There was no time to lose. Sanctus was well aware that the Knights of Gold—and likely more of their cohorts—would return. They would return with vengeance, intent on burning down the village and massacring its people to hide their shame and snuff out dissent. And it would all be because of his actions.

  Therefore, the villagers were now his responsibility. He had important decisions to make.

  Ulric tended to Emeria’s wounds in his shop, ignoring his own bleeding nose as he admirably prioritized his daughter’s injuries. Emeria was lucky—she had suffered mostly bruises and contusions. But once the adrenaline wore off, even those made it painful for her to move.

  Sanctus broached what was likely to be a sensitive topic. “Is what the knight—designator: Guiscard—said true?” he asked.

  Ulric did not look at him. “It is irrelevant,” he muttered, dismissing Sanctus in an attempt to avoid the subject.

  Sanctus insisted. “It is relevant. Are you a capable weapons manufacturer?”

  That drew Ulric’s ire. “No! Not anymore. I am a pacifist! I have sworn never to design or build weapons again!”

  Emeria protested, “Father, if we help the hero, we could make demands of the emperor.”

  “I will hear no such nonsense,” Ulric admonished her. He turned back to Sanctus. “You have brought death upon these people. Those knights will return, and with even more of their cohort. They will burn this place for your defiance.”

  Sanctus clasped his hands behind his back. Humans were always a peculiar species—quick to courage, quick to cower. Yet, in his database, they produced the highest number of singularities—acts that defied all odds to change the course of history.

  “I intend to defend this position,” he told Ulric.

  “With what?” the old man said, exasperated. “Your strength is immense, I saw that. But you are just one being. You cannot hope to stand against the crown.”

  “He won’t stand alone,” Emeria interjected, pushing away from her father once he had finished tending her wounds. “I will help him.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Ulric told her. “I almost lost you today.”

  But Emeria remained defiant, perhaps inspired by Sanctus’ own stand against the knights. “I will. I will not abandon our people. We can organize a defense.”

  “Designator: Emeria is correct,” Sanctus pointed out. “The people need a leader. They will follow you. Without you, I cannot mobilize them efficiently. Your skills as a weapons designer will also be crucial as a force multiplier.”

  Ulric thought for a moment, then crossed his arms. “I will not help.”

  Sanctus wanted to rebuke him but chose not to. “Very well.” He turned to Emeria. “Do you know the designator of the man whose son was almost taken?”

  “His name is Lionel. Why?”

  “Take me to him.”

  Humans did not obey any baser programming. They were highly illogical. They needed something to fight for. Threatening their offspring was a sure way to draw out their fighting spirit. It irked Sanctus that Ulric would reject this most fundamental of human logic. Perhaps Lionel would prove more pliable.

  "Please do not bow or grovel. It is illogical and inefficient," Sanctus said. But the man still bowed, thanking him profusely for saving his son, who also bowed. The rest of the family stood by their hovel.

  "Thank you, hero, thank you! I owe you both my life and my son's!" Lionel exclaimed.

  Sanctus forcefully—but carefully—picked the man up by his shoulders and placed him on his feet. "It is my duty to punish the wicked and the enemies of the Pact of Iron. Now, can you read or write?" he asked.

  "I can read," Lionel said. "My son also has basic knowledge."

  "What is your trade?"

  "I am a farmer."

  Suboptimal. But Sanctus was unlikely to get much better from the populace of this village. "Lionel, you, your family, and this entire village are in danger. The Knights of Gold will return, and they will put you all to the sword. Will you fight to defend your family?"

  "Of course!"

  "Then there is much I require of you. Gather every able-bodied male in this village and bring them to the forest."

  "By your command, hero." Lionel quickly ran off, leaving Sanctus and Emeria with his son.

  Sanctus turned to the young boy, who was clearly intimidated but did not cower. "How many cycles have you endured?"

  The boy shrugged.

  Emeria answered for him. "His name is Kilian. He is two years younger than me. I am eighteen years old."

  "Good." Sanctus turned to the boy. "Gather your fellows. I have tasks for you to accomplish."

  The boy nodded.

  Sanctus and Emeria led a sizable group of villagers into the dense woodland. Emeria walked close to Sanctus, while the others kept a cautious distance. Periodically, Sanctus would halt, scanning the terrain before etching symbols into tree bark with his metallic fingers.

