The capital of the Versailles Kingdom was drowned in luxury, splendor, and the suffocating scent of expensive perfume. The white marble pavements were polished to a mirror shine, and harmless, purely decorative sparks of illusion magic flared in the air from time to time—the local elite loved putting on a grand show. Pampered aristocrats sauntered everywhere, their silk doublets costing more than a couple of residential blocks on the outskirts.
Amidst this eclectic, high-society crowd, a man walked leisurely.
He wore the most ordinary, unremarkable clothing of a townsperson or a visiting merchant: a simple gray vest, worn trousers, and understated leather boots. He walked calmly with his hands clasped behind his back, and not a single soul in the crowd even turned to look at him.
He stopped at the edge of the central square, directly opposite the colossal golden gates leading into the royal palace grounds. The snow-white spires of the castle pierced high into the clouds, gleaming in the sunlight.
He slowly raised his head, scanning the opulent facade of the building, the guards in ceremonial armor, and the laughing nobles by the entrance. His lips twitched, and he murmured softly to the deaf walls:
"So this is where the gala will ultimately be held..."
After standing there for another second, the man in the gray vest turned around and melted just as calmly back into the crowd.
But while the capital was in full preparation for yet another festival, hundreds of miles away, enveloped in a profound working silence, the engineer was preoccupied with far more pressing concerns.
Locked away inside the workshop, I completely tuned out the outside world. On my workbench, bathed in the bright light of magical lamps, lay my blanks. I had Lumon project the blueprints of the mechanical assemblies before my eyes and set to work assembling the experimental ballistic weapon.
Fingers accustomed to precision work drove titanium pins and adjusted interlocking grooves.
[Prototype Engineering Analysis:]
"Integration of the chamber cast from the Omega alloy allows for the complete damping of radial gas expansion at the moment of pressure buildup in the forcing chamber. The internal geometry of the barrel is adapted for the directed kinetic vector of the Chaos crystal lattice detonation, which minimizes thermodynamic shock and prevents critical rifling wear at ultra-high projectile velocities."
In simpler terms, the picture was far clearer. The barrel and chamber, machined from the heavy, purple Omega ore, served as an ultra-tough, impenetrable armor. It was entirely necessary to prevent the weapon from tearing itself apart in my hands when the red Chaos ore—acting as the gunpowder—detonated inside. Chaos provided a savage explosion, while Omega clamped down on it in a death grip, forcing all that destructive energy to expand strictly forward. This massive impulse propelled the bullet out of the barrel at a monstrous velocity.
Surprisingly, the assembly went incredibly smoothly. The parts, cast according to my calculations, snapped into place with a perfect click. The springs of the bolt mechanism seated without any misalignment, the firing pin moved fluidly, and the magazine well engaged without the slightest hint of play.
The entire process, from the first machined part to the final tightening of the screws, took exactly six hours.
I leaned back in my chair, holding the hefty blued firearm, its Omega barrel carrying a faint purple tint while crimson notches marked the magazine. The weapon was complete. Yet instead of joy or pride, I felt a gnawing sense of anxiety clawing at my chest.
Any experienced designer knows: if a prototype comes together without a single hitch on the very first try, it means a hidden defect is lurking somewhere inside, waiting to show itself at the worst possible moment.
"Well, let's find out where you decide to blow up," I muttered grimly to myself.
Slamming home the heavy magazine, loaded with experimental cartridges featuring a Chaos core, I lifted the weapon from the table, rested it on my lap, and rolled my chair toward the exit.
Stepping out into the open air, I squinted against the bright daylight. Our central square looked entirely different now. That "heart explosion"—though it had wrought colossal destruction, reducing old Dornheim to a pile of smoking ruins—had ultimately worked to our benefit.
With Elyria's help, the massive crater left at the epicenter had been completely filled, leveled, and packed down. And the surviving hulls of the warships that had been wedged into the cliffs were cut down and recycled into clean, high-quality metal by the laborers. Now, a perfectly flat, clear clearing stretched before the workshop. True, right now it was cluttered with scaffolding, toolboxes, and logs, but the strategic scope of the space was impressive.
Surveying the expanse, I briefly took my mind off the weapon, and a thought flashed through my head:
I wonder how Walter and Wayland are holding up... I hope they're doing well and have met up with Yan.
I shook my head, dispelling the thoughts, and firmly gripped the prototype with both hands. My eyes locked onto a massive granite boulder standing solitary at the very edge of the cleared site, roughly fifty paces away.
I aimed the Omega barrel at the target, aligning the front sight with the center of the stone, flipped the selector switch, and smoothly squeezed the trigger.
THUNDER.
A brief, blindingly red tongue of flame erupted from the muzzle. The energy of the Chaos ore performed flawlessly, delivering a colossal, directed impulse. In that exact split second, the projectile blew the boulder to splinters, turning the chunk of granite into a cloud of fine stone dust and shards that scattered across the area.
I immediately looked down at the weapon, expecting to see smoking, warped metal. But there was none. Lumon displayed an entirely green, clean report line. The Omega alloy had performed perfectly—the barrel hadn't even warmed up. The weapon worked, and it worked flawlessly!
About two hours passed, during which I managed to return to the workshop, strip down the prototype to check the internal components, and map out a plan for mass ammunition production.
Suddenly, the ground beneath the wheels of my chair vibrated faintly. The tremor was rhythmic, heavy, and rapidly intensifying.
Frightened shouts from the sentries and the clatter of dropped construction tools echoed from outside the window. I quickly spun my chair toward the exit and rolled out onto the porch.
The entire camp froze dead in its tracks. Marek's builders, Noah's men, the women and children—everyone was all ears, staring fearfully down the main road leading into Dornheim.
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