"I've done it! I've done it, my Lord Marquess!"
Vilkar’s boisterous voice echoed across the stone flags of the inner courtyard, shattering the crisp morning quiet.
Standing at the center, the broad-shouldered master smith wiped a soot-smeared sleeve across his sweaty brow, grinning with fierce pride. Behind him stood two heavy crates draped in cloth.
Edric stood across from the old smith. Serah observed silently at his side, while Gareth held a crisp sheet of parchment. A pace behind them, Celia waited quietly with a silver tray of warm tea.
"The testing is complete, and both prototypes performed beyond expectations! This will revolutionize warfare!" the stout man declared.
"Show me," Edric ordered.
Vilkar gave a sharp nod and strode over to the first crate, tugging off the heavy canvas cloth with a flourish.
Beneath it sat a dual-cylinder iron pump mounted on a heavy oak frame. A stout iron lever extended from the top, fitted with brass fittings and reinforced gaskets around the piston shafts.
"First, your water pump," Vilkar said, tapping the solid iron housing. "Per your schematics, Lord Edric, I built a dual-chamber vacuum system."
Vilkar grabbed the iron lever and pumped it twice. The internal brass valves gave a crisp, metallic clack-clack, followed by a deep, pressurized hiss of suction that echoed across the stone flags.
"Double-action valves," Vilkar explained proudly. "While one chamber draws, the other pushes. No wasted motion. The reinforced housing keeps the pressure steady, and with a little oil now and then, she'll work for years."
Edric inspected the brass fittings and the tight iron seams, offering a slow, approving nod. "Clean craftsmanship, Vilkar. Exactly as designed."
"Aye, but as impressive as this is..." Vilkar smiled, his eyes glinting as he turned toward the second, longer crate. "This next one is where the real art lies."
He grabbed the edge of the cloth and whipped it back.
Inside lay a weapon that looked both familiar and strikingly advanced. It retained the dark walnut stock, the steel prod, and the folding goat’s-foot lever from Edric’s original design.
But near the tips of the steel bow arms, set into brass housings, were off-center, teardrop-shaped iron wheels—eccentric pulleys.
A thick, pitch-black bowstring braided from multi-strand cured hemp and tendon looped through them, tracing along the flight groove.
"Now for this one," Vilkar said, lifting the weapon with both hands. "I made some adjustments to your 'crossbow,' my Lord."
Edric stepped closer, his eyes immediately catching the unusual brass wheels at the ends of the steel prod. "You modified the limb assembly?"
"I did," Vilkar replied with an eager grin. "Your design was already remarkable, my lord Marquess. The steel prod and the goat's-foot lever gave it tremendous draw strength."
He unlatched the folded goat's-foot lever beneath the stock and hooked its claws onto the bowstring. Bracing the stirrup beneath his boot, he pulled the lever through its arc.
"But there was one flaw."
As the string rolled over the offset wheels, the resistance peaked before easing noticeably, finally locking into the trigger with a crisp click.
"A steel prod keeps fighting you all the way to the end," Vilkar explained. "That means the trigger bears tremendous strain, and when it releases, the whole weapon bucks in the shooter's hands."
He tapped one of the brass housings.
"So I forged these offset wheels. They spread the strain more evenly through the draw. The trigger no longer carries the full burden, the release is smoother, and the limbs store more of their strength where it matters."
Vilkar handed the weapon over with unmistakable pride.
"It shoots harder, steadies faster, and the frame should last considerably longer."
Edric held the weapon, observing it intently.
A compound bow? he thought, running his fingers along the polished brass cams. No, not quite.. but remarkably close.
He had given Vilkar a basic blueprint for a heavy steel crossbow with a goat's-foot lever, expecting a solid, medieval-grade weapon.
But Vilkar had taken those fundamental concepts, deduced the physical limitations of steel limbs on his own, and engineered an early compound mechanism out of steel, iron, brass, and cured hemp.
Without formal training in modern physics or mechanics, the man had intuitively recreated the core mechanics of a modern compound crossbow using raw medieval materials.
Vilkar wasn't just a skilled blacksmith; he was a genius worthy of the name greatest forge master in the North.
The stout man then reached into the crate and pulled out a short, heavy bolt fitted with a four-sided pyramid tip.
"I had these made by our fletchers," Vilkar added, slotting the bolt into the iron groove. "The tip is hardened steel and the shaft is solid oak. These take half the time to make compared to standard arrows."
Edric raised the stock to his shoulder, lining up the iron sight with a heavy oak target post set against the far courtyard wall.
He settled the stock against his shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
THOOM.
The bolt became a black blur, whistling in the air before hitting the target.
It punched clean through the oak target and dug deep into the earth.
Silence settled over the courtyard.
Even Serah stared for a moment before walking towards the bolt. She strained a little as she pulled it from the ground, inspecting it.
"The tip is still intact. I'd hate to be on the other end of this." She remarked.
Vilkar folded his arms with a satisfied grin. "Of course it will hold. It's our masterpiece."
He then looked at the young lord. "Well?"
Edric lowered the crossbow slowly.
"Impressive." he remarked. "How many of each have you made so far?"
"Two of each, my lord Marquess. All working prototypes," Vilkar replied, nodding toward the crates.
