Laos Territory — Testing Yard
The crate hit the ground with a dull, heavy thud.
Dust rose in a slow, lazy cloud, drifting through the morning air before settling over boots, armor, and iron alike.
The soldiers nearby tried not to stare.
Tried—
—and failed.
Whispers lingered.
Not loud enough to be called insubordination.
Not quiet enough to be ignored.
"…that thing earlier…"
"…it didn't even move…"
"…he spoke and it died…"
Masen leaned against his cannon again, watching Logos and Bal approach, the faintest grin tugging at his lips.
"My lord," he drawled, "you should really loosen restrictions in that workshop. Hauling things out yourself every time isn't exactly… dignified."
"And risk damaging sensitive material?" Logos replied without looking at him.
"No."
He stepped toward the crate, brushing dust from his gloves with deliberate care.
Masen nudged Bal with his elbow.
"So," he said, lowering his voice just enough that everyone could still hear, "did he tell you what the hell that spell was?"
Bal didn't smile.
"I just found out Dirk Von actually existed."
Masen froze.
Then burst out laughing.
The sound cracked through the tension like a thrown stone through glass.
A few soldiers joined him.
Too quickly.
Too eagerly.
Relief disguised as humor.
"Alright," Masen said between laughs, "I get people are spooked, but you don't need to start telling ghost stories."
Bal didn't laugh.
Masen noticed.
The laughter died quicker than it should have.
"…You're serious?"
Bal nodded once.
"Lucy confirmed it."
That did it.
Masen straightened.
"You're joking."
Lucy spoke before the moment could stretch further.
Calm.
Firm.
"The first senior scholar you meet will usually tell that story as a test," she said. "I made sure to purge anything remotely similar from Laos records—for this exact reason."
Her gaze shifted to Logos.
"How he found it is… another problem."
"You can think about that later," Logos said.
Desax's voice cut in.
"My lord… is that a nail?"
Everyone looked.
A massive iron spike protruded from the crate, angled slightly upward, thick as a man's forearm and long enough to skewer a horse.
Logos tilted his head.
"Why would I need a nail the size of my arm?" he asked.
A pause.
"For hammering egos?"
Silence.
No one reacted.
Logos looked between them.
"…Was that not humorous?"
Masen blinked.
"…You were making a joke?"
"Yes."
Bal exhaled.
"…Needs work, my lord."
"Noted."
Logos gestured.
"Rotate the crate. Align the spike toward the corpse."
The soldiers obeyed immediately.
Chains clinked.
Boots shifted.
The heavy crate groaned as it turned.
"Now," Logos said, "carry it back… one hundred and fifty steps."
They did.
Each step measured.
Each movement careful.
The yard stretched around them—scarred earth, scorched patches, the faint metallic scent of previous tests still hanging in the air.
Logos reached into his coat and removed a small component.
A compact piece of metal etched with fine runic lines.
He slotted it into the mechanism.
Then—
He pulled a pin.
Nothing happened.
For a breath.
Then—
A low hum began.
Deep.
Vibrating.
Unnatural.
The kind of sound that didn't travel through the air—
—but through bone.
Several soldiers instinctively stepped back.
Masen's grin faded slightly.
Bal narrowed his eyes.
Then—
THUNK.
The spike launched.
Not like a projectile.
Not like a weapon.
Like something being released.
It tore through the air faster than an arrow—
—and mid-flight—
It ignited.
White fire erupted along its length.
Not orange.
Not red.
White.
Blinding.
Violent.
A streak of burning metal carved across the yard with a scream like boiling iron.
Heat followed.
A wave.
Rolling outward.
The ground blackened in its wake.
Grass shriveled.
Soil cracked.
Even the air shimmered, distorted by the sudden surge of temperature.
The spike struck.
The impact wasn't explosive.
It was worse.
It consumed.
Flame spread outward in a tight radius, clinging to the ground like something alive before slowly dying down, leaving behind nothing but charred earth.
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Pressing.
"The blend could use more ferocity," Logos remarked.
Bal stared at the scorched path.
"…Why?"
"This is enough to erase infantry."
"It cannot be fired instantly," Logos replied. "After loading, it requires time. The mixture must compensate—area denial."
He looked at the weapon.
"It is a defensive armament."
Bal crossed his arms.
"…And this is the less dangerous version?"
"Of what?" Logos asked.
Bal gestured vaguely.
"…That."
Logos glanced briefly toward the remnants of earlier designs.
"I believe you misunderstand."
He pointed to the scorched ground.
"That was intended as the first move."
Then he gestured toward the crate.
"This is for those who resist."
His tone didn't change.
Didn't harden.
Didn't soften.
"I am not foolish enough to wager everything on a single method."
He looked around at all of them.
At the soldiers.
At Bal.
At Masen.
At Desax.
"These were meant to be deployed together."
A pause.
"But," he added, "there were objections."
Without hesitation—
He picked up the remaining design sheets.
And tore them.
Clean.
Deliberate.
Paper split.
Edges curled.
Fragments fell to the ground like ash.
"Now we are limited."
He looked at them again.
"Understand this."
His voice didn't rise.
But it pressed.
"This will cost us."
No one spoke.
Because they understood.
Desax stepped forward.
"My lord."
Logos turned his gaze to him.
"If we must compensate with manpower and discipline," Desax said, "then we will."
His posture was straight.
Unyielding.
"But I would rather fight a harder war," he continued quietly,
"than win one we no longer recognize."
The words settled.
Not like a challenge.
Like a line drawn.
Even Masen didn't joke.
Even Bal didn't interrupt.
The soldiers stood still.
Listening.
Logos studied Desax.
Long.
Carefully.
"You would rather plant your feet," Logos said slowly,
"risk your lives—"
A slight tilt of his head.
"—than take an easier victory…"
His eyes sharpened.
"…simply because your enemy suffers?"
No one answered immediately.
Because the question wasn't simple.
Because the answer wasn't clean.
Because Logos wasn't entirely wrong.
And that—
was the problem.
The wind moved faintly across the yard.
Ash stirred.
The scorched earth still smoked.
And somewhere between logic and conviction—
Between survival and humanity—
A choice had been made.
Whether it would hold—
Was another matter entirely.