Chapter 37: The Recoil of Progress

It wasn’t a mocking chuckle. It was a deep, genuine, chest-heaving laugh that echoed off the wooden walls of the office. He laughed so hard he had to brace himself against the edge of the desk, shaking his head in absolute disbelief.

“Marry the Princess. Take the throne,” Takuya repeated, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. He let out a long breath, composing himself, though the sharp, predatory grin remained. “Julian, that is the worst business proposal I have ever heard.”

Julian blinked, utterly confused. “What? Why? You would have absolute authority! The entire kingdom’s resources at your disposal!”

“And all of the kingdom’s liabilities,” Takuya corrected smoothly, walking around the desk to stand in front of the Prince. “Let me give you your first real lesson in executive management, Jules. A King wears a heavy, shiny gold crown and sits on an elevated throne in the center of a very large room. Do you know what that makes him?”

Julian frowned. “Powerful?”

“A target,” Takuya said softly, his dark eyes locking onto the boy. “It makes him the sole target for every assassin, every angry peasant, every famine, and every political revolt. If the crops fail, the King is blamed. If the taxes are too high, the King is a tyrant. The Crown is a cage, Julian. A highly decorated cage with a guillotine hanging over it.”

Takuya slipped his hands into his pockets. “CEOs, however, operate differently. We do not sit on thrones. We sit in the shadows. We own the ledgers, we control the logistics, and we build the infrastructure. We hold the actual power without shouldering the public risk.”

“So…” Julian swallowed hard. “You refuse?”

“I refuse the throne, and I am certainly not marrying a woman I have never met,” Takuya stated firmly. “However, I refuse your abdication as well. You will become the King, Julian.”

“I just told you I cannot do it!” Julian protested, his voice rising in panic. “I am not smart enough! I cannot build aqueducts or formulate chemical rubber!”

“You don’t need to,” Takuya interrupted, his voice dropping into a smooth, commanding baritone. “You just need to be smart enough to listen to the men who can. I am offering you a formal, secret partnership, Julian. A merger between the Crown and the Syndicate.”

Takuya extended his hand. “When the time comes, I will back your ascension to the throne with limitless industrial wealth and absolute military supremacy. In exchange, the Kazuha Syndicate operates as a sovereign corporate entity. Immune to royal taxes, immune to the standard laws, and granted exclusive monopolies on our technological exports. You will be the most beloved, enlightened ruler in Cynthia’s history. And I will be the shadow emperor pulling the strings to ensure your kingdom never falls. Do we have a deal?”

Julian stared at Takuya’s extended hand. He slowly realized the sheer brilliance of the arrangement. He wouldn’t have to carry the kingdom alone; he would have an immortal industrial machine holding the foundation.

Julian reached out, firmly grasping Takuya’s hand. “We have a deal.”

✽✽✽✽✽✽

The next morning, the sun rose over a city that never truly slept.

Takuya stood by the large map in his office, holding a steaming cup of tea. Silas, covered in his usual layer of chalk dust, was enthusiastically tapping the parchment with a wooden pointer.

“The high-density residential flats are progressing flawlessly, Lord Takuya,” Silas beamed. “The concrete has cured beautifully. The two-story structures are fully roofed, and the carpenters are finishing the internal staircases and the exterior walling. The first batch of laborers will be able to move their families in by the end of the week.”

“Excellent,” Takuya nodded, taking a sip of tea. “And the commercial sector?”

“The Market Mall is on schedule,” Silas reported. “The ground floors are paved with smooth stone, and we are framing the massive merchant stalls. Once the residents move out of the temporary wooden barracks, we will dismantle those shacks and use the lumber to finish the mall’s second floor.”

“What of the Aqueduct?” Takuya asked, tracing the line of the mountain river on the map.

“Ground has officially been broken,” Silas said proudly. “With the flats finishing, I diverted three hundred men to the mountain base. We are digging the trench for the primary subterranean pipes, and the masonry team is laying the foundation for the Castellum Aquae pressure tower near the river dam.”

Before Takuya could commend him, the office door flew open with a violent bang.

Inori stood in the doorway. His face was entirely covered in black soot, his hair was frizzy, and the left sleeve of his shirt was heavily singed. He had the wild, unhinged grin of a mad scientist who had just broken the laws of nature.

“It’s stable,” Inori panted, his eyes wide. “The mixture is completely stable. Get Vane. Get the Prince. Come to the quarry right now.”

✽✽✽✽✽✽

An hour later, Takuya, Vane, and Julian stood behind a thick barrier of reinforced wooden logs in an isolated, blasted stone quarry miles outside the city walls.

