No Need for Muscles—Fingers Are Enough (1)
After the day one of Volf Count's knights was carried out with a hole punched through his chest, a tense calm like the eve of a storm settled over Eisengrad.
The tax collector Baron Io had fled, but that was just the beginning. Next time, it wouldn't be some lone knight—they'd come marching under the family banner with a proper army.
"One month."
I muttered it atop the walls, facing the biting northern wind.
"Time for them to hear the rumors, muster troops, assemble supply wagons, and march here. At most, one month."
Grody was perched on the railing beside me, chomping into a green apple with loud crunches.
"Sixty rifled muskets in one month? Dwarves have lives too! Lives! You payin' overtime?"
"Can't have you dying. You're the one irreplaceable asset in this domain. Oh, how was that coal yesterday? The heat output's insane, right?"
Grody paused mid-bite and spat out a peel with a ptui. He glared suspiciously at the pile of black rocks nearby.
"Heat? Yeah, hot as hell. Heats the forge in no time... but I can't shove the damn stuff into the furnace."
"The sulfur, huh?"
"Obviously! One whiff and the sulfur'll embed in those carefully rifled barrels—shatter like glass. Right now, it's just for preheating or warming the forge as auxiliary fuel."
Grody's wistful gaze at the coal shifted. "Saves charcoal, sure, but useless for heating metal. Frustrating as shit."
I grinned like I'd expected that and tossed him a blueprint from my pocket.
"Coke it. Seal 'em in an airtight kiln, bake 'em once, and you'll get clean, powerful fuel without impurities. That's called coke."
Grody snatched the blueprint, eyes narrowing. The dwarf's artisan soul recognized the value in that brief explanation—his beard quivered.
"...Damn human knows his shit. If this works, I'll crank out not sixty, but a hundred in a month."
"Deal. Overtime's booze."
"Tch. Figures."
Grody grumbled and crunched back into his apple. But his eyes were glued to the blueprint, brain already optimizing processes and sourcing materials.
Then, something white fluttered down from the ashen sky onto my nose.
"Oh, snow again."
Ella, beside me, caught a flake on her hand and smiled like a girl.
But I scowled up at the sky.
"Trash falling."
"Huh? Trash? It's so pretty."
"Ella, listen up. Back in society, it's romantic. But the second you enlist, it's pretty shit raining from the sky. The white devil that never ends, no matter how much you shovel."
"Young master? Why the sudden haunted look? Like you've lost everything..."
Memories from my past life flashed: Gangwon-do, Cheorwon snow-clearing op. Minus twenty degrees. Shovels. Brooms. Private Kim screaming for mercy...
I shook my head hard to banish the trauma. Snow removal could wait. Priority: turning peasants into soldiers.
Machines carve guns. Can't mass-produce humans.
***
Next morning. The lord's manor front yard—a dirt patch barely worthy of "parade ground"—held every soul in Eisengrad. Barely a hundred total. Weary breadwinners and terrified youths.
"The lord recruits new guards!"
Butler Thomas bellowed from the platform, voice belying his age.
"One silver nyang a day! Three meals! Plus weekly grain rations for free use!"
"Rations" hit, and murmurs rippled. Fathers thought of families; others dreamed of variety beyond daily gruel.
One nyang was three days' imperial commoner wage—plus food. Insanely generous.
...Young master, you sure about this?
Thomas gazed at me from below, eyes misty. Yesterday, I'd dumped all my premium ingredients from the trip into the communal stores. Soft white bread, precious butter, cheap wine to unwind—all sacrificed.
Luxury to peasants, but bare minimum for a count's son like me. Now swapping for rye bread, corn soup, potatoes—like the commons.
That cash fed sixty soldiers hearty meat stew for a fortnight.
Supply bought by a lord in rags. Power came not from my plate, but their weapons. I knew that.
But no one stepped up. Guards meant fighting orcs, knights outside. No one wanted starving-dog death, no matter the hunger.
Then, a burly man in the corner timidly raised a hand. Ex-woodsman Boris. Gaunt from malnutrition, but built like a bear, tall frame.
