, that put us at roughly thirty-five kilometers out. From the other side, only the people in the observation towers would even be able to make us out; the soldiers on the walls wouldn't see us at all.

Absolute safety was guaranteed on our end, and for Gustav's own stability there was no benefit in closing any further.

The train eased to a halt, and we began the real preparations in earnest.

"Golems, transfer the shells! Orcs and beastkin, up onto the train! The moment a shell reaches the platform, be ready to haul on the pulleys! Elves, keep reinforcing the cables so nothing snaps!"

Once the work orders were out, I called for Lumina.

"Lumina. Before we open fire, I'd like one last word with the commander of that gate."

"All the way out here?"

"On humanitarian grounds, we ought to give them one chance to live, don't you think?"

At my answer, Lumina manifested an ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠elven power. Tree roots rose from the earth and stood before me; others raced underground toward the front at speed. A little while later, she called out.

"Ready."

This was a remote-communication method unique to the elves of this world. Through living roots they could carry a voice to someone far away—perfect for the situation we were in.

"Ah—testing. Defenders of the Southern Gate, can you hear me?"

A voice came back along the roots.

"—What the hell? The tree roots are talking?"

"Good, you can hear me. I am Isaac, Superintendent of Western Demi-Human Affairs. I'm speaking through an elf's ability. I'll skip the preamble and get to the point. We demanded that the Archduke of the South cease his unlawful tolls on the West and return every coin of the profit he has stolen. He refused."

Silence, for a moment.

"Therefore, to demonstrate our strength, we will shortly attack the walls of the Southern Gate. You have one hour. Anyone who values their life should leave that place immediately. If you remain, your bodies will vanish along with the walls—not even dust will be left behind."

A beat later—

"—Puhahahaha!"

"—Well, well. If it isn't that shut-in cripple who never crawls out of the West!"

"—Hiding where we can't even see you, and the best you can manage is 'run if you value your lives'? You'll give us a whole hour? Aigoo~ I'm so terrified I've already wet myself!"

What sounded like knights and mages started jeering in earnest. Lumina's fists trembled with rage, but I gave a slight shake of my head: ignore them.

Then the commander of the Southern Gate garrison took over.

"—This is Simon, garrison commander. Lord Isaac—after more than ten years fraternizing with the barbarians who murdered your parents, has your mind sunk to their level as well? His Grace the Archduke already informed us that you intended to attack. We are here precisely to stop your thuggery."

"So I can take that to mean no one is leaving because they value their lives?"

"—At least you aren't deaf. Small mercies."

"Understood. Even so, you still have one hour. If anyone changes their mind, get as far from there as you can—a full kilometer would be wise. I'll say it again: the gate, the walls, and everyone on them will vanish without leaving so much as a speck of dust. Don't dismiss that as empty bluster."

"—Not worth another word. You said you wouldn't hesitate to use force. If you're so confident, attack."

That was the end of the conversation.

For the next hour we poured everything into the firing preparations. On the brink of the shot itself, I ran the final checks.

"Ground condition!"

"Ground solid!"

"Loading status!"

"Loaded and ready!"

"Final barrel inspection!"

"Barrel clear—no anomalies!"

Satisfied, I ordered everyone back.

"Disconnect the support trains! All personnel, clear the area!"

The support trains that had been coupled to Gustav and running with it along the multi-track line uncoupled and fell back hundreds of meters from the main body. At the same time, every last crewman still working on the train climbed down. All of us withdrew to a distant hilltop for distance and a clear line of sight.

Gustav now stood alone—nothing left but the gun itself.

From the hill, the Southern Gate and its walls were faintly visible tens of kilometers away. The birdfolk, with their excellent eyes, climbed even higher into the sky, faces bright with anticipation, waiting only for the order to fire.

"Damn it, I'm dying of envy! Hey! Lift us up too! We want a better look!"

A few people demanded the birdfolk grab them and fly up; the winners of a quick round of rock-paper-scissors got to enjoy the privilege. For now, though, no one was allowed in the air—I ordered every last one of them back to the ground to wait. Checking the time, I announced that the hour had come.

"Time's up. All personnel—hearing protection!"

Elven magic sealed our ears, guarding against ruptured eardrums.

"Overload the mana stone!"

The dwarves hit the trigger. The mana stone packed into the powder charge overloaded and spat sparks, and the seven-ton monster sleeping ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠inside the 800-millimeter super-heavy barrel began to boil from within.

The observation tower—built far taller than the walls of the Southern Gate—had long since spotted the bizarre train at an absurd distance and was reporting on it.

"An extremely strange black train is standing roughly thirty-five kilometers ahead. Something enormous and elongated is mounted on top of it, and it's coupled to other trains on the adjacent tracks, moving with them. I have no idea what it is… the size is far too large to call it a cannon, but looking at the shape, it can only be a cannon."

"The train has stopped. That huge elongated thing mounted on top is beginning to elevate. No other special movement yet, but…"

"Approximately a hundred barbarians in view. They're pushing the smaller trains back; only the largest black train remains. And those people… they're abandoning the train and climbing a hill? They don't appear to have any intention of approaching."

The lookout was baffled by the sight of the Western barbarians leaving their train and ascending the hillside. He couldn't begin to guess what they hoped to accomplish at that range.

A short while later, the lookout sensed something wrong and lifted his gaze. His voice, thick with unease, carried to the main force.

"Uh… headquarters? Can you… see the sky right now?"

Something deeply unnatural was happening overhead.

The clouds had begun to whirl around the black train that bore its colossal burden—as if the sky itself were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠being dragged into a vortex centered on that single machine.