National Defense Reforms (2)
"You called for me, my lord? The combat uniform designs and mass production prep are all set, but..."
Yansen's face was still sour as ever. He clearly hadn't gotten over that ragtag olive drab getup from two days ago. His artist's soul must be in agony.
I couldn't help but chuckle at his expression, then pulled a folded sheet of paper from my desk drawer and held it out.
"Lighten up, Yansen. I've got a little gift for you."
"A gift, sir?"
"This is the officer's dress uniform."
It had a razor-sharp silhouette that hugged the body's lines perfectly. A sturdy leather belt cinched the waist, creating an inverted triangle profile. And topping it off, a peaked cap with a stiff brim.
"The color's a deep green. Like the heart of an ancient pine in the forest depths—rich, profound, and heavy."
"Ohhh...!"
Yansen's eyes lit up like fireworks. It was the moment a tailor's dying spirit roared back to life.
"This deep green... it's so elegant, so full of dignity! Pair it with gold buttons for accent, epaulets on the shoulders..."
He traced the design with mesmerized fingers.
"And these pants! The thighs fitted just right, tapering straight down in a perfect line. My absolute favorite style."
"Like it?"
"Of course! It's worlds apart from that sackcloth—er, I mean, the combat uniform. You could wear this to an imperial ball and steal the show!"
Yansen clutched the sketch to his chest in excitement. I wiped the grin off my face and continued.
"The troops wear their combat uniforms to hide. Officers wear dress uniforms to dominate."
"To dominate, sir?"
"Exactly. When the soldiers see their superiors in this, it should instill instinctive awe and obedience. Not a single wrinkle out of place—not even in the trouser creases."
"Leave it to me, my lord. I'll turn Eisengrad's officers into the sharpest gentlemen on the continent!"
Yansen practically skipped out, humming a tune.
"Whew."
I stared at the door after him, catching my breath. Uniforms: check. Now for the fangs to give those wolves in sheep's clothing.
I grabbed my work apron from the rack and headed out of the office.
Clang! Clang! Clang!Hiss—!
The workshop's iron door swung open, blasting me with the clamor of hammering steel and waves of scorching heat. Grody, the soot-blackened dwarf, was pounding a glowing red ingot with his hammer.
"Grody, status update?"
"You're here."
Grody wiped sweat from his brow and yanked off his goggles. Even to his lord, he spoke bluntly—and his face was even grimmer than Yansen's.
"Truth be told... this thing's kicking my ass. It's the most insane beast I've ever forged."
He jerked his chin at the massive hunk of metal on the workbench. Far too crude to call a Maxim gun yet. The water-cooled barrel jacket looked like a bucket forcibly welded on, and the feed mechanism resembled a sloppy clockwork tangle.
"I get the theory. Use the recoil from the powder blast to shove the bolt back, eject the casing, reload..."
Grody scratched his head furiously, grumbling.
"But damn it, timing's a bitch. Off by 0.1 seconds and parts jam up! Too much spring tension and it won't recoil; too weak and it won't return. I'm losing my mind here!"
"Show me."
I slid behind the prototype. Grody fed in a cloth belt strung with fifty of our standard rifle rounds.
"Here goes. Plug your ears."
I yanked the charging handle hard. Chunk! A heavy metallic clack, the spring tension solid under my fingers. Then, gingerly, I squeezed the trigger.
Bang—!
The first round fired. The barrel jerked back, and I could see the internals shifting. Clunk! Empty casing spat out. So far, so good.
But then—tick.
The second round hung up halfway into the chamber.
"Goddamn it!"
Grody hurled his cap to the floor.
"Fucking hell again! The feed pawls ain't pulling the belt hard enough!"
That wasn't the half of it. Water leaked from the seams in the cooling jacket, and the firing pin spring was already softening from the heat.
"Haa..."
