Inevitable Fate (1)
A week ago, the sensation of the bolt exploding right in front of his face was still vivid. The faint scar on his cheek itched slightly in the cool morning air. The week of house arrest under Ella's watchful eye had been grueling, but it was also the most productive time he'd spent planning Eisengrad's future. Dozens of parchment sheets were piled up like a mountain by his bedside—dense with notes drawn from the essence of modern science from his past life, masquerading as reference materials.
The one who'd shouldered the weight of that knowledge first and commanded the site was Grody. The heavy rumble of steam from the factory beyond the shooting range carried through the morning mist. It was worlds apart from the feeble whir of the waterwheel they'd relied on just a week ago, at the mercy of erratic streams.
But having blueprints didn't mean the massive iron beast sprang to life overnight. The boiler had nearly burst twice under the pressure of boiling water, and poor cylinder seals had turned the factory into a hellish sauna as steam leaked everywhere.
"Damn you, lordling! What the hell's wrong this time? Explain yourself!"
Three days ago, Grody had burst through his door, ignoring Ella's surveillance. His body was smeared with black grime, the tips of his beard singed from constant tinkering with the boiler. He shook the bundle of parchments I'd handed him from the bed in the air, bellowing.
"The seals won't hold, the goddamn seals! I machined it exactly like you wrote, so why the hell is steam still leaking everywhere?!"
Grody grumbled even as he fleshed out the theoretical framework I'd sketched, rallying dozens of workers into a brutal 24-hour shift system. After nights of polishing the cylinder interior to a mirror sheen and fine-tuning valve timings in a desperate struggle, they'd achieved a miracle. The steam engine I'd designed and he'd machined had finally become the beating heart of the industrial revolution, shaking Eisengrad's soil.
Black smoke belched from the chimney, and high-pressure steam from the boiler delivered power far surpassing the strength of hundreds of men to the machines.
"...What're you staring at so blankly?"
Grody's gravelly voice snapped him from his reverie. He roughly brushed metal shavings from his beard and clicked his tongue.
"Thinking about the last week or something? Hell, even now, if you told me to do that insane crap again, I'd quit on the spot."
Grody chuckled and slapped his shoulder. "Patient boy yapping from bed while I nearly die in an oil pit. Perfect harmony, right?"
Despite the griping, his eyes gleamed with a craftsman's pride in the new era he'd hammered into existence. Though he complained nonstop, Grody knew better than anyone that he was forging a page of history with his own hands.
"That hellish week of your impossible bullshit shaved like thirty years off my life. Anyway, take this."
He casually plunked a hefty new-model rifle on the table with a thud. "That freakish reference manual you left. Thought my skull was gonna crack reading it. Thermodynamics, metal fatigue—all that weird shit...."
He tapped the chamber with rough fingers and continued. "But thanks to it, I finally get it. Why we've been screwing around with metal all this time. Why this iron lump screamed and blew up—I know the reason now."
He eased back the bolt like it was treasure. The mechanisms, more refined than a week ago, meshed like gears.
"Reinforced the chamber with an extra layer. Had to, to handle the pressure you mentioned. Extended the locking lugs too, to spread the load evenly."
As Grody said, it looked different from the prototype whose chamber had exploded a week ago.
"And coated the powder like you ordered. To control burn rate so it pushes the bullet without blowing the chamber—nearly burned half my beard off following your crazy idea."
He pulled a small black pellet from his pocket. "Now even the wildest powder will behave in there and just shove the bullet out."
He scratched the itchy scar on his cheek and picked up the rifle. Its solid weight traveled up his wrist.
"Roselin the branch chief?"
"Over there, watching from a safe distance. Got spooked by the last explosion—waves me off even when I tell her to come closer."
Roselin watched tensely from the far end of the range. He pulled the bolt back smoothly as before.
Chak—! With a crisp metallic click, the first round chambered. No terror from a week ago. Only trust in Grody and the laws of physics remained.
"Careful. If it blows again, Ella'll come kill me this time."
