I Made a Magical Defense Bureau in Another World
I was eight years old, hanging upside down from a tree branch in the training ground of my estate, and the moment I realized I had been reborn into this world, three things crystallized in my mind with the clarity of cold steel.
The first realization hit like a cannon shot: I had died and been reborn. The second struck with the force of a siege engine: no matter how many times I revived, I would never become a knight in this medieval fantasy realm. The third was the cold, pragmatic calculation that had already begun to shape my destiny — I was fucked, and I was going to do something about it.
I refused to become another tragic protagonist whose only fate was to swing a rusty sword at monsters until the day I finally fell. I was not going to die at the hands of a dragon, or in a dungeon, or on some battlefield where the strongest spells decided the winner. I was not going to play by the rules of a world that still believed in honor, courage, and individual heroism.
No. I was going to make a magical defense bureau — a modern, artillery-based military organization that applied overwhelming firepower, mass production, and combined-arms doctrine to the brutal realities of a medieval fantasy continent. That was the only way for a twenty-first-century mind to survive, let alone thrive, in this era.
The wind whipped past my face as I hung there, boots kicking uselessly in the air. My father’s voice echoed faintly in my memory from years earlier, when I had asked him why he never improved the kingdom’s weapons. “Because we have knights, son. Knights are the strongest. Technology is for peasants and merchants.”
I had laughed then. Now I understood. The knights were not strong; they were the weakest link in the chain. One well-placed cannonball changed everything.
I would not wait for destiny to hand me power. I would seize it, forge it, and build an empire of magitech that made feudal stagnation obsolete. From this small estate in the reforming Luxid Kingdom, I would create something that would eventually spread across the continent — the Ministry of Magic Defense, the very name I had already chosen in my mind.
I dropped to the ground, rolled once to absorb the impact, and stood up. My wooden sword still lay where I had dropped it. The training master was staring at me with the same pitying expression he always wore when I failed spectacularly.
“Young master,” he said in his usual condescending tone, “perhaps you should stop dreaming of impossible things and learn to swing the sword properly. A true knight does not rely on tricks or tools — only on his own body and will.”
I wiped the dust from my hands and smiled the same easy smile I had worn since my rebirth. “True. But tools are just better knights. More efficient. Cheaper. And if we mass-produce them, even the smallest estate can have an army that outclasses any single knight.”
The training master’s mouth opened, then closed. He had no answer for that. None of them ever did.
I walked back to the main hall, already planning. By the time I turned twelve, I would start teaching the servants how to cast basic mana reinforcement circles. By fourteen, I would build my first proper cannon using mana-infused gunpowder mixed with alchemical stabilizers. By sixteen, I would found the Magical Defense Bureau on my own lands — a joint-stock corporation where patents were protected, soldiers were trained like modern soldiers, and firepower spoke louder than any sword.
My mother would shake her head in that gentle, worried way she always did. “Albar, you are too serious for an eight-year-old. Play with the other children. One day you will understand that love and family matter more than any weapon.”
I would reply with the same pragmatic calm that had become my signature. “Love and family are important, Mother. That is exactly why I must make sure our home is never attacked. A defended kingdom is a kingdom that can raise children safely.”
She would smile, but I knew the doubt was still there. In this world, duty and ambition were often treated as burdens. I intended to turn them into advantages.
As I entered the dining hall, my little brother Bruno was already there, poking at his stew with a spoon that looked far too small for his hands. “Big brother! You look like you have been fighting a tree again. Did you get scratched?”
“Only on the pride,” I said, sitting across from him. “But I learned something useful today.”
I told him the truth — or as much of it as I could without sounding like a madman. The rebirth. The uselessness of knights. The future bureau. He listened with wide eyes, then burst out laughing.
“You want to make a… what did you call it? A magical defense bureau? With cannons and guns? Brother, you are never going to be a knight, are you?”
“No,” I said quietly. “And neither are you, once you are old enough. That is why we are going to build something stronger than any knight. Something that can protect everyone we love.”
His laughter faded. He looked at me seriously for the first time. “You really believe that, don’t you?”
“I already built the plan in my head,” I replied. “It only needs people, money, and time.”
That was the beginning. The small spark that would one day become a kingdom-wide institution, a joint-stock corporation that rivaled the empire itself, and a new way of doing warfare in a world that had never seen gunpowder or artillery before.
I was no longer the weak, reborn child who would die in a ditch. I was the founder of the Magical Defense Bureau. And I was going to make sure the entire continent knew the name.
The meal continued, but my thoughts had already moved far ahead — to the day when the first cannon would roar across the plains of Virap, when the desert confederation would finally see what modern doctrine could do to medieval magic. When the White Mountain Range would learn that overwhelming firepower could turn even the most monstrous creatures into manageable threats.
And when the neighboring empire realized that their vaunted knights were no longer the strongest force on the field.
I smiled into my cup of tea and raised it in a silent toast to the future.
Here is to the start of something unstoppable.