Thick, foul-smelling black mud sucked at the heavy leather soles of William's boots with every step, making a wet, disgusting sound that reminded him of a flooded swamp.
Walking down the crooked main street of Border Town's outer slums, William pulled the rough wool collar of his newly borrowed cloak up over his nose, wincing as the sour stench of rotten cabbage, damp woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, and open sewage hit him full in the face.
Motherfucking Middle Ages, William cursed inside his head, grinding his teeth as he hopped over a puddle of questionable yellow liquid. Every single fantasy book and movie ever made Conveniently forgets to mention that the glorious era of knights and princesses smells entirely like horse shit and despair!
His mission that morning hadn't been handed down by an official royal scroll, but rather by a quiet three-way agreement between himself, Arthur, and Prince Roland.
If Border Town was going to hold the line against the Months of Demons in ninety days, they needed an army — and an army needed a field commander who actually knew the forest.
Right now, back inside the gray walls of the castle, Roland was locked in his study drafting the blueprints for the first batch of flintlock muskets and calculating the layout of the southern cement wall. Arthur, the relentless strategist of the group, was buried knee-deep in supply maps and Willow Town grain contracts to make sure the city didn't starve before the first snow fell.
That left William — the combat and physical specialist of the trio — with the job of going down into the mud to recruit their front-line manpower.
More specifically, he was hunting for a needle in a haystack. They didn't just need any loudmouthed mercenary or retired town guard; they needed Iron Axe.
Thanks to the complete metaknowledge they had brought from Earth, William knew that the deadliest tracker, archer, and wilderness survivor in all of Graycastle was currently rotting away in the poorest corner of Border Town, treated like an outcast simply because he carried the blood of the Sand Nation — a Mojin.
Stopping in the middle of the muddy market square, beside an overturned wooden handcart with a broken wheel, William crossed his arms and scanned the crowd.
The peasants shuffling past him looked like walking shadows. Their backs were permanently hunched from hauling ore in the low tunnels of the North Slope Mine, their faces hollow from hunger, and their eyes dull beneath layers of coal dust. Whenever one of them noticed William's tall, muscular frame, clean skin, and well-fed posture, they immediately flinched and bowed their heads, mistaking him for some dangerous foreign noble or hired killer.
Spotting a rotting wooden stall propped up against a half-collapsed mud wall, William walked over.
Behind the plank counter stood a skinny, toothless old man trying to sell half a dozen skinned squirrels that looked like dried rats, alongside a pile of muddy turnip roots. As William's broad shadow fell completely over the stall, blocking out the pale morning sunlight, the vendor shrank back in fear.
— "What's up, boss!" — William began, forcing his voice into a friendly, casual tone that still sounded remarkably deep and intimidating in the quiet alley. — "I'm looking for a guy around here. Really tall, way broader in the shoulders than the locals. Likes to hunt in the southern woods. Has dark bronze skin and facial features from the far south. A Mojin."
The nervous, submissive smile on the toothless vendor's face vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by an ugly grimace of pure disgust.
Ptui!
The old peasant spat a glob of brown phlegm onto the mud right next to the tip of William's boot.
— "A sand dog, you mean, milord?" — the vendor rasped, curling his lip in contempt. — "Why would a fine gentleman like yourself go looking for desert trash? Those filthy savages don't even deserve to breathe the same air as honest men of Graycastle! All they bring to our town is bad luck and disease!"
A muscle twitched sharply in William's jaw.
Human ignorance really is a universal constant, no matter what century or universe you drop into, William thought coldly.
Without saying a word, William leaned forward and slammed both of his large palms flat onto the rotting wooden counter.
CRACK!
Backed by his strength and musculature, the thick pine board groaned and splintered down the middle under his weight, nearly collapsing the entire stall into the mud. William leaned in until his face was five inches from the old man's nose, his dark eyes narrowing into cold, dangerous slits.