Inori stood before them, a large wooden crate resting at his feet.

“I have successfully synthesized and stabilized Black Powder,” Inori announced, his voice vibrating with excitement. “A precise mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate. But powder in a barrel is just a fire hazard. True power comes from compression and mechanics.”

Inori reached into the crate and pulled out a segmented, cast-iron oval about the size of a lemon.

“Weapon One,” Inori declared. “The Mills Bomb. Designation: Number 5 Mark 1.”

Julian squinted at the metal object. “A heavy iron egg?”

“An explosive fragmentation device,” Inori corrected eagerly. He pointed to the top of the device. “Inside the iron casing is the powder. This lever here holds back a spring-loaded striker. When you pull this safety pin, the lever is released. The striker violently hits a percussion cap, which ignites a slow-burning chemical fuse. Four seconds later, the main charge detonates, and the segmented iron casing shatters into hundreds of lethal, high-velocity shrapnel pieces.”

Inori handed the heavy device to Vane. “Pull the pin. Hold the lever tight. Throw it at those wooden targets, and immediately duck behind the barricade.”

Vane, ever the stoic operative, took the bomb. He hooked his finger through the metal ring, pulled the pin, and hurled the iron egg seventy yards downrange. He immediately dropped behind the logs.

Julian leaned over to peek. “It isn’t doing any—”

KA-BOOM!

A deafening, concussive shockwave ripped through the quarry. Julian screamed, throwing his hands over his ears and dropping to the dirt as dirt and small fragments of wood rained down on the barricade. When he tentatively peeked over the log, his jaw dropped. The cluster of thick wooden targets had been absolutely shredded into splinters. The ground was scorched black.

“By the Gods,” Julian whispered in horror.

“Weapon Two,” Inori grinned, pulling a long, sleek weapon from the crate. It was beautifully crafted from dark iron-wood and blued steel. “The Bolt-Action Rifle. A hybrid design of the Mauser 98 and the SMLE Mark III.”

“It looks like an awkward crossbow,” Vane observed, dusting dirt off his shoulder.

“It makes a crossbow look like a child’s toy,” Inori corrected, his scientific pride swelling. “The secret is inside the steel barrel. I forged spiral grooves into the interior lining—we call it ‘rifling.’ When the projectile is fired by the expanding gas of the powder, those grooves force the bullet to spin rapidly. This creates gyroscopic stability, meaning it cuts through the air with extreme aerodynamic accuracy over massive distances.”

Inori pulled back a steel handle on the side of the weapon with a sharp clack-clack. “This is the bolt-action mechanism. It ejects the spent casing and chambers a new round. And to load it…”

Inori pulled out a small metal clip holding five brass cartridges. He pressed the clip into the top of the rifle, forcing the five rounds down into the internal magazine, before removing the empty clip and slamming the bolt forward.

He tossed the rifle to Vane. “The targets on the ridge. Two hundred yards out. Aim down the iron sights.”

Vane shouldered the weapon. He aimed. He pulled the trigger.

CRACK!

The rifle kicked violently against Vane’s shoulder, but a wooden target on the distant ridge instantly shattered. Vane’s eyes widened. Without hesitation, he pulled the bolt back—clack-clack—chambered the next round, and fired again.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

In less than ten seconds, five targets at an impossible distance were annihilated. Vane lowered the smoking rifle, a look of profound, terrifying respect crossing his face.

“The era of swords and armor,” Vane muttered, “is officially dead.”

“Oh, I’m not done,” Inori laughed, rubbing his soot-covered hands together. He gestured to a massive tarp covering something at the edge of the quarry. He pulled the tarp away.

Julian felt his knees go weak.

Resting on two heavy, steel-rimmed wooden wheels was a massive artillery cannon. The long steel barrel gleamed under the sun.

“Weapon Three,” Inori announced, patting the barrel. “The 75-millimeter Field Gun. Based on the French Modele 1897.”

“Takuya showed the Duke massive ballistae,” Julian said, his voice trembling. “Is this similar?”

“A ballista fires a spear,” Takuya said, finally speaking up, his eyes locked on the machine. “This fires a highly explosive shell at velocities the human eye cannot track.”

“But the true genius is the recoil,” Inori explained, pointing to a thick metal cylinder beneath the main barrel. “In primitive cannons, the explosion forces the entire heavy carriage to jump violently backward. The crew has to physically push the heavy machine back into position and re-aim every single time they fire. It is exhausting and slow.”