A sigh escaped me. Hundreds of parts had to mesh like clockwork for the miracle of 500 rounds per minute. One slip, and it was just a heavy lump of scrap.
"Grody."
"What now."
"We'll need to shave more off the bolt carrier group. Down to half the thickness of a hair."
"Argh! You nuts?! It's already razor-thin—my eyes are crossing!"
Grody wailed, but I was firm.
"And change the steel tempering. This crap'll melt after a hundred rounds. Alloy in some chrome or nickel—recalibrate the mix."
This monster needed countless failures before birth: belts tearing, hammers snapping, barrels bursting. Only then would the battlefield tyrant emerge.
"One month."
I held up a finger.
"In one month, make it fire a thousand rounds straight without a hitch. Money's no object."
Grody whistled low.
"One month, huh... Kiss sleep goodbye. Fine. Dwarf pride on the line—I'll grind this shit till it shines."
Clang! Clang! His hammer rang out again.
Leaving Grody's forge, I headed straight to the lab next door.
Creeeak.
Inside, acrid smoke gave way to the sharp tang of acid and strange metals. In the center, amid glassware heaps and copper wire coils, sat a blue-haired woman. My exclusive mage and the territory's sharpest mind: Serina.
"...Hmm."
Wearing a loupe, she tweaked a tiny copper contact with tweezers. The engineering team hovered silently, barely breathing.
"Serina."
"Shh."
She waved me off without looking up.
"Talk and it'll break."
I shut up and watched. On the bench sat the odd device I'd sketched: a voltaic pile of zinc and copper plates in an acidic bath. Wires from it snaked to a telegraph key.
Moments later, she set down the tweezers and wiped sweat.
"...Connected. Check the other room."
A researcher bolted next door. Only then did Serina push her goggles up and glance at me.
"You're here. That lightning-trapping machine you described? Theory checks out."
"Demonstrate."
I sat at the key. Simple switch: press for current, release to break. That pulse would travel, clanging an electromagnet afar.
I tapped the key with my finger.
Click. Click. Click.
Crisp metallic snaps. Cheers erupted from the next room through the wall wires.
"It's coming through! Short-short! Long! Short-short again!"
Success. Morse basics worked.
Serina crossed her arms, tilting her head.
"Honestly, I still don't get it. Lay kilometers of pricey copper just for clicks? Why not send a messenger?"
A mage, yet she saw only waste. I chuckled and pulled out a paper.
"Serina. Fog rolls in on the battlefield, flags invisible—what then? Torrents turn roads to mud, drowning couriers' horses?"
"Well... orders delay."
"Delay? They die."
I tapped again: click—
"This is light speed. I press here, and troops a hundred kilometers away get orders now. Faster than any horse, any bird."
Serina's eyes widened slightly.
"Light speed..."
"Yeah. The army's eyes and ears. Spot the enemy, relay in one minute—we move ten times faster."
I handed her the pre-made code sheet.
"Memorize this. All our commands will be dots and dashes from now on."
Serina scanned it, lips quirking with interest.
"Simple... yet intricate. Like a spell incantation."
"Stronger than magic. Anyone can learn it."
I nodded at the wire coils stacked aside.
"Start with lines linking the manor, barracks, and outer watchposts. Bury 'em, tower 'em—whatever. Full network by next month."
"Next month? We'd need an engineer battalion for this much wire!"
"Don't sweat it. I've got idle hands aplenty."
I grinned wickedly, picturing recruits rolling in the mud at training camp. Shovel fodder overflowed.
"Please, Serina. You're building the army's eyes."
"Haa... Working under you is a fast track to burnout."
Serina griped, but her hands were already testing the voltaic pile. The lab echoed with clear telegraph chirps.
I eyed my grease-stained hands, thinking. Not very lordly—rough and filthy.
Not easy.
But that made them beautiful. These stains were the firmest foundation propping up my domain and army.
I looked up at the night sky. Tonight, the stars seemed to shine especially bright.