Standing on the Shoulders of Giants (4)
As the sun dipped below the horizon, blanketing the shooting range in darkness, a taut tension began to settle over the air. Fifty meters ahead stood a battered steel breastplate and helmet strapped to a log. He pulled three brass-cased bullets from his trouser pocket, their metallic sheen glinting faintly in his palm. Click!—Yanking back the bolt handle all the way exposed the chamber with a smooth grind of metal on metal. The bullets felt cold and heavy in his hand. He placed the first one atop the magazine and thumbed it in, feeling the spring's firm resistance push back against his fingertip. Then the second, and finally the third. Sliding the bolt forward delivered that satisfying mechanical clunk of closure. These three rounds in the chamber and magazine were the fruit of a fortnight's obsession—the very fate of Eisengrad hanging in the balance.
"Let's do this."
He pressed the rifle's stock firmly into his shoulder and aligned the front sight through the rear. Holding his breath short, he felt the trigger's tension and squeezed slowly. Bang!—A sharp crack split the air as a brief muzzle flash erupted. No thick black-powder smoke billowed out—just a transparent shimmer rippling at the barrel's end for a moment.
"…!"
Roseline clapped a hand over her mouth. Dead center on the breastplate, a hundred meters out, a small hole had punched through. No mage's fireball or flashy spell—just an invisible sliver of metal piercing a knight's pride.
Click, clack! Clang! Without hesitation, he yanked the bolt. The hot brass casing arced through the air and clattered to the ground. On a flintlock musket, he'd still be pouring powder right about now. He squeezed the trigger again. Another hit in quick succession—the shoulder of the breastplate tore away like paper.
"Impossible… That range, that firing speed?"
Roseline's voice trembled. Her awestruck tone tugged a grin from him unbidden. Better performance than expected, that electric kick thrumming through his fingertips. The smokeless powder's overwhelming energy set every sense alight.
This is good enough. No—perfect.
Was it the elation from two flawless shots? All he could think was proving the weapon's peak with that final round. For the last one, the third bullet. As he chambered it and realigned his sights, he aimed to punch through the helmet atop the breastplate too—give Roseline the confirmation kill.
His finger tightened on the trigger—
BOOM!—The explosion that should have roared from the muzzle detonated right in front of his face.
"My lord!"
"You bastard!!"
Screams rang out as blinding flash filled his vision. The blast meant to surge forward had backflowed, slamming the bolt. Luckily, it snagged on the receiver housing's end, sparing his head the worst—but high-pressure combustion gases still blasted through the gap in an instant.
"Cough, hack…!"
A metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. Hot liquid trickled down his right cheek. Shrapnel had grazed it. He'd let his guard down. Blind faith in the machine had blinded the engineer—and the price was paid in blood.
"Lord Kyle! Pull yourself together!"
A ringing tinnitus shredded his eardrums, making Roseline's shout sound distant, muffled underwater. His vision, sprawled on the ground from the shock, took in the rifle's splintered stock and the mangled steel bolt. With trembling hands, he picked up a warped bolt fragment beside him. Part of it had torn under the explosion's pressure. Numbers don't lie, and laws don't compromise. The tiny oversights he'd glossed over had scored his face with their explosive report card.
"You lunatic! The gun's not the issue now! Blood's pouring down your face!"
Grody bellowed, but Kyle wiped the blood from his cheek with his torn sleeve and stared at the wreckage. Staggering to his feet, he examined the bolt cluster. The bolt lugs had bent like taffy under the smokeless powder's blast. Then, as if it had just occurred to him, he turned to Roseline, who gaped blankly at him, and added:
"Oh, the fertilizer shipment next time might be a bit light on quantity. As you saw… I'm in this state, so it'll be tough for a while."
Roseline's eyes darted between his blood-dripping face, the shattered rifle, and his lips casually discussing fertilizer volumes. She let out a hollow laugh.
"My lord, are you… in your right mind? You nearly died just now. And you're worrying about fertilizer?"
"Not worrying—I'm just asking for understanding. After next time, we'll hit the full delivery quota as promised."
Roseline shook her head, done with it all. She'd read no fear in his eyes—just a ruthless determination to conquer failure.
"…Fine. I'll make excuses for the quantity somehow. Just please—be alive when I come next time. If you die, my fertilizer business is toast too."
