Inevitable Fate (3)
The word silence no longer suited the nights of Eisengrad. The heavy mechanical rumble of steam engines throbbed through the ground like a giant's heartbeat. Factory chimneys towered high, belching black smoke without respite, while the flames from blast furnaces spread far into the sky. Rumors of the domain's daily prosperity had spread, drawing people from neighboring lands in search of new homes—even established blacksmiths with reputations began trickling in.
At first, they strutted in with puffed-up chests, eager to show off their skills. But the rules here were utterly different from what they knew.
"Hey! Assembly line four! For fuck's sake, ditch that hand-feel bullshit! Anything off-spec by even 0.1mm goes straight back in the crucible!"
Grodi's bellows echoed through the factory nonstop as he oversaw operations day and night. The dwarf artisan, once a soul-stirring hammer-swinger, was now utterly captivated by the miracle of interchangeable parts snapping together perfectly.
The other blacksmiths, who had initially bristled with pride, fell silent after witnessing any random assortment of components assemble into a flawless rifle.
"We're not crafting treasures here! We're making machines that spit death the same way no matter who assembles them! Trust the gauge over your pathetic instincts!"
Grodi wiped his grease-smeared face with a rag and prowled between the workbenches. The equations from Kyle's reference manual, devoured over a week, now flowed through him like a river. Following Kyle's methods, processes were strictly divided: one team rifled barrels, another polished chambers, others shaped stocks. Individually meaningless, the parts meshed flawlessly on the assembly line, reborn as perfect killing tools.
Division of labor crushed artisanal handcrafting in speed—an overwhelming efficiency.
Near the lord's castle, another kind of revolution brewed on the training grounds. Eisengrad's standing army stared in bewilderment at the new rifles in their hands.
Until now, their training had been with the muskets Kyle had previously issued—fiddly loading from the muzzle with powder, lead balls, and ramrods. Firing meant standing in ranks, enduring dozens of seconds to reload—a test of endurance.
But this weapon Kyle offered upended everything.
"Watch closely. No more standing to pour powder, no more ramming the barrel."
Kyle dropped prone before the soldiers. For medieval knights or infantry, prone firing was shameful—or structurally impossible with muskets. But Kyle pressed his body flat to the dirt, demonstratively worked the bolt. A crisp metallic clack ejected the spent casing; a fresh round chambered.
"Bolt back, forward, fire. Three motions. Now you can drop ten-plus rounds a minute accurately from prone."
The soldiers' eyes widened in shock. In the time one musket fired, this rifle could unleash a squad's firepower.
"Forget chivalrous fair fights. War's now about who sneaks closer, faster, more accurately to plant lead."
To troops used to musket drudgery, the bolt-action rifle felt like a tricky beast at first. But with repetition, their motions sharpened. Per Kyle's orders, they hugged the dirt, cycling bolts blind—eject, chamber. Clack, bang. Clack, bang. Steady gunfire rang out. Romance of knighthood gone; only efficient, cold killing remained.
The scene at the gates showed the most dramatic change. Right after the crisis, when refugees fleeing the count's domain and nearby villages for survival first poured in, it had been hellish. Terrified screams, starving children's wails, dread of monster attacks shaking the chaotic crowds against the walls.
But less than half a day after Kyle took charge, the massive disorder yielded to order.
In a typical domain, knights would've speared them back or trampled dozens amid the press.
"Halt! Only those who follow Eisengrad's laws pass the gates!"
Soldiers moved in unison at his command. Five lanes marked in white lime powder stretched ahead. Dozens of crates by the gate brimmed with crude but effective soap—rejects, but cleansing power solid.
"Follow the lime lines! Wash hands and faces with issued soap! No entry without cleaning off the filth!"
"Wounded to the right under the red flag! Elderly and weak to the left white tent!"
Kyle's modern triage and quarantine crushed medieval norms with precision. No leisurely priestly prayers one by one. Refugees smeared slimy soap, worked up lather. The puzzled soon felt eerie relief as blood and mud washed away in white foam. Beasts no more, they wiped faces, rediscovering they lived.
Clean refugees got color-coded tags pinned by trained clerks in seconds—systematic sorting via ledgers. Kyle's hygiene edict warded invisible plague demons. Grumblers quieted with hot soup rations and safe, if ragged, tents, sighing relief.
Serina shuddered watching. While mages poured mana for scant purifications, Kyle washed hundreds' despair with factory waste soap. Papers and organization guaranteed survival—a miracle beyond miracles.
"...This is scarier than guns, Lord Kyle."
Serina murmured low. Kyle set down his cold teacup.
"Weapons kill enemies. This saves people. I'm just doing it efficiently."
My reply was curt. As soldiers withdrew, leaving them alone, tension eased from my shoulders. I turned to her, setting down the cup.
"Serina, still seeing it that way? Your face asks if it's just efficiency."
Serina flinched, meeting my gaze. She glanced back at the refugees.
"...Yes. What's the real reason for all this effort—even wasting precious soap on them?"
I stared at an old refugee sobbing while lathering, then chuckled low.
"Truth is, I've got a weak stomach."
"Stomach? What're you—"
"Seeing people roll in filth like beasts, dying in shit... it sours my mood worse than hacking steak. Leaving this mess is torture for me."
I framed it as personal disgust and neat-freakery. But my eyes on Serina held deeper thought.
"Serina, ever heard of noblesse oblige?"
"No... noblesse oblige? New word. What’s it mean?"
Serina mulled the foreign phrase. I gestured below, explaining flatly.
"Literally, 'nobility carries obligations.' As lord of this land, highborn, the scenery in my sight must match—arrogant, I know."
Weak stomach or noble pride? Convenient excuses. My mind stormed with modern humanitarianism, forged in blood. Commonsense to me as a modern man. They'd braved hellish woods, trusting only me, reaching out desperately. Ignoring pleas for life, help? Clear reason I couldn't: I had means and resources.
Powerless, tragedy's inevitable. But with power, closing eyes is negligence. Watching dignity trampled while able to act? Against what I'd learned of humanity. Discarding precious lives—someone's everything—like trash? Betrayal of the civilization I'd lived, forsaking my own humanity.
Thus, he hid this raw duty behind cold jokes of aristocratic whimsy.
"I made this scene partly 'cause I hate feeling sick..."
I paused, murmuring at the orderly refugees below.
"But mostly, because I can help them. Knowing the right answer and leaving people to wrong ones? Not my way."
My voice mixed resolve and softness to reassure Serina.
"This isn't grand mercy from me. Just the bare minimum humans deserve—and the dignity I demand of myself."
Serina pondered, eyes drifting to the distant Black Forest. The count's madness there contrasted sharply with Eisengrad's order—like water and oil.
To Volf Count, lives were disposable props to hide shame, sate greed. He fed innocents to monsters without hesitation. Use and toss—nothing more.
Kyle differed. Where the count poisoned lives grotesque, Kyle spent resources shielding them from plague and barbarity. Wielding noblesse oblige as shield, he dragged human worth from the mud.
Serina shivered anew at the profound humanity beneath Kyle's ruthless rationality—the love for mankind he couldn't ignore.
Noblesse oblige...
She rolled the unfamiliar term on her lips. Kyle: ruthless engineer of destruction, yet the most arrogant, merciful man, extending salvation to god-forsaken refugees to uphold his grace.