— Hey, dickhead... are you deaf, or just stupid?" — William whispered, his voice dropping the friendly act completely. — "I didn't ask for your commentary on border immigration. I asked you where the guy lives. Think very carefully before you answer, because I am having a busy morning and I have zero patience for a worthless merchant like you."
All the color drained from the vendor's face as he stared into the eyes of a man who could clearly snap his neck like a dry chicken bone.
— "I—I don't know his exact shack, milord, I swear!" — the old man stammered, raising his trembling hands in terror. — "B-but none of the landlords in town rent rooms to his kind! Those southern bastards always camp out on the far western edge of the slums, right past the old cemetery where the forest starts!"
William straightened back up, letting out a short breath through his nose without showing his teeth. Reaching into his belt pouch, he flicked a single copper coin through the air, letting it land squarely on top of the dead squirrels.
— "See? That wasn't so hard," — William said flatly.
Turning his back on the shaking merchant, William strode westward toward the edge of town, his heavy boots splashing through the freezing puddles.
This is going to be a massive headache, William thought, rolling his shoulders as he walked past rows of crooked shacks. Roland's new militia is going to be recruited straight out of this superstitious peasant population. If these idiots hate Mojins so much that they spit on the ground just hearing their name, the moment the first Demonic Beast roars at the wall, half the squad is going to panic or stab Iron Axe in the back instead of holding the line. We're going to have to beat that prejudice out of their skulls during basic training.
.
.
.
As William left the crowded alleys behind and approached the western boundary of Border Town, the rotting wooden shacks thinned out, giving way to mud-walled hovels and finally to the dark, towering treeline of the southern forest.
Here, the wind coming off the mountains howled much louder through the bare, twisted branches of the dead trees near the old graveyard.
Just thirty meters past the last row of graves, standing completely isolated in a muddy clearing surrounded by pine trees, stood a small, neatly patched wooden cabin.
And right out front, in the middle of the clearing, stood the man himself.
Even from thirty meters away, Iron Axe looked exactly as imposing as the story described. He was a true giant compared to the malnourished locals — easily pushing two meters in height, with shoulders as wide as a double doorway, skin weathered to a deep bronze by the desert sun of his homeland, and a head shaved clean along the sides, leaving a thick braid of dark hair down the back. Faded blue tribal tattoos curled up from beneath his leather vest along his thick neck and muscular forearms.
THWACK!
Swinging a heavy, two-handed iron woodcutter's axe overhead, the Mojin warrior brought the blade down onto a thick oak log resting on the chopping block.
The solid hardwood split cleanly in half with a single, effortless strike, the two pieces flying into the mud without the giant even breathing hard.
Flawless body mechanics, William analyzed immediately, his fighter's eyes tracking the kinetic chain of the movement. He isn't just swinging with his arm muscles like a dumb brute; he's driving the force straight up from his planted heels, rotating his hips, and locking his core at the exact moment of impact. That guy isn't a simple deer hunter — he's a battlefield veteran who knows how to kill efficiently.
Instead of sneaking up through the trees, William walked straight into the clearing, purposefully letting his boots crunch loudly against the gravel and frozen mud. Trying to surprise a wild wolf holding a two-handed axe was a bad way to start a job interview.
When William was precisely ten paces away, Iron Axe froze.
The giant didn't spin around in panic, yet every muscle across his broad back coiled instantly, like a predator ready to spring. Slowly, deliberately, Iron Axe lowered the heavy blade of his axe until it rested against the chopping block, then turned his head over his shoulder, fixing his dark, piercing eyes squarely on the newcomer.
It was the guarded, weary stare of an exile who was used to local thugs coming to throw stones or pick a fight.
— "You are a very long way from the paved streets of the inner town, sir," — Iron Axe said, his voice deep, gravelly, and carrying the distinct, rolling accent of the southern sands. — "If you walked out here looking to buy winter furs, I sold my last bundle yesterday. And if you came looking to settle a grudge against the Sand Nation... I suggest you go back and bring at least five more men."
