The Ultimatum
How strong are the wizards in this world? I'd always wondered that.
Romance fantasy novels never bothered with detailed power balances. So I trained diligently in magic.
Sure, I'd been exiled to this backwater, but "Kyle Leopold" was still a bastard son of the imperial family. The bloodline dubbed the Sun's Lineage—the world's strongest mage heritage. I had the talent to glimpse magic's peak.
And because I never slacked on training, I achieved remarkable results.
[Explosion]
The explosion spell, channeling my full power, birthed a massive mushroom cloud. The deafening blast rattled my eardrums, and a fierce shockwave rippled outward.
Once the aftermath cleared, the landscape was devastation incarnate. Hundreds of meters in diameter, utterly obliterated.
My adjutant Lucilla had remarked on it.
"Congratulations, Sir Kyle. This power is more than enough to rank you among the world's top ten 9th Circle mages."
A top ten mage at twenty. For an exiled wastrel from the capital, it was glory overflowing. But for some reason... it didn't sit right.
"...That's it?"
Sure, it was freakish firepower from one person's fingertip. That blast hit like naval artillery slamming flat ground.
Leveling a mountain solo was impressive, no doubt.
But on the flip side...
"My all-out attack equals a few cannon shells?"
To a reincarnator from some Eastern nation that bragged six million shells and six thousand missiles as a week's ammo, this firepower was laughably middling.
Maybe that's when it started. The urge to build a warship—the embodiment of firepower itself.
Of course, slapping cannons on a steel tub doesn't magically produce a warship.
The legendary dreadnought needed three things: big-gun turrets, heavy armor, and a high-performance engine.
Strip away the fancy terms: massive cannons, thick plating, killer engine.
Which boils down to...
"This dreadnought will devour a fortune in budget."
Money. A shit-ton of it.
"If that's the only issue, we're golden."
And the south—the world's richest hub of commerce and industry—had cash rotting away everywhere.
Engines were no problem either. Thanks to magic stones.
Unlike other medieval romance-fantasy backwaters, the south's industrial revolution was in full swing. We had the capacity for steel alloys.
With magic around and my future-tech knowledge, no trial-and-error bullshit.
The biggest hurdle? Designing the armament.
This world, mid-industrial revolution, somehow lacked machine guns and naval guns.
Blame the mage elite.
Mages spotted firearms' and cannons' potential first. So they banned them.
Obvious—threat to their rice bowl.
Can you really halt tech progress like that? Shockingly, yes.
Japan invaded neighbors with matchlocks in the 1500s, then halted gun development till the 1800s under samurai pressure post-Imjin War.
Plus, shipbuilding demanded ironclad secrecy.
Earth built dreadnoughts in a year. Here? Three years flat for one. Starting two more ate 10% of the territory's annual GDP.
"One more stunt like this, and we're bankrupt, Your Grace."
"Heh, probably."
But I wasn't worried. Enemies would shit themselves on sight.
"Holy hell, a ship can look like this?"
"Sir Kyle Leopold designed this solo?"
"My god..."
"Humans can build weapons this massive...?"
"First time I'm glad to be southern."
Even my inner circle was gobsmacked by its overwhelming presence.
No nation matched the south's industry. Steal blueprints? No shipyard could build it.
Maybe the north, empire's second industrial zone? Nah, they're busy fending off monsters.
This was our exclusive strategic weapon.
And history—Gunboat Diplomacy 101—showed what happens when one side has battleships and the other doesn't.
10% GDP on a few ships? Worth it?
"Obviously."
Crumple. I crushed the letters in one go.
"Now they bring that much, so we take it back."
Print and repay. Straight out of some mustachioed art student's playbook from my past life on Earth.
What? Crazy talk? Spin 180 twice, you're back where you started.
In this mad world, guys like me—one twist crazier—were the sane ones.
"Lucilla."
"Yes?"
"Send the Sarsen County our final ultimatum."
Of course, I wasn't dumping 10% of the budget into an untested strategic asset without a trial run.
While secretly testing the dreadnought, I'd give one last chance.
"Within a month, abolish the Sarsen Fortress tolls and guarantee free passage for southern merchants."
I continued as Lucilla whipped out her notepad.
"Fail that..."
No more hesitation. Letting them rob us blind made us a colony, not countrymen.
And I wouldn't let my beloved south become some colony.
"...and we'll blow the Sarsen Fortress to hell."
Woooosh—
The gray monster's horn echoed through the secret harbor as it set sail.
Surprisingly, Sarsen County and the south used to get along fine.
Their interests overlapped plenty—Sarsen profits, southern capitalists' gains.
The south, deep in industrial revolution, needed cheap labor. Kids of seven to adults of thirty. Hordes flocked south for opportunity.
But island- and factory-choked south lacked food for that influx.
They imported from next-door Sarsen County.
The Sarsen Count seized the chance. Jacked prices, cut quality, raked in billions.
Bribed like mad to keep food imports locked on Sarsen.
At first, no biggie. Central authority barely reached here—no one to bitch.
Screw the peasants' hardships; not his problem.
He figured he'd leech the south forever.
"Ah, this is the Labor Standards Act."
"The law that crushes evil capitalists and lets workers live like humans."
Till a comet-strike southern archduke purged the corrupt capitalists.
Kyle Leopold normalized the south, starting with food.
Halted overpriced, corrupt Sarsen imports. Sought alternatives.
"Count! Southern Archduke Kyle Leopold's cutting food imports!"
Rational for Kyle, but lightning bolt for Sarsen.
The eternal straw snapped.
Too late, they slashed prices. But trust was gone; no restart.
Seven years passed.
Sarsen Count, decades deep in south-sucking, had no clue how to export elsewhere.
"Count, we'll go bankrupt at this rate."
Cornered, he went all-in.
"If I can squeeze merchants passing my lands..."
Enter: Sarsen Fortress plan.
Western Archduke greenlit it instantly.
Reason one: South's cheap mass goods wrecked west's cottage industry.
Reason two: Archduke Charles hated Kyle—chased out for pawing his fiancée.
— Charles —
No imperial higher-up liked the south anyway. Money-rich, no military or politics—just a piggy bank.
With west's blessing, none stopped Sarsen Count.
"Ha, what can those southern bastards do if we build here?"
"Brilliant, Count Sarsen!"
"Your foresight is what true statesmen should emulate..."
Two weeks post-Sarsen Fortress completion. He ignored southern envoys, garrisoned troops.
One 8th Circle mage, two 7th Circles. Plenty to shred south's militia and wooden ships.
That backstory? Why Sarsen Count laughed at our ultimatum.
"Kuahahahaha! The southern merchants finally lost it. What can mage-less south do? Blow up the fortress?"
He partied on untaxed imports, no defenses.
Even day before deadline...
"Count, merchant traffic through Sarsen Fortress dropped sharp since yesterday. They might actually go to war!"
"Heh, bluff. What army does a 25-year punk have?"
D-Day eve, he still dismissed invasion.
Counter-bluffed instead.
"Send word to that brat Kyle Leopold. If he wants real talks on the fortress, send negotiators to Sarsen in two days."
Post-deadline envoy? "We know you're chickenshit, so come negotiate tomorrow."
Thus, utterly unprepared D-Day dawn.
Thick sea fog parted. A 20,000-ton steel behemoth slowly revealed itself.
Rising morning sun glinted off the dreadnought's massive guns.