He turned unsteadily toward the lord's manor. From behind, Grody's curses called him a madman, but his mind was already churning through next steps. Until one sight wiped it all white in an instant.
Ella, arms crossed at the manor door, having heard the news ahead of time, glaring daggers with eyes aflame.
"…Am I really gonna outlive you?!"
A shrill wail like a banshee's filled the bedroom. Ella slammed a basin of clean water onto the table with shaking hands. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but her lips were pressed tight as she unleashed her tirade at him.
"My lord! How much shorter do you want my lifespan to get?! Huh?! What's with your face, and why are your clothes in shreds?!"
"Ella, this is just a minor mishap from the experiment—"
"Minor?! Shrapnel grazed your cheek! A little more to the side, and I wouldn't be disinfecting—I'd be planning your funeral!"
Ella roughly wiped the powder residue from his cheek. The cold water on the towel stung the wound, and he winced involuntarily.
"Ow, easy…"
"It hurts? Good—you know it hurts, so why do that crap? Last time fighting an orc horde, now battling your own damn machine."
Grumbling all the while, she disinfected the graze with exquisite care.
"You think Eisengrad has ten lords to spare? It doesn't!"
He felt her fingertips tremble faintly. Outwardly savage nagging, but inside she was burning black with worry—he knew it well.
"And Grody too! Old enough to know better, cheering you on. I'll smash every booze jug in that forge soon, see if I don't."
"Grody's innocent. I pushed for it."
"Of course it's your fault! Please, I'm begging… Science or whatever's fine, but take care of yourself first. Without you, what's this territory? What's the point of those weird weapons?"
Her voice finally cracked wet. As she wrapped his face in bandages with precision, she drove the nail home.
"No factory for a week starting today. One step inside, and I'll pack my bags for real. Got it?"
He nodded awkwardly, half his mouth muffled by bandages. Ella's threat to leave felt scarier than any count's menace in this domain.
But even amid her scolding, his mind raced ceaselessly. Too much powder? Or the chamber couldn't handle the smokeless pressure spike?
Ella waved a hand in front of his face, yanking him back.
"My lord? Thinking about it again, huh? I can hear your eyeballs rolling from here!"
"…Nah, just pondering dinner."
"Liar! I'll pick tonight's menu. Your least favorite—carrot soup. And I won't budge till you finish every drop."
She huffed, grabbing the basin and standing. But as she headed for the door, she paused, steadied her quivering shoulders, and turned to stare him down. No anger now—just deep sorrow and affection in those eyes.
"And my lord… please don't try to shoulder everything alone."
"Ella?"
"There's Grody, me, everyone else. You treat yourself like some disposable machine part."
He froze at the unexpected words, braced for her usual spunk.
"But to us, you're no replaceable cog. If you charge ahead alone and never come back… what are we supposed to do, left behind?"
She bowed her head, words spent. He had nothing to say.
"One week. Live as Kyle, not the lord. Please."
Bang! The door slam echoed hugely. Her lingering warmth mingled with the room's chill, leaving a strange aftertaste.
Alone in the quiet room, he fiddled with the shattered bolt fragment from his pocket. Ella was right. He was no longer just an engineer. If he fell, Eisengrad's clockwork ground to a halt.
Suddenly, a line from his past life flashed through his mind: 'If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.'
The knowledge in his head wasn't solely his. It was piled from countless engineers and scientists who toiled millennia, repeating failures to chase truth. He merely lucked onto their giant shoulders.
Now, it was time to lend his shoulders to this land's people.
Sorry, Ella—but this week's house arrest handed him a new mission. Beyond redesigns, he had to etch the vast map of knowledge locked in his mind into this world's tongue. So that even if accident claimed his pen forever, Grody or the next generation's scholars could stand taller, see farther.
From classical mechanics' basics to thermodynamics' laws, chemical reaction principles, germ theory, modern medicine's guidelines. Records like a compass, glowing when they hit walls—even if incomprehensible now.
That was his care, his duty—for those who cherished him, for Eisengrad's future.
No more solo burdens, as Ella said. Instead, weave his knowledge shards into precise records, so they could find answers without him.
The quill scratched sharply across the blank parchment by his bedside. This time, no blueprint. A blueprint for civilization to sustain this domain, this world, in his absence.