National Defense Reform (1)
At the newly established First Shooting Range on the outskirts of the territory, Kyle and Boris crouched in a trench behind a towering mound of dirt. Far ahead, about ten meters away, five straw dummies made from wooden planks and hay bales stood in a row.
"Lord, is this really okay? Isn't this just a toy the lab kids whipped up?" Boris shot an uneasy glance at the object in Kyle's hand.
It was a crude tin can grenade the apprentice researchers had cobbled together yesterday while snickering. On the surface, it looked like nothing more than a rough canned meat tin with a single fuse jammed into it. Inside, it was stuffed full of scrap gunpowder, nails, and screws.
"A toy... yeah, you'll see soon enough."
Kyle struck a match and lit the fuse. Tsss—! A sharp hiss rose with acrid smoke as it burned down.
Calmly counting—one, two—Kyle swung his arm out of the trench.
"Throw forward! Hit the dirt!"
They slammed their heads to the trench floor in unison. A brief silence followed the grenade's parabolic arc. Then—
BOOM—!
A dull explosion rocked the range. At the same time, a furious pat-pat-patter! of something slamming into the dirt.
Waiting for the gunpowder smoke to clear, they cautiously lifted their heads.
"...Whoa."
A gasp escaped Boris's lips. The five intact dummies were now shredded rags, unrecognizable and scattered. But the real shock was the terrain around them. Within a ten-meter radius of the blast, the dirt, target boards—even distant protective barrier posts—were pocked with hundreds of bent nails and screws embedded deep.
"So, Boris. Still think it's kids' play?"
Kyle dug a twisted nail from the dirt wall and tossed it to him. Boris swallowed hard, staring at the sharpened curve.
"...No, sir. With this power, it'd shred orc hide—not to mention turn a knight in plate armor into Swiss cheese."
Boris looked impressed, but Kyle kicked a crumpled tin shard and shook his head.
"Nah, still not enough."
"Huh? Isn't this plenty?"
"Too crude. The spots it hit are wrecked, but there are tons of blind spots untouched. The can couldn't handle the blast pressure and just tore open."
This time, instead of chalkboard and chalk, Kyle sketched in the dirt with a stick.
"Remake it. Not thin tin cans—cast the body in thick cast iron."
"Cast iron? Like the iron for making cauldrons?"
"Yeah. And carve deep grooves on the surface, like a checkerboard. Pineapple skin-style."
He tapped the grid pattern in his drawing.
"That way, it won't rip like a can—it'll shatter along the grooves into hundreds of uniform iron shards spraying everywhere."
No need to pack it with nails; the casing itself becomes the shrapnel. A modern fragmentation grenade design.
Looking down at the scorched range, Kyle said to Boris,
"Anyway, the weapons are improving by the day, but the problem is the ragtag bunch handling them."
Dynamite, new rifles, and now these grenades. Eisengrad's armory was growing deadlier with each passing day. But the soldiers wielding them? Still just conscripts dragged in from the fields.
Hand them this stuff, and they'd probably blow themselves up before tossing it at the enemy, wiping out their own side.
"Give a good sword to an idiot who can't swing it, and he'll just cut his own fingers off."
"Exactly. We need training, fast."
"Training alone won't cut it. We gotta change their skins first."
Kyle left the range.
"Let's go, Boris. Time to see Yansen."
After a quick stop at the lab, they headed straight to the textile factory. The door swung open to the deafening roar of dozens of spinning and weaving machines.
"Lord! You've arrived!"
From amid stacks of fabric rushed a stern-faced middle-aged man with a measuring tape around his neck—Yansen. Originally a veteran tailor from a famous capital dress shop, he'd been headhunted by Kyle with a fat salary after seeing the high-quality cloth from the new spinning machines. Now Eisengrad's uniform overseer.
"The new military uniform samples you ordered? Just finished. Masterpieces!"
Yansen led him to the workshop with a confident grin.
"Honestly, the fabric from your machines is top-notch. So tough and dense, scissors barely cut it. This stuff could outfit the imperial guard no problem!"
His voice bubbled with excitement as he whipped the cloth off a mannequin.
"Ta-da! Behold the majesty!"
"..."
Kyle's brow furrowed.
The outfit on the mannequin was a blindingly red jacket with a long coat dangling with golden buttons. Frilly epaulets on the shoulders—straight out of the Napoleonic line infantry playbook.
