Medieval Knight System: Building the Strongest Empire Ever!

Crack! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Thick gunpowder smoke obscured the view. Amid the reek of burning ammonia, the bullets spat out by the arquebuses tore into their targets. The Streit Gunners handled their firearms with remarkable skill.

Just watching them twirl the match cord to keep it lit, then slot it precisely into place, showed how much training they had been through. Scraping out the powder residue after every three shots mattered too.

"Ralph, you’re disposing of the residue properly, right?"

"Yes. We’re collecting it in one place and disposing of it as you instructed."

Most of the residue hardened like stone, since black powder tends to clump. The amount was considerable as well, so Ralph, the firearms manager, thought it a terrible waste.

"Do you know how shocked I was when you tried to reuse it?"

"I-I didn’t know the residue was that dangerous."

He had been about to smash the clumped residue with a hammer when I stopped him; I happened to be watching the training at the time. Otherwise, his men could have been caught in an explosion. No one believed me until they saw it with their own eyes.

I built a simple mechanical device and ran an experiment, dropping a chunk of iron onto the clumped residue. Even a small piece produced a blast powerful enough to wreck everything around it.

Since then, the men have never reused it.

"How many barrels of powder are left?"

"About 15 barrels."

"Hmm, we use half a barrel per training session, so we’re not running short yet."

"Not yet, anyway."

With only 10 men, powder consumption isn’t high, but even so, what other unit is allowed to burn powder this freely in training besides the Streit Gunners? A single barrel costs 5 gold coins.

That’s why the saltpeter business will be a crucial venture, one that determines the very size of the gunner unit. Markus has been searching for a suitable site, and the area around the Main River is the leading candidate.

"So this is the successfully replicated firearm?"

"Yes. The new blacksmith made it."

After the previous blacksmith fell in the Battle of Feuzen, his son had apparently taken over the forge, and honestly, I never expected the son to succeed at replicating a firearm. He must have been a remarkably skilled journeyman.

"The replicated firearms are being used in training now."

"Hmm, not bad. I should reward that blacksmith."

Since he had completed the task successfully, it was only right to reward him accordingly. I granted the new blacksmith 20 silver coins and the title of Feuzen Arquebus Master.

"Try developing a bayonet."

The blacksmith, who had been humbly protesting that the title was too much for him, only blinked. Ralph and the other retainers couldn’t picture what a bayonet was either. This is why rigid thinking is so frightening.

"I’m telling you to make a spike-like bayonet that mounts under the muzzle of an arquebus."

"Master, is a bayonet really necessary? Couldn’t we simply issue swords?"

"Wouldn’t it take ages for gunners to learn swordsmanship on top of everything else? Thrusting, like a spear, is far easier. I don’t want to watch them swinging arquebus stocks around like clubs."

The arquebus is a relatively light firearm, not heavy enough to need a support rest the way a musket does. But my retainers completely failed to grasp the idea of fixing a blade to a gun. In the end, I gave up on making them understand.

Maybe I was too far ahead of the times.

I had no choice but to push it through.

Once the order was given, the blacksmith could only trudge back with his head full of worries. I had instructed him to develop it as an attachment rather than a plug shoved into the muzzle, so he shouldn’t come up with anything too outlandish.

Right now, formation drills are in full swing.

Naturally, Ted, the training instructor, is leading them.

Formation drill was essential tactical training for soldiers who had to hold tight ranks. Battles these days are fought line against line, so discipline mattered all the more.

"Looks like Ted has trained them well. They’re moving as one."

"His nickname is the Wolf Instructor."

"But something about them looks shabby. Is it the ragged clothes?"

"If we put them in armor, firing becomes awkward, so it can’t be helped."

Oscar had also tried to outfit the gunners in light armor like the Italian crossbowmen wore, but it made handling the arquebus awkward, so in the end they settled on cloth garments. The problem is that they look far too shabby.

On top of that, the gunpowder smoke was so thick it was hard to tell anyone apart. So I had Daniel bring me some linen paper, and I designed a military uniform on it myself. A splendid design took shape.

Well, it’s the most famous act of plagiarism in the world.

I’ll be stealing the symbol of the British Empire.

"What if we dressed them in a uniform like this?"

"Wouldn’t that be too flashy for common soldiers?"

"I’m thinking red for the coat and white for the trousers."

"Oh, Lord! I don’t think the Church will approve."

Outside of the nobility, the Church’s policy was generally to encourage drab colors. Medieval society prized restraint as a virtue, so it didn’t take kindly to such vividly colored clothing.

But now that the Church’s authority isn’t what it used to be, pushing this through should be fine. A splendid uniform will look dashing to young men, and wouldn’t that make recruiting much easier?

The red coat has the drawback of standing out badly on the battlefield, but the gunpowder smoke pouring off the gunner unit was foul enough to blanket the field, so standing out was actually an advantage for identification.

And then I remembered that there was a seamstress among the Boeven migrants.

I had her brought over, and the moment she saw me, she was overjoyed. I wondered who she was, and it turned out she was the widow who had lost her husband in Boeven. She had been exploited by some bastard claiming to be her dead husband’s friend.

What’s more, he had shamelessly used the widow to migrate to Feuzen. During his interview, I exposed his crimes through the Scouter and executed him myself.

"Thanks to your mercy, my lord, I’m living in safety. I was truly grateful back then."

"Righting the wrongs done to my people is a lord’s duty, so think nothing of it."

Truly, nothing is as rewarding as being thanked.

"This is a uniform I designed myself. Could you make one?"

"M-me? But I’m a seamstress—a woman."

She was flustered because military uniforms and nobles’ clothing could only be made by male tailors. Absurdly enough, soldiers and nobles alike scorned wearing clothes made by women.

Fine clothing and splendid dresses were the exclusive domain of male tailors, while making and mending everyday clothes for commoners was the seamstress’s lot.

Oh, and the vestments priests wear couldn’t be made by women either.

"I’m not asking about such petty standards. I’m asking whether you can make it."

"...I can make it. Please leave it to me!"

"Good. And I’ll procure the dye, so don’t worry about the cost."

"Th-thank you. I’ll give it my very best."

The seamstress bowed and withdrew. But then I spotted her quietly exchanging greetings with one of the gunners who was taking a break. I had heard that the locals and the migrants didn’t get along, but apparently that wasn’t entirely true.

Oscar voiced his concern.

"They say a man who goes to battle wearing clothes made by a woman dies quickly. Will it be all right?"

"When a soldier dies on the battlefield, it’s the commander’s fault, not some woman’s."

"That’s true, but I don’t think the gunners will like it."

"Do you know who made the shirt I wear under my armor? Sabine made it. By that logic, I’d already be dead. They’d be better off training harder than fussing over useless superstitions."

The only person in Feuzen who can make clothes professionally is the seamstress from Boeven. Feuzen isn’t an attractive enough village to lure a tailor. There are barely any nobles and hardly any fine fabric.

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