Days bled into weeks, and the Duke's estate, usually a bastion of quiet routine, now hummed with a different kind of energy. For Elian, the forge became his second home. Master Gremory, initially dismissive, found his skepticism slowly eroding under the sheer, relentless logic of Elian's designs. It wasn't magic, no. It was something else entirely – a raw, brute force that defied their understanding of combat.
"So, you mean… this 'powder' explodes inside this tube," Gremory mused one sweltering afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow with a greasy rag, "and shoves this 'slug' forward with such velocity that… it just ignores our wards?"
Elian, his face smudged with soot and oil, nodded excitedly. "Precisely, Master Gremory! It's all about pressure and directed force. The mana-dampening wards, as you call them, bend the Spirit World's influence. But they don't stop physical objects. They just… slow them down. This isn't slowing; it's a sudden, concentrated push."
Gremory grunted, running a calloused thumb over the meticulously machined barrel of the prototype. The first few attempts had been crude, dangerous contraptions that barely spat out a lead pellet. But Elian's iterative improvements, his uncanny ability to visualize complex mechanics, had rapidly refined the design. He spoke of concepts like "rifling" and "calibers" that made Gremory's head spin, yet somehow, the boy's instructions consistently led to better results.
The real challenge was the "gunpowder." Without the familiar mana-infused components, Elian had to experiment with mundane materials – charcoal from the furnace, sulfur from a chemical supply house, potassium nitrate he painstakingly derived from a local cave system. The initial mixtures were either duds or violently unstable, but after many singed eyebrows and small, controlled explosions, he finally arrived at a potent, reliable composition.
The Duke's Revelation:
Duke Alaric moved with the quiet precision of a master strategist. His smile, though faint, seemed to settle deeper, the weight in his eyes growing heavier. He had already received reports from Lyra, confirming Elian's peculiar but effective experiments. But reports were one thing; direct observation was another.
One clandestine night, under the shroud of darkness, Duke Alaric and General Thorne, his loyal cousin and the nation's seasoned military commander, slipped into the hidden forge. Elian, unaware of their presence, was long asleep in his chambers. They found Master Gremory meticulously preparing for a test fire of the latest rifle prototype, a crude target dummy humming with a standard-grade mana-dampening ward positioned across the room.
"Everything as the Young Master instructed?" Alaric whispered, his voice barely audible.
Gremory nodded, adjusting the rifle in its mounted clamp. "Aye, Your Grace. Even the strange powder. The lad's a stubborn one, but he gets results."
Alaric gave a curt nod. "Proceed."
Gremory pulled a tether that activated the trigger mechanism. The sound was not the soft magical hum of a spell, but a sharp, concussive CRACK! that echoed through the forge. A flash of light, a wisp of acrid smoke, and the heavy lead slug tore through the air. It didn't shimmer against the mana ward, didn't slow, didn't deflect. It simply punched a clean, precise hole straight through the dummy's magically reinforced chest plate, embedding itself deep in the wall behind.
Duke Alaric felt a jolt of raw, almost terrifying understanding. He'd witnessed countless magical battles, seen powerful spells expended against similar wards. Nothing, not even a high-tier offensive spell, could achieve such a clean, effortless penetration. This wasn't magic. This was pure, unadulterated force. It was efficient, devastating, and entirely outside the magical paradigm that governed their world's warfare.
General Thorne let out a low whistle, his face a mask of shock. "By the Sage's beard… it just… went through."
Alaric's eyes narrowed, a cold, calculating fire igniting within them. This wasn't just a weapon; it was a revolution. And with this power, his son – his non-magical son – could reshape their nation's destiny. He knew then, with absolute certainty, that he needed more than influence; he needed unassailable power to protect Elian and unleash his full potential without the fear of public sentiment or political obstruction. The King's throne was the only path.
A Difficult Conversation:
Later that night, in the concealed chamber beneath the grand library, Duke Alaric paced before his trusted advisors and General Thorne. The mana-projected map of border skirmishes now seemed dimmer, overshadowed by the stark new reality he had witnessed.
"The Vresta Empire's advances are relentless," General Thorne stated, his voice grim. "Our mana reserves dwindle with every skirmish. Even with our new mana-efficient barriers, it's a war of attrition we cannot win in the long run."
Duke Alaric stopped, turning to face them. "Indeed. But a new variable is about to enter the equation. One that changes everything." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "We must take the throne."
A collective gasp filled the chamber. An elderly advisor, Master Hemlock, stepped forward, his face etched with disbelief. "Alaric, what are you saying? The King… he is your friend! You have stood by him for decades, through every crisis. This is… betrayal."
The Duke's gaze hardened, though a flicker of pain crossed his features. "Friendship, Hemlock, will not save our people from the Empire's hunger, nor from the slow death of mana depletion. I have seen what Elian's ingenuity can accomplish. It is a power this nation desperately needs to embrace, but the King's court, steeped in tradition, will never accept it openly. They will resist, they will dither, and by then, it will be too late."
"But the King is a good man!" Hemlock insisted, his voice rising. "He has led us honorably."
"Honor will not stop bullets, Master Hemlock," Alaric retorted, his voice sharp with conviction. "Nor will it refill our depleted mana stones. The King, for all his goodwill, is bound by a dogma that will be our undoing. His advisors, the old guard, they cannot comprehend a world without magic at its core. This new technology… it would be dismissed, perhaps even feared, if presented too openly. It would fracture the nation before the Empire even reaches our gates."
General Thorne, his expression solemn, stepped beside the Duke. "Hemlock, I saw it with my own eyes. A single shot. No mana involved. It bypassed a standard ward as if it were air. It is… terrifying. And necessary."
"So you would plunge us into civil war?" Hemlock asked, his voice trembling. "Brother against brother, for a theoretical future?"
Duke Alaric met his gaze, his resolve unyielding. "There is no other way, Master Hemlock. If we do not make this radical change, if we do not unify under a leadership capable of wielding this new era, then the Vresta Empire will tear us apart piece by bloody piece. This is not a choice of 'if,' but 'how.' And I will ensure it is done with the least bloodshed, and the most decisive outcome."
He thought of Elian, meticulously grinding his strange powders, soldering intricate metal tubes. His son was building a revolution, piece by painstaking piece. And the Duke, a loyal friend to the King despite the agonizing path he was about to tread, would prepare the stage, sweeping away the old order so that Elian's genius could truly flourish, forging a future not just for their nation, but perhaps, for the entire world. The clock was ticking, and the Vresta Empire drew closer with every dwindling speck of mana.