Grody muttered as he backed away, nearly whispering. He hadn't forgotten that searing fireball either. He secured the rifle firmly to the firing rest and tied a tough leather thong to the trigger. Then, safely behind a large rock, he gripped the end taut.
To an engineer, repeating the same mistake twice was a sin.
He steadied his breath and yanked the thong.
Bang—!
The sharp crack echoed through the quiet range. But no tearing metal scream, no backblast flame. The wooden target 50 meters away splintered in one shot, shards flying.
He cautiously emerged to inspect. The bolt held the chamber firm without a twitch, and the clear heat haze rising from it felt oddly peaceful.
Success. This machine was reliable now.
"...Didn't blow. It didn't blow!"
Grody sighed in relief and approached. With safety confirmed, hot elation surged from deep in his chest. He untied the thong, grabbed the still-warm rifle. The fitted stock braced his shoulder far more solidly than a week ago.
Clack, chunk! Pulling the bolt ejected the hot casing and chambered the next round—instinctively smooth.
Without thinking, a strange incantation slipped from his lips. "Mugajung... mugajung...."
It felt like a horrific ghost from his past life awakening. Dusty ranges, chinstrap sweat, the range officer's bellows. Nerves sharpened grotesquely as the word he'd chanted thousands of times lingered on his tongue.
He scanned targets in rhythm: 250 meters, 100, 200. Chills ran down his spine at his body moving like a trained machine, not his will.
He shook his head to banish the ingrained past-life reflex. He didn't want to face shooting drill ghosts even in this world.
"...Ugh, creepy as hell."
Grumbling in annoyance, he squeezed the trigger. No need to adjust sights for distance—the bullet sliced air in a near-straight trajectory.
Admiration for the performance was overshadowed by self-loathing—"Why the hell do I still remember this?"—when
"My lord!! Are you insane?!"
Ella's shriek pierced the gunfire din. She stormed the range, sleeves rolled up, when she should be at the manor.
"One week! You rest one week and pick up that hideous stick again! Your cheek scar hasn't even healed!"
"Ella, this one's verified safe—"
"Verified my ass—put it down now! Grody! You just watched? His face nearly blew off again!"
Grody coughed awkwardly, staring at the sky under her momentum. He blinked, rifle in hand, awkwardly frozen—but couldn't forfeit the last shot, pleading with his eyes at her.
"Ella, just one more. Hit that flag 500 meters out and I'm done."
"500 meters? You can even see it? Don't talk nonsense!"
She huffed in disbelief, but he seized the gap, sighting again. Had to show this rifle's true worth after all the hell.
500 meters off, red wooden target on the hilltop. Hoo.... He drew cold air deep into his lungs, exhaled slow. Ella's muttering faded; only his heartbeat thrummed in his ears.
Between beats, as body tremor stilled in that razor-short instant. Cool, heavy trigger pressure on his finger. Overcoming it gradually, he held his final breath.
Bang—!
No thick black-powder smoke blinding him. Only transparent ripples from the spinning bullet warping air.
Seconds later, the distant red target shattered spectacularly.
"...My god."
Ella's nagging, Roselin's doubt—all froze. Roselin's moan of awe broke the silence.
A distance unimaginable with bow or musket. Like the reaper swinging his scythe from the unseen.
Roselin murmured, shivering. "This is what you meant... death you absolutely can't avoid...."
Her voice trembled as she approached unnoticed. Ignoring Ella's glare from behind, he smiled faintly.
But the afterglow faded fast. Harsh hoofbeats and a dust cloud announced knights at the range entrance. Leading them, a familiar blue cloak billowing around cold blue eyes.
"Lord Kyle?"
Serina von Ludwig, back as imperial investigator. From horseback, she eyed the shattered 500-meter target, then my bandaged face.
She wheeled her mount forward slowly. "Long time no see, Lord Kyle. Seems you still have no intention of staying quiet."
She dismounted lightly, dusting off. Stiffer than official tone, laced with curiosity and subtle warmth.
"Doing well? Saw bizarre black smoke from the domain entrance."
Her cool gaze softened just a fraction. Ella still huffed behind, but Serina's arrival shifted the range's mood to a new phase.