The afternoon light had dimmed when Reyn returned to his chamber after his secret expedition into the strange, hidden dimension. His heart still fluttered at the thought of what he had accomplished: retrieving uniforms, helmets, boots, knives, and—most importantly—modern firearms.

  He set two sets of soldier’s uniforms on his bed—one with a cloth cap, the other with a sturdier helmet—along with several pairs of military boots. Beside them, a Kevlar vest and a polished M9 bayonet knife, all this looked shockingly out of place amid the rough-hewn furniture and worn draperies of the castle’s interior.

  Taking a deep breath, he focused again on the spectral interface only he could see. He reached into the store once more, this time selecting firearms suitable for a small cadre of elite defenders. After considering various options, he chose two types of rifles, weapons famed in his past life’s knowledge: the AK-47 and the M4A4. Both were automatic rifles with high reliability and power. He could not be sure how well medieval minds would grasp their function, but he had to try.

  He took out twenty of each rifle—an immense arsenal even by his past world’s standards. He also took an additional twenty M9 pistols and twenty bayonet knives. The plan was to start small—perhaps with sidearms and knives—so that his men might learn how to handle these strange things before receiving rifles.

  After all this, Reyn felt a sudden wave of heaviness. His limbs grew weak, and a subtle ache pulsed in his temples. It reminded him of the draining sensation he’d felt the previous day, after summoning just a few items. It seemed that accessing this store carried a price. Too much, too quickly, and he’d be left exhausted.

  He arranged the newly acquired gear neatly on the bed and nearby chest, checking the bolts on the door to ensure privacy. The sun was dipping low beyond the shutters, bathing the room in a dusky light. He wiped sweat from his brow. He had done enough for today.

  “From hopelessness to glory,” he murmured wryly to himself. Just yesterday, the Red Claws had seemed an insurmountable threat. Now, he had a plan —risky and uncertain, but still a plan—to defend Black Water Territory. He would handpick a small group, train them in secret, and turn the tide.

  He glanced out the window. The sun was going down. Training men to use these weapons would take time, but at least he could soundly sleep tonight.

  Yet as he prepared to undress, another wave of fatigue hit him, this time stronger. His limbs felt like lead, his eyelids heavier than iron shutters. Without meaning to, he staggered, caught himself against the bedpost, and barely managed to ease onto the mattress.

  “Did I overdo it?” he wondered, vision swimming. He tried to lift a hand to his head, but even that felt like too much effort. Darkness edged in at the corners of his eyes. He managed a sigh and let himself slip into sleep, armor and boots still on, the odd new gear scattered around him. The castle settled into quiet gloom.

  ---

  The next morning dawned with a chill. Reyn woke feeling slightly stiff and sore, as if he had spent the night hauling heavy stones. He ran a hand through his golden-black curls and took a moment to recall the previous day’s exploits. The memories were vivid—the gleam of rifles, the shock of gunfire, the impossible dimension brimming with supplies. The lingering tiredness suggested he must be careful about how often he drew from that. Still, the benefits outweighed the costs.

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and Dohnal’s voice followed: “My lord, your breakfast is ready.” The butler entered, pushing aside the makeshift curtain that now served as a door after yesterday’s incident. He carried a wooden tray with bread, a thin porridge, and a wedge of cheese. The smell made Reyn’s stomach rumble. He realized he was ravenous.

  “Thank you, Dohnal,” Reyn said, seating himself in a plain wooden chair near the window. He tore into the bread. He felt oddly light in mood, despite the grim circumstances. Having a plan can do wonders for the spirit, he reflected.

  Dohnal, setting the tray down, could not hide his curiosity. His gaze drifted to the neat stacks of unusual items near the bed: helmets with tinted visors, knives with strange shapes, boots that looked sturdier and lighter than anything a local craftsman could make. He also spied something metal and rod-like, partly covered by a cloak. Dohnal’s brows knitted in confusion—he had never seen such craftsmanship.

  Reyn followed Dohnal’s glance and realized he’d left some items visible. He would have to address this sooner or later. He swallowed a mouthful of bread and cleared his throat. “Dohnal,” he said, “once I finish eating, please summon Thorris to my office. There’s business we must discuss.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Dohnal replied, though his voice trembled with unspoken questions. He bowed and left, his footsteps fading down the corridor.

  Reyn took a moment to plan how he would explain these new weapons to Thorris. He needed the captain of the guard to trust him and follow his instructions without doubt. If Thorris were as loyal as Reyn believed, it would be safe to let him in on part handle some weapons or —at least enough to train with these new “firearms.”