"Uh, lord. I swing an axe decent..."
Murmurs: "Classic Boris."
"Split logs one swing. Orc skulls like firewood. Just pick me!"
Boris flexed his skinny arms. Prime hire for old lords. I shook my head.
"Hold. No need for strong guys. Just eat a lot."
"...Huh?"
Boris flushed.
"How without seeing my strength? I can lift that boulder!"
"War ain't lifting rocks. Need sharp eyes, quick fingers."
I stepped down, weaving through. My gaze stopped on a scrawny youth in the corner. Long, thin fingers.
"Name?"
"...Theo."
"What'd you do?"
"Learned tailoring under village seamster. Shop folded, got kicked out..."
Theo mumbled, head down. Tsks around: man doing sewing? Laughter.
But I eyed his hands. Calluses, no tremor. Needle-threading focus meant precise sights.
No shakes. Fine touch. Pass.
"You're drafted."
"...Huh?"
"And you, Boris."
"Y-yes!"
Deflated Boris perked.
"You pass too. Strong for digging trenches."
"Th-thank you!"
I picked more: stamina herb-gatherer, grip-strong tanner, quick-witted farmboy son. Sixty civilians, far from pros.
Grody poked my ribs, whispering.
"Hey, human. This for real? Your own cash. Tailors, gatherers? That rabble vs. knights?"
"Watch. I'll show how easy muskets are."
***
Days later, training day three. The yard was hell. Or Republic of Korea Army boot camp's isekai branch.
"Company, attention! First rank, down! Second, up!"
My commands sent sixty rookies scrambling. Filthy clothes, cracked lips, dazed eyes.
"Lord! What is this?!"
Farmboy Jack slammed his "rifle"—wooden mockup—down.
"Knights charging with swords! Teach spears, shields! Three days rolling in dirt, up-down with sticks... this training?!"
Unease spread. Orcs imminent, but lord's "drills" felt torture.
"And lining up? Perfect arrow fodder!"
Fear. Their issue. Lifetime weaklings: war meant hide, flee, scatter. Shoulder-to-shoulder? Suicide.
"Pick it up."
I growled low.
"What?"
"The stick."
I closed on Jack, voice ice-cold. He paled.
"Not just a stick. Your future lover. Who drops their girl?"
"L-lover...?"
"My army has platoon accountability."
I grinned, scanning sixty.
"Buddy drops rifle? All, left roll, right roll—ten times!"
"Wha?!"
Horror: Jack's fault, why us? But I'd seen it; no flinch.
"Not rolling? Execute!"
Sixty men tumbled in dirt. Screams, groans.
"Agh! My back!"
"Mommy!"
Ella covered her mouth, worried.
"Young master... they'll all run. Too harsh? What's 'PRI' anyway...?"
"PRI. Pain, Rice, Iron."
"...Joke?"
I deadpanned.
"Shooting's legs. Absorb recoil, feet rooted. More sweat now, less blood later."
Boot camp flashbacks fueled my roar.
"Voices! Orcs laughing! Louder!"
"Rawr!!"
Boris first, rolling hardest. Jack guiltily helped him up.
Rabble bonding in dust. Camaraderie blooming.
***
Dinner: watery meat stew, hard bread. Rookies devoured like nectar.
I ate among them, scraping my "tray"—wood plate.
"Ahh..."
Sipping broth, I gazed at the bright moon. Craved army ramen, packet noodles.
"Strawberry jam on bread, mixed with milk... heaven."
"Young master? Not spread jam—mix in milk? Eww, gross!"
Ella recoiled.
"You don't get it. Trash in civvy street, chef's gourmet in camp. Win this, I'll make it."
"Pass."
Jack shuffled up.
"Uh... lord."
"More food?"
"No... that name thing. Gotta? Throat hurts."
"Battlefield noise drowns you. Scream to signal alive. Got it?!"
"Y-yes!"
"Voice! Food bad?"
"No! Delicious!"
Jack, perfect private now. Isekai folk adapted fast to K-army. Humans adapt.