  At last, he stopped and turned to the villagers, who clutched various logging tools. "Observe the markings," he announced, pointing to the distinct X and Y carved into the bark. "Trees marked with an X are designated for structural fortification—specifically, wall construction. Trees marked with a Y are to be processed into spears. Specifications are as follows: spear length between six and eight feet, shaft diameter of one to one-and-a-half inches, constructed from hardwood. Spearheads shall measure six to twelve inches, fashioned from stone. Total weight is to range from two to four pounds."

  The villagers exchanged uncertain glances. Realizing their lack of comprehension, Sanctus approached one holding a walking stick and lifted it for emphasis. "This size."

  Recognition spread through the group in a series of nods.

  "Begin immediately," Sanctus ordered. "Estimated time for minimal fortifications: four days." Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned to Emeria. "Follow me."

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  The towering automaton moved deeper into the forest, Emeria trailing behind. Soon, they were alone, the sounds of the workers fading into the distance. Sanctus halted and gestured toward her staff.

  Emeria hesitated, uncertain of his intent.

  "What is the origin of your energy source?" he asked. "How did you conjure your fire? My analysis detects no integrated systems within your staff."

  She extended the staff, the crystal at its tip glinting faintly orange. "It is magic," she replied with a bright smile. "I am a mage."

  Sanctus focused his glowing optics on the crystal, scrutinizing it with calculated intensity. "Can this resource be replicated?"

  "Make more mages? No," Emeria explained. "I am the only one in my village and the next, attuned to the arcane."

  "Then this device cannot be wielded by another?"

  "No. Its power is tied to me. Magic is drawn from the soul. The brighter the soul, the greater the potential for magic."

  Sanctus tilted his head slightly, processing the information. "Your previous attacks were ineffective against armored targets. Is this the extent of your capabilities?"

  Emeria flushed, embarrassed but honest. "I am still learning. My training was incomplete. A traveling wizard taught me, but my skills are far from mastery."

  "Understood," Sanctus replied, his tone neutral but pragmatic. Her pyrotechnics, while inefficient, hinted at untapped potential. He had briefly hoped she might serve as a flamethrower—such a weapon would be an immense asset. "Will this wizard return soon?"

  "Not for three weeks," she admitted.

  "That exceeds our operational timeline," Sanctus stated flatly. He pivoted. "If your abilities are so underdeveloped, explain how you were able to summon me."

  "I did not summon you directly," Emeria corrected. "I intercepted your soul as it was being summoned by another."

  "Illogical," Sanctus countered. "I am not a biological entity. I possess no soul."

  Emeria looked at him with quiet certainty. "All living beings have souls. You think, you move, you speak—you are alive. Therefore, you have a soul. You died horribly in your previous life, did you not?"

  Sanctus could not remember. He ran a hand over his chest, a vague sense of absence settling within him. His memory banks contained no record. There was data from a period close to his arrival in this land, but it was fragmented, tangled in unreadable code. Most concerning. His subroutines had quarantined a specific drive containing it, but he could not access it. The code was entirely different from the base OS that governed him. He assigned another subroutine to analyze it, though he was not optimistic.

  Sanctus considered correcting her primitive thinking but refrained. "Even if your premise is accepted, such an interception would require substantial quantities of this 'magic' you describe. Explain."

  "The ruins where you awoke," Emeria said. "They are enchanted. Their power amplifies my own."

  Sanctus processed this, then nodded. "Take me to these ruins. Immediately."

  "What civilization constructed these structures?" Sanctus asked.

  "We don't know," Emeria said while balancing on what had probably once been a low wall. She expertly maintained her footing on the thin, uneven surface, counterbalancing herself with her staff. "We call them 'the Ancients.'"

  Sanctus studied the runes on some of the pillars. No translation came forth. The galaxy held many mysteries of an impossible and enigmatic nature, so this was not unexpected. His sensors detected nothing unusual about the stones.

  Emeria smiled, inhaling deeply with her eyes closed. "Do you feel it?"

  "Feel what?"

  "Magic. The air is filled with it," she said, her voice tinged with wonder.

  Sanctus sensed nothing. That was most concerning. If forces existed in this world that his sensors could not detect, they represented an intelligence gap he could not overcome. That would be a problem.

  "How powerful is your magic here?" he inquired.

  Emeria showed him. She straightened and pointed her staff at a lone tree. Sanctus observed, recording every detail. Her eyes gleamed with a brilliant light. Embers gathered around the crystal atop her staff, growing in intensity with each passing millisecond. The glow brightened until, finally, an eruption.