Inori patted the cylinder. “I built a hydropneumatic recoil mechanism. A fluid-and-air cylinder. When the gun fires, the barrel slides backward independently, and the fluid absorbs the violent shock. A pneumatic spring then instantly pushes the barrel right back into its original position. The wheels never move. The aim is never lost.”

Inori loaded a massive brass shell into the breech and locked it closed. “Firing rate? Twenty rounds per minute.”

Inori handed the firing lanyard to Takuya. “Do the honors, brother.”

Takuya took the cord. He looked at the distant, solid rock face of the quarry. He gave the lanyard a sharp pull.

The sound was indescribable. It was not a boom; it was a physical blow to the chest. A massive jet of fire and smoke erupted from the barrel. A split second later, a massive chunk of the solid stone cliff simply ceased to exist, replaced by an expanding cloud of pulverized rock, fire, and dust.

The carriage of the cannon had not moved an inch.

Julian fell to his knees in the dirt, absolutely paralyzed by the sheer, apocalyptic destructive power the Kazuha brothers possessed.

Takuya stood perfectly still as the smoke cleared. He looked at the smoking barrel, then slowly turned to Vane, Inori, and Julian. The CEO smile was gone, replaced by an expression of absolute, deadly seriousness.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Takuya commanded, his voice cutting through the ringing in their ears. “These weapons do not exist. You will not speak of them. You will not write of them. We will lock this prototype in the deepest vault beneath the Vanguard barracks.”

“Why?” Julian gasped, still on his knees. “With this… you could conquer the Dwarves in a week! You could conquer the world!”

“Because we have a rat in our house,” Takuya said coldly. “Earl Cedric Thalwyn and his faction hold immense power in the capital. If we reveal this technology now, before we have eradicated his political roots, he will use every spy, every assassin, and every corrupt noble to steal these blueprints. If Thalwyn acquires firearms and sells them to our enemies, the Cynthia Kingdom burns.”

Takuya stepped forward, looking down at the Crown Prince. “We cannot unleash the future until we have burned the rot of the past. Thalwyn must be destroyed first. Do you understand, Julian?”

Julian looked at the scorched earth, the shattered targets, and the smoking artillery piece. He realized that this power in the wrong hands meant the end of the world.

He looked up at Takuya, his expression hardening with a newly forged resolve. “I understand. I promise you, Takuya… I will cooperate fully. Whatever you need from the Crown to eradicate Thalwyn’s faction once and for all, you will have it.”

✽✽✽✽✽✽

Miles away from the explosive triumphs of Dian City, the Duke’s heavily armored carriage rumbled down the western dirt road, flanked by his elite cavalry.

The Duke was reviewing Thalwyn’s forged ledgers, mentally preparing the political strategy he would execute the moment he reached the capital.

Suddenly, the convoy ground to a violent halt. Men shouted. Horses whinnied in alarm.

The Duke threw open the carriage door, hand on the hilt of his broadsword. “What is the meaning of this delay?!”

A lone horse pushed through the perimeter of the Duke’s guards. The animal was covered in white foam, its chest heaving violently, on the verge of collapsing. Slumped in the saddle was a Vanguard scout. The man’s leather armor was torn, and his left arm hung uselessly at his side, slick with blood.

The scout practically fell out of the saddle, caught by two guards who dragged him toward the Duke.

“My Lord!” the scout wheezed, coughing violently. “The pass… the western pass…”

“Speak, man!” the Duke ordered, grabbing the scout by his uninjured shoulder. “What of the pass?”

“They did not wait for the spring thaw,” the scout gasped, his eyes wide with terror. “The Dwarven military… they are pouring through the gorge. Heavy iron infantry. Shield walls. They are marching on the eastern border right now!”

The Duke’s blood ran cold. The tactical timeline had completely shattered. Thalwyn’s treasonous supply of steel had clearly emboldened the Dwarves to launch a premature, surprise invasion.

The Duke turned to his fastest cavalry rider. “Take my fastest horse! Ride it to death if you must! Get to the capital. Deliver word to King Regis that the eastern border is under attack! Tell him to mobilize the Royal Army immediately!”

The rider saluted, spun his horse, and dug his spurs in, galloping desperately toward the west.

The Duke turned back to his convoy. His face was no longer that of a politician; it was the face of the veteran Warlord of the East.

“Turn the carriages around!” Duke Balmarrat roared, drawing his massive broadsword as his voice echoed across the valley. “We do not ride to the capital! We ride to the front lines! We hold the pass or we die in the mud! The war has begun!”