  He quickly gathered the items, wrapping the rifles in cloth to disguise their shape. He set aside one AK-47 and one M9 pistol, along with a few magazines of ammunition, to show Thorris. The rest he secured under his bed or returned to the DUST map.

  Feeling more confident, Reyn rose and straightened his tunic. The day’s work lay ahead.

  ---

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  Black Water’s “training ground,” if it could be called that, lay behind the castle’s main structure. Once it had been a private ranch and stables for a richer lord’s horses, but that was generations ago. Now, it served as a rough courtyard where Thorris drilled the territory’s meager forces. The morning air tasted of cold earth. The sky, a pale gray, promised no warmth.

  On this ground, a handful of serfs, wearing ragged tunics and holding wooden spears, formed a wobbly line. Thorris stood before them, hands on his hips, frowning as they stumbled through basic drills. These men were no trained soldiers. They were farmers and laborers, pressed into militia duty by necessity. Hunger and hardship etched their faces, and their movements lacked vigor. Without proper weapons, armor, or training, they were little more than a deterrent to petty thieves—not seasoned raider-killers.

  Thorris tried not to let his wories show up. He knew the Red Claw Bandits could appear any day now. He and the ten trainee knights under his command could fight bravely, but they were too few. These militiamen would crumble at the first real assault. Still, as a knight-in-training on the cusp of professionalism—loyal to the Lord—he would do his duty and fight to the death if need be.

  Halfway through a clumsy drill, one of the castle servants approached Thorris, calling his name. The servant delivered Reyn’s message: the Lord requested Thorris’s presence in the castle at once.

  With an apologetic nod to the militia, Thorris handed command to a senior trainee knight and trudged toward the castle’s main keep, uncertain but hopeful.

  ---

  Inside Reyn’s makeshift office—once a storeroom, now equipped with a desk and a chair—Thorris found the lord waiting. Dohnal hovered discreetly in the background, pouring two cups of thin wine. The room was cramped, lit by a single oil lamp and a small slit of a window. Reyn sat behind the desk, fingers interlaced, posture composed.

  “My lord,” Thorris said, bowing stiffly.

  “Sit down,” Reyn urged, gesturing to a stool opposite him. He waited until Thorris settled before speaking. “I called you here because I need your assistance in a matter of utmost importance. How loyal are you to Black Water to ME, Thorris?”

  The guard captain’s jaw tightened. “I have pledged my life to this LAND and to its lord. I will never abandon that oath as it my life.”

  Reyn nodded, pleased. “Good. I need you to find me ten men—loyal, strong, and discreet. Men you can trust completely. Men who won’t flee at the first sign of blood. We’re going to form a special unit.”

  Thorris blinked. A special unit? The territory could barely field a basic militia. “My lord, may I ask the purpose of this force?”

  “To defeat the Red Claw Bandits,” Reyn said softly. “Or at least drive them off. I have… acquired certain weapons. Very Powerful. But they are unlike anything you’ve seen before. They will require careful training.”

  A ripple of unease crossed Thorris’s face. “What do you mean by ‘unlike anything’?”

  Reyn stood and motioned for Thorris and Dohnal to follow him. He led them through dim corridors, down a creaking staircase into the old dungeon-turned-storage area beneath the castle. The air here was damp, smelling of earth and mildew. A single torch sputtered, casting flickering shadows. In a quiet corner stood a makeshift rack, covered by a cloak.

  Reyn pulled the cloak aside, revealing a stack of strange items: rifles of sleek metal and wood, pistols with odd mechanisms, magazines of ammunition. Thorris’s eyes widened. He stepped closer, hesitantly reaching out to pick up one of the rifles—an AK-47. The weapon felt both delicate and robust, its shape entirely foreign.

  “These,” Reyn said quietly, “are called firearms. Think of them as crossbows that shoot small metal arrows at tremendous power. They are far more deadly and have greater range than any weapon you know. With proper training, a single man can take down multiple enemies before they even close in.”

  Thorris studied the rifle, utterly perplexed. “My lord… where did these come from?”

  Reyn’s heart pounded. He had no desire to explain the true source. He opted for a half-truth. “From a distant land,” he said carefully, “a place known only to me. Consider it a secret. If these weapons became widely known, rivals would stop at nothing to seize them. We must keep this to ourselves.”

  Dohnal hovered at the edge of the torchlight, eyes wide. He said nothing, but Reyn could guess his thoughts. The butler was shocked yet loyal enough not to question openly. Thorris frowned, struggling to understand.

