Laos Territory — Forward Training Grounds
Two Months Later
The ground had been churned into a patchwork of mud, timber, and sweat.
What had once been open land was now something else entirely.
A half-born battlefield.
Trenches cut deep like open wounds. Embankments rose unevenly. Barricades—some crude, some refined—stretched across the field like scars that refused to heal. Stakes jutted upward in jagged lines. Iron plates screeched as they were dragged into position. Smoke curled from distant pits where something new—and dangerous—was always being tested.
Masen stood at the center of it all.
And he was furious.
"FASTER, YOU DEAD-ARMED DONKEYS!"
His voice cracked across the field like artillery fire.
A group of soldiers struggled to raise a timber wall, slipping in the mud as they tried to anchor supports.
"That's not a barricade!" Masen barked, striding forward. "That's a suggestion! If a crawler breathes on it, it'll collapse out of embarrassment!"
He kicked a support.
It gave instantly.
The soldiers flinched.
"Again!" he snapped. "And this time, build it like you intend to live behind it!"
From a raised wooden platform—
Logos watched.
Still.
Silent.
Beside him stood Bal, arms crossed, his gaze moving between the chaos below and the boy beside him.
"They're improving," Bal said after a moment.
Logos didn't answer immediately.
His eyes never stayed in one place.
Every movement.
Every hesitation.
Every inefficiency—
Recorded.
"Not fast enough."
Bal exhaled.
"They're not machines."
"They will behave like them under pressure," Logos replied. "Or they will die."
Below—
Masen drove a shovel into the ground himself, mud splattering up his legs.
"Spacing!" he barked. "You leave gaps like this, you're not building defenses—you're building graves!"
He pointed sharply.
"You! Reinforce the rear! You think enemies only come from the front?!"
Nearby, a cannon crew struggled to reposition their piece in the thick mud.
Masen turned instantly.
"And you lot! If that gun takes more than thirty seconds to move, I'll bury you under it myself!"
Bal shook his head slightly.
"He's enjoying this."
Further down—
Desax moved through the infantry lines.
Calm.
Precise.
He adjusted a soldier's stance with two fingers.
"Angle," he said. "If you aren't accurate, you die first."
Another soldier fumbled a reload.
Desax stopped him.
"Again."
No shouting.
No anger.
Just inevitability.
Logos watched.
"They've adapted," Bal said.
"Considering the weapons are unfamiliar," Logos replied, "they are performing adequately."
Bal gave him a look.
"That's generous. These rifles are twice the weight of standard issue."
"They are also twice as lethal."
A pause.
Bal didn't argue.
Because that part was true.
Logos shifted his attention again.
"How is Kleber progressing?"
Bal tapped his arm lightly.
"He's shortlisted five hundred. Struggling with the rest."
"Why?"
"He doesn't want to rely on strangers," Bal said. "Says you'll hang his head if they fail."
Logos considered that.
"That was before I told him about your… other designs."
Logos didn't react.
"Why not recruit those he trusts?" he asked.
Bal shook his head.
"Kleber didn't join the army out of loyalty. He joined to survive. Most of the people he knows—"
He gestured faintly toward the training field.
"—are friends. Not soldiers."
Logos nodded once.
"I see."
He turned back toward the chaos below.
"Tell him he has three months to complete selection."
Bal sighed.
"And the unit name?"
"Change it."
Bal raised a brow.
"The 'Black Death'?"
"Yes."
"…May I ask why?"
Logos answered plainly.
"My personal guard believes I might kill them."
Bal stared.
Then nodded slowly.
"…That's fair."
"I consider it… a negative signal."
Bal huffed.
"Understatement."
Laos Territory — Industrial District
The moment Logos stepped out of the carriage—
The world changed.
Heat struck first.
Then smell.
Metal.
Smoke.
Oil.
Chemicals.
Sound followed last.
Hammering.
Grinding.
The hiss of steam.
The roar of furnaces.
A living machine.
Logos inhaled deeply.
Almost content.
Bal immediately covered his nose.
"How do you remain normal in this?"
Logos didn't answer.
Before them—
The industrial district rose like a monument to will.
Chimneys pierced the sky, bleeding black smoke into the air. Foundries glowed from within like molten hearts. Workshops spread outward in rigid order. Sparks flew like swarms of fireflies trapped in iron cages.
Men moved everywhere.
Working.
Carrying.
Building.
A territory transforming into something else.
Something sharper.
"My lord," Bal said quietly, "how large do you intend to make this?"
Logos looked out across it.
Not impressed.
Not overwhelmed.
Just… measuring.
"As large as my aspirations."
Bal didn't ask further.
Because that answer—
Was enough.
"My lord!"
A man rushed forward, wiping soot from his hands as he bowed quickly.
"My apologies for the delay!"
"No need," Logos replied. "I have just arrived."
"Yes, my lord."
Logos studied him briefly.
"You have a question."
The man hesitated.
Then nodded.
"…We still don't understand why you had us manufacture those parts."
Logos began walking.
"You will today."
Bal followed.
Uneasy.
Because whenever Logos said that—
It meant something new was about to exist.
Capital of Gab — IrasVal
Royal Palace — War Council Chamber
Sous stood at the entrance.
The doors loomed behind him.
The chamber beyond—
Heavier than any battlefield.
Here—
Wars weren't fought.
They were decided.
Before blood was ever spilled.
Nobles gathered in clusters.
Whispers passed like knives hidden in silk.
Generals spoke in low, controlled tones.
Advisors moved like shadows, always present, never noticed.
Every glance carried weight.
Every silence—
Judgment.
"Straighten up," Solar said quietly beside him.
"Father."
"Don't stare," Solar added. "It makes you look uncertain."
Sous smiled faintly.
"Most of them don't want me here."
"And what do you plan to do about it?" Solar asked.
Sous's eyes sharpened.
The warmth vanished.
Replaced by something harder.
"Prove them wrong."
Solar watched him for a moment.
Then nodded once.
"Good."
The doors opened.
The murmur inside shifted.
Attention moved.
Eyes turned.
Some curious.
Some calculating.
Some hostile.
Sous stepped forward.
Into the room.
Into the war that had already begun—
Without a single blade drawn.
And far away—
In a land of smoke and iron—
Another kind of war was being prepared.
Not of honor.
Not of glory.
But of inevitability.
And when those two forces met—
The world would decide—
Which shape of victory it would accept.