William let out a short, genuine laugh, stopping at a respectful eight paces and crossing his arms loosely over his chest while keeping his center of gravity balanced.
— "PFFTTT HAHAHAHA!!! Believe me, big guy, I haven't had a good laugh since I stepped into that muddy market ten minutes ago," — William said, grinning openly. — "If I wanted a fight, I wouldn't bother bringing five guys to get in my way. Relax, brother, I come in peace."
William gestured with his chin toward the heavy woodcutter's axe resting on the block:
— "Clean form on that swing, by the way. Great hip rotation," — William added, dropping into a more professional tone. — "Though it's a waste of talent using that kind of coordination to chop firewood. My name is William. As of this morning, I'm the new chief military instructor up at the castle."
Iron Axe's dark eyes narrowed slightly, his grip not leaving the hickory handle of his axe as he studied William's modern black shirt, borrowed cloak, and balanced stance.
— "A military instructor from the castle," — the Mojin repeated slowly, suspicion dripping from every word. — "The nobles of Graycastle usually cross to the other side of the street just to avoid stepping on my shadow. What business could a man of the castle possibly have with a Mojin?"
— "Straight to the point," — William uncrossed his arms and took a single step closer, his playful grin vanishing into an expression of dead seriousness. — "Tell me something, Iron Axe. Hasn't your life in this town been a pile of dog shit up until today?"
Iron Axe's jaw tightened noticeably, his knuckles whitening on the axe handle.
— "You have the reflexes, the discipline, and the combat instincts of an elite clan warrior," — William continued, ignoring the warning look in the giant's eyes. — "Yet here you are, living in a drafty shack next to a graveyard, scraping by on half-rotten meat and selling furs to crooked merchants who pay you a third of their worth just because your skin is darker than theirs. You're treated like a mangy stray dog by starving peasants who wouldn't last five minutes against you in those woods."
— "Watch your tongue, foreigner," — Iron Axe growled low in his throat, the heavy blade of his axe lifting an inch off the wooden block. — "I have very little patience for the sermons of east lords."
— "First off, I'm not a lord. And second, I'm not giving you a sermon — I'm stating the facts," — William shot back without blinking. — "You're stuck in a dead-end hole, and I walked out here today to bring you a way out. His Royal Highness, Prince Roland Wimbledon, wants to see you at the castle. Right now."
For five full seconds, the only sound in the clearing was the cold autumn wind whistling through the pine needles.
Iron Axe blinked once, his fierce expression freezing as his brain tried to process the sheer absurdity of that sentence.
— "The Fourth Prince?" — Iron Axe asked, looking at William as if the man were completely crazy. — "The royal prince who spends his days drinking wine in his hall wants to speak with a refugee from the Sand Nation? Why? Did someone steal a silver goblet from his kitchen and he needs a convenient outsider to hang at the gallows? Or does he want a live moving target for his knights' archery practice?"
x'DDDD, yeah, the original Roland really left one hell of a reputation behind, William thought dryly, shaking his head.
— "Forget whatever you heard about the Fourth Prince last month; things inside that castle have changed completely over the past week," — William said firmly. — "Prince Roland isn't the spoiled brat the rumors talk about. He is building a brand-new army from the ground up to defend this town against the Months of Demons. And in this new army, shiny family crests, noble last names, and steel broadswords don't mean a damn thing."
William pointed a finger straight at Iron Axe's chest:
— "Roland doesn't care where you were born, what color your skin is, or which desert god you pray to at night," — William stated. — "He cares about two things: whether you can follow orders under fire, and whether you can shoot straighter than the man next to you. My partner told him you're the best hunter and marksman in Border Town. That's why I'm here."
Iron Axe stood completely still, his suspicious gaze locked onto William's eyes, searching for any trace of a trap or noble mockery.
— "And why on earth should I believe the word of a stranger?" — the Mojin asked quietly.
William offered a short, pragmatic smirk — the look of one fighter speaking to another.