  “My lord, may I test it?” Thorris asked, voice hushed.

  Reyn nodded. “I’ve prepared a dummy over there.” He pointed to a straw-filled target on the far side of the dungeon. “But first, I must show you how to operate it. It’s more complicated than a crossbow.”

  He guided Thorris through the basics: how to hold the rifle firmly against the shoulder, how to aim down the iron sights, how to flick the safety. Reyn handed him a single magazine containing a few rounds, demonstrating how to insert and lock it into place.

  “Now, aim and pull the trigger,” Reyn instructed, stepping back and getting cover.

  Thorris took a deep breath, steadied his stance, and squeezed the trigger. The gun roared, the sound echoing violently off the dungeon’s stone walls. Thorris flinched, but to his credit, he did not drop the weapon. The bullet slammed into the wooden dummy, splintering a chunk of it. The force and noise startled both Thorris and Dohnal.

  “By the gods!” Thorris exclaimed, lowering the rifle. His heart thumped in his chest.

  Dohnal’s eyes were round as saucers. He murmured something about “devilish thunder sticks,” but kept his voice low. Reyn gave him a reassuring glance.

  “This is why we must choose our men carefully,” Reyn said. “Not everyone can handle this weapon. If these weapons fall into the wrong hands, we lose our advantage.”

  Thorris recovered from the shock and bowed his head. “I understand, my lord. These weapons… they could change everything. We could defend ourselves, even against the Red Claws.”

  “Exactly.” Reyn placed a hand on Thorris’s shoulder. “You must find me ten good men. Preferably your best trainees. I’ll teach you first, and then we’ll train them. They must swear oaths to remain silent. Once we’re ready, the bandits will find us far from helpless.”

  Thorris’s chest swelled with renewed hope. For weeks he had grimly resigned himself to a hopeless fight again. “I will find them, my lord. I know just the men—hardy fellows who’ve stuck by me for years. They will not falter.”

  Reyn nodded. “Do it quietly. Tell them we are forming a special guard unit to protect the lord and the castle. No talk of the weapon’s until they’re chosen. Bring them here one by one over the next few days, and I’ll begin their training.”

  Dohnal, still standing by, cleared his throat. “My lord,” he said softly, “this secret will be difficult to keep. The castle servants talk. When they hear strange noises, see men disappearing into the dungeon…”

  “I’ll have to create cover stories,” Reyn said, thinking quickly. “We can say we are reinforcing the dungeon walls, or conducting special drills. Dohnal, I trust you to manage rumors. Keep the servants occupied.”

  Dohnal bowed respectfully. “As you command.”

  Thorris ran a finger along the rifle’s metal surface, still awed. “My lord, I must ask—how soon do you believe we can have these men trained? The Red Claws won’t give us much time.”

  Reyn’s jaw tightened. “I know,” he said grimly. “We’ll work tirelessly. I’ll start you off with simpler weapons first—the pistols, for instance. Then the rifles. We must ensure safety and discipline above all else. A reckless shot could injure our own people.”

  Thorris nodded. His mind spun with questions, but he kept them to himself.

  “Then I shall make arrangements at once,” Thorris said. “I’ll speak to my trainees quietly. By nightfall tomorrow, I can present them to you, my lord.”

  “Excellent,” Reyn replied, relief flooding him. He hadn’t been sure how Thorris would react, but the man’s loyalty held firm. “We must proceed step by step. Soon, we’ll have a small, elite force armed and trained. When the Red Claws come, we’ll be ready.”

  They spent a little more time discussing logistics— how to store ammunition, and how to maintain the weapons. Reyn explained that the firearms needed care, cleaning, and a certain type of “powder” and “bullet” he would provide. He kept his explanations simple, attributing the origins of these resources to a mysterious far-off land.

  At last, satisfied with their plan, Reyn allowed Thorris to return to the training field. The guard captain’s stride was brisk as he left, shoulders squared, a new determination in his step.

  Dohnal lingered, turning to Reyn. “My lord,” he said quietly, “this is may be dangerous. I worry what others will think of they learn of these weapons. Some might call it sorcery.”

  Reyn pressed his lips together. “We have no choice, Dohnal. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I will handle the consequences later. For now, we must survive. If we do not repel the Red Claws, nothing else matters.”

  Dohnal nodded, though unease glimmered in his eyes. “I will do my best to keep your secret, my lord.”

  Reyn placed a reassuring hand on the old butler’s arm. “I trust you. So keep your faith with me, Dohnal. We’ll see this through.”