"What do you think? Our troops marching in these? Enemies'll quake at the splendor! Red's the color of valor, right?"
Yansen's eyes sparkled, expectant of praise. The sewing was impeccable, no doubt. But.
"Yansen."
"Yes, Lord! Like it?"
"You want our soldiers walking around the battlefield as walking bullseyes?"
"Bull—bullseyes?"
Kyle jabbed a finger at the red uniform.
"Look at that red. In the woods or fields, it's screaming 'Here I am—shoot me in the heart, please.'"
Yansen stammered in confusion.
"B-but soldiers should be honorable and visible... The empire's knight orders wear silver plate and flashy capes, don't they?"
"We're not knights."
Kyle cut him off firmly.
"I need men who roll through the mud to survive and take the enemy's head—not posers who die striking a pose."
He stripped the red uniform off the mannequin, grabbed a piece of chalk from the workbench, and started sketching a new design right on the fabric.
"Scrap all that. Color's olive drab across the board."
"Olive drab? That... dingy army green? Like wilted grass or mud..."
Yansen's face twisted. His tailor's aesthetic sense was screaming.
"Exactly. Wilted grass, dirt, tree bark. Blend into nature wherever you drop. That's camouflage."
Kyle kept drawing with the chalk.
"And the fit! Ditch that skin-tight crap. Make it loose."
"Loose? It'll ruin the silhouette! This isn't peasant workwear!"
"It is workwear. War's the harshest manual labor there is. Room to swing limbs without ripping."
He added square pockets to the chest, waist, and thighs.
"Rip off the epaulets, sew pockets there. Lots of them."
"Pock—pockets? That many on a uniform? It'd look like a hobo's rags..."
"Yeah. Two on the chest, two at the waist, two on the pants cargo pockets. Six minimum."
Yansen gaped at the sketch.
"Our soldiers'll carry rifles, not spears—grenades dangling from their belts. Magazines, rations, maps, bandages... Storage space is life."
Baggy top, loose pants, pockets everywhere, drab olive. Miles from the dashing uniforms of old. To a tailor, it looked like rugged sackcloth.
"This... it's so frumpy. No style at all for soldiers."
"No."
Kyle eyed the finished sketch—a modern field jacket—and declared,
"It'll be the most practical, most intimidating gear. The men in this won't be showboating—they'll be machines built for combat."
He gripped Yansen's shoulder.
"Yansen, I respect your tailoring skill. But this time, skip the art. Build function."
"......"
"Dump the red dye. Use mugwort green. Toughest canvas from the factory."
Yansen stared at the pattern long and hard, then sighed in resignation. But his eyes sharpened back to professional mode.
"Haa... Fine. You pay the bills, you call the shots. But I'll make the seams bulletproof—no bursting at the seams."
"That's exactly why I hired you."
That night, in the office. On the desk sat two results side by side. The frag grenade prototype from the lab. And the olive drab field top sample Yansen had rushed together, grumbling all the way.
A hefty iron lump and a drab scrap of cloth. Crude things with zero flash. But to Kyle's eyes, they shone brighter than any gem.
Now it was time to harness the wolves that would wear this hide and wield these claws.
He gazed down at the darkened parade ground. Hundreds, thousands of soldiers. He couldn't command them all personally. He needed mid-level managers who could grasp his orders, rally and direct troops on the spot.
From deep in a desk drawer, he pulled a long-planned document envelope.
Establishment Plan
"Pass an order to Boris."
"Yes? Adjusting the training schedule?"
"No."
Kyle shook his head and issued the command firmly.
"By morning, summon every squad leader and above—all the battle-hardened veterans in the territory."
"All the veterans? That'll leave gaps in factory security and public order."
"Doesn't matter. Round 'em up."
He tapped the document envelope on the desk.
"Before we drill the troops, we forge the commanders to lead them. A dumb officer's scarier than the enemy."
The aide swallowed hard, sensing the unusual glint in his lord's eyes.
"Understood. I'll issue the muster order immediately."
Alone in the office now, Kyle stroked the olive uniform and muttered,
"Can't win with just rabble conscripts. Time to forge real soldiers."
National defense reform. Time to perform major surgery, ripping out the medieval military ways ingrained to the bone and rebuilding it modern-style.