"Good." Edric acknowledged, before looking the smith dead in the eye. "Now tell me plainly, how fast can your forge churn these out?"
Vilkar scratched his thick beard, humming thoughtfully as he did the math in his head. "The stocks and bolts are easy, our carpenters and fletchers can turn those out by the dozen, but..."
His face showed a subtle worry.
"It's the precision forging for the steel prods and the brass cams that takes time. Working at full tilt, my smiths could give you forty crossbows a month. Maybe fifty if we completely halt production on those spears and arming swords you ordered last month."
"No," Edric said firmly, raising a hand. "Do not stop the spear and sword production. I need every blade and shaft to outfit the new recruits filling our ranks. We keep the forge running on all fronts."
Edric stepped closer, setting a hand on the iron pump housing. "I want an initial order of one hundred crossbows, complete with quarrels, and fifty of these water pumps."
Vilkar’s eyes lit up with unmistakable greed and excitement, but a shadow of hesitation quickly crossed his broad face. "A hundred crossbows and fifty pumps... Gods above, Lord Marquess, that's a dream order. But I'll be blunt, my current iron supply won't stretch a quarter of that way. I'll run dry before the month is out."
"You won't," Edric replied, a sharp, confident smile playing on his lips. "I will supply all the raw iron you need directly from House Artos’s reserves. But in exchange for providing the metal, I expect a notable discount on the final unit price."
Vilkar let out a booming laugh, slapping his knee. "Fair's fair! You supply the iron, and I'll cut the labor cost by fifteen percent. A deal fit for a lord and a smith."
"Agreed." Edric gestured to his side, and Gareth stepped forward, a heavy leather coin purse already in hand.
Edric took the purse and handed it directly to the forge master. "This covers the full cost of the four prototypes, along with a generous advance for the order and labor to begin the new batch immediately."
Vilkar weighed the heavy purse in his soot-stained palm, the soft, rich clink of gold coins music to his ears. He grinned fiercely. "Consider the fire stoked, my Lord."
"Gareth," Edric said, turning to his steward. "Lead Vilkar to Matthus to draw up the formal contract before the sun sets. Include the delivery schedules, the iron allocation, and the discounted unit rates."
"At once, young master," Gareth bowed smoothly as he showed the way.
After the two exited, Edric approached the remaining crates.
Celia stepped forward quietly, her posture composed as she waited with the silver tray resting in her hands.
Edric reached out, his hand resting on the frame of the crossbow before shifting over to the double-action pump beside it. The weapon was a vital safeguard, but his mind was already racing through the broader implications of the iron mechanism beneath his palm.
Serah walked up beside him, her boots clicking softly against the stone flags. She reached into the crate and lifted the weapon, turning it over in her hands with an expert’s eye, feeling its balance.
"It really is magnificent," she said, her voice carrying a rare, unreserved admiration. "It's powerful but fairly simple to use. With this we can even the playing field."
Edric offered a faint smile, though his gaze remained fixed on the pump. "The weapon is just the beginning, Serah. Honestly, I'm even more impressed by this."
Serah raised an eyebrow, looking over at him.
"Think about what this means," Edric continued softly. "We can finally supply clean water to high-elevation villages that are struggling. We can irrigate dry fields, boosting agricultural efficiency, even completely overhaul sanitation. Clean water changes everything, it cuts disease, saves livestock, and secures our future."
A pace behind them, Celia stood quietly, listening to every word. Her dark eyes shifted from the weapon to the pump, and finally to the young lord himself.
She hesitated, her fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the tray, before speaking up meekly.
"My Lord... if I may ask..." Celia’s voice was small, almost lost in the morning breeze. "Why are you so adamant about bolstering your strength? Why push so hard to change... everything?"
The question hung in the cool morning air.
Edric froze, his hand coming to a rest against the cold iron.
Why am I doing this?
The thought struck him with surprising weight. Why was he striving so relentlessly to fix and improve this territory? Was it out of the genuine goodness of his heart? Was it a lingering guilt, knowing that, as the author of this world, he was the one who had written the very suffering these people endured?
Or was it something far more mundane... was he simply trying to keep himself occupied?
Beside him, Serah noticed his sudden silence. She gently set the weapon back into its crate, her sharp eyes studying the tension in his shoulders.
Ever since his brush with death, Edric had been a whirlwind of ambition and foresight, but right now, he looked strangely distant.
Perhaps the incident scared him? She thought.
Seeing the heavy silence fall over the young lord, Celia’s face went pale. Panic flared in her eyes as she realized she might have crossed a line.
"I-I am so sorry, my Lord!" she stammered, immediately bowing her head in profuse apology, her voice trembling. "It was not my place to pry! Please forgive my insolence, Lord Edric, I—"
"That's fine, Celia. Don't worry," Edric interrupted softly, raising a hand to cut off her panicked apologies.
He turned toward her, the tension in his chest easing into a small, dry smile.
"It's a fair question," Edric said, looking between Celia's anxious face and Serah's quiet, watchful gaze.
He let out a long breath. "If I'm being entirely honest... I think I'm doing all of this simply because I want to live comfortably. I want a safe, quiet life where I don't have to worry about war, famine, or disease."
He looked back toward the crates, his expression softening.
"And if I can make everyone else's lives better along the way... well, I won't complain."