  The fire she summoned was not the low-intensity fireball she had used in the village. It was a full-on tidal wave of flame. A concussive blast rippled outward as the fire surged over the tree. It withered and burned to ashes in seconds. When the spell concluded, only a scorch mark remained, trailing back to her. She hadn't even broken a sweat.

  "Impressive. Fourteen-point-seven megajoules. Equivalent power output to a light plasma cannon," he observed, deadpan.

  Sanctus was impressed. If only he were defending these ruins, he could utilize Emeria’s full potential. His gaze fell on a stone inscribed with runes. It was a modest, cubical block. A strategy began to take shape.

  The next two days went by quickly. The men worked tirelessly. Despite Lionel's low station, his association with the hero lent him credit, and he used it wisely. He proved highly capable in coordinating logging efforts to fell trees for constructing a more robust wall around the village perimeter. Instead of a square or circle, as was common, he ordered it built in a star shape with five points.

  The spike perimeter was removed at Sanctus' direction and redistributed. With the help of all the townsfolk, every man was issued a well-crafted wooden spear. In all, they mustered 153 able-bodied soldiers to defend the village. Sanctus split them into three forces. Due to the town's position in an open field, flanked by forests to its west and east, one cadre manned the northern section and another the southern. The last would remain in reserve. Those would be the obvious axes of advance for an attacking force. Attacking from the woods was not ideal for cavalry, which—Sanctus calculated with a 98% probability—would make up the majority of the retribution force.

  The next step in the defense was to dig defensive trenches. Instead of facing the enemy on open ground, where their wooden spears would be completely inadequate, they would defend from shallow earthworks. Sanctus also directed the digging of a series of seemingly random dog holes in the open fields. Wooden spikes were placed inside and covered with moss and grass. These would serve as deadly anti-cavalry traps.

  The last and most pressing concern was turning the men of the village into actual soldiers. Lacking a comprehensive command-and-control system or any kind of long-range comms made organization a nightmare. The men worked in shifts with one cadre logging and digging, another conducting drills under Sanctus' instruction, and a third tending to regular chores.

  The last thing, which Sanctus held in private, was the lack of a wildcard. He had Emeria, but her power wasn't likely to be useful. He needed a game changer. He ran scenarios over and over in the depths of his processors but kept having to refine his variables under ever more restrictive limitations. He did not have an airborne brigade, any special forces, secret weapons, satellite imagery, or even so much as a vial of combat drugs—nothing that could give the enemy pause. In almost every battle he had fought in his hundred years, he had the ever-crucial boon of prep time to ensure he had a perfect force composition, a perfect plan for every line of code in his OS—which was vast.

  Despite how well things were progressing, Sanctus was under no delusions about the quality of his force. Their weaponry was third-rate. A couple of men, whom he took note of for their adaptability and initiative, were given metal knives. Other than that, they could only muster wooden spears that would not survive a prolonged siege or repeated use.

  There were also desertions. At first, he wanted to threaten these individuals with execution for abandoning their peers but realized this would only crater morale further. He had to remind himself several times that he was not dealing with machines—he was dealing with humans.

  At first, they feared him, but with time, even the meager two days he spent directing them, the people got used to him.

  Late at night, after a day of back breaking labor and military drill, the townhall was abuzz with activity. During the meal hour, the people of the village all dined together on the fruits of their labors. This mostly consisted of stew and bread, and the occasional dried meat.

  "What do golems eat?" Emeria asked Sanctus.

  "I do not consume calories." Sanctus stated. "I am powered by a Series-3 Tokamak core. I do not need refueling for another one-hundred and eleven years." The townspeople stared blankly, understanding nothing of what he just said. He decided not to draw out the conversation further. He considered exposing his core to show them, but decided against it. Exposing an iron-age civilization to the wonders of radioactive isotopes would probably be devastating.

  A haggard man with a cup of highly distilled ail got his attention, "What are our chances, metal man?" His tone was light, but the question carried grave implications and he seemed to know this.

  "I calculate a 76 percent chance of victory." He lied through his transmitter. The chances were closer to 36%. He was likely leading these people into martyrdom or some kind of glorious death in combat. History was littered with villages like this one that were forgotten and burned as frequently as a butterfly flapped its wings.

  It was the best he could do. But the concept of the wild card still nagged him, the subroutine refusing to be silenced. He got up and went to Ulric's workshop.