— "Because I walked out here completely alone, without a single castle guard at my back," — William replied simply. — "And because if you stay in this shack when the snow starts falling, you're either going to freeze to death, starve, or get torn to pieces by demonic wolves. You're a warrior, Iron Axe. Deep down, you know chopping firewood for peasants is an insult to your skills. Walk up to the castle with me for thirty minutes. Hear what the Prince has to say. If you don't like the offer, you can turn around and walk right back to this luxury cabin of yours."
Iron Axe didn't answer immediately.
He turned his head and looked at his small, patched wooden shack, then down at the freezing mud around his boots, and finally up toward the dark peaks of the Impassable Mountain Range in the north. As a veteran hunter, he had already noticed the birds fleeing south earlier than usual; the winter was coming fast, and the beasts in the deep woods were already growing restless.
He had nothing left to lose in this world except his own life — and out here on the edge of the graveyard, even that wasn't worth much.
Letting out a low, resigned grunt through his nose, Iron Axe left the woodcutter's axe stuck in the chopping block. Walking over to the small porch of his cabin, he picked up his heavy recurve bow and a quiver of iron-tipped arrows, slinging them across his broad back.
— "Lead the way, instructor," — Iron Axe said.
.
.
.
The twenty-minute walk back from the western slums up to the castle hill was completed in total silence.
Walking half a pace ahead, William used his peripheral vision to observe how the giant Mojin moved. Despite weighing easily over a hundred kilograms of solid muscle, Iron Axe walked with an almost eerie lightness — rolling his weight smoothly from heel to toe, keeping his knees slightly bent, and automatically scanning every high roofline and narrow alley corner for ambushes.
Total spatial awareness, William noted with an inward smile. This guy is going to be the backbone of our infantry.
When the two of them finally crossed under the heavy iron portcullis of the castle gate, Iron Axe's broad shoulders tensed visibly.
The local town guards standing watch by the gatehouse immediately curled their lips in disgust at the sight of a Mojin entering the royal grounds, their hands tightening on their spears. William didn't even need to speak; he simply turned his head and shot the two guards a look of such cold, murderous warning that both men immediately looked down at their boots and pretended to inspect their spear shafts.
Leading the hunter up the stone stairs to the second floor, William didn't bother knocking; he pushed open the heavy oak door of the Prince's study and stepped inside.
The inside of the office looked less like a royal chamber and more like an engineering workshop after a tornado.
Rolls of parchment covered in geometric drawings were scattered across the carpet, the smell of fresh charcoal ink hung thick in the air, and over by the fireplace table, Roland was hunched over a complex mechanical blueprint alongside Arthur, who was holding a makeshift wooden ruler while the two of them argued about the brittle cast iron produced by the local blacksmiths.
At the sound of the door opening, both Roland and Arthur looked up.
— "Found the missing piece for our new army, Your Highness," — William announced with a loud, triumphant grin, stepping aside to let the massive, two-meter silhouette of Iron Axe fill the doorway.
Stepping across the threshold, the warrior of the Sand Nation widened his dark eyes slightly in surprise.
He had braced himself to walk into an opulent hall filled with silk pillows, spilled wine, and arrogant nobles laughing at his clothes. Instead, he was looking at a prince with dark circles under his eyes, his royal sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his fingers stained black with charcoal dust, and his gaze burning with the sharp, focused intensity of a master craftsman building a war machine.
Roland immediately set his charcoal pencil down, walked around the oak desk without caring about the papers falling to the floor, and stopped right in front of the hunter.
The prince's gray eyes measured the Mojin's height, his broad frame, and the heavy recurve bow slung across his back, remembering every word Arthur and William had told him about building a modern officer corps based purely on merit.
— "You are Iron Axe," — Roland stated, his voice calm, direct, and carrying natural authority.
Feeling the weight of that unblinking gaze, Iron Axe stiffened and dropped his right hand to his chest, bowing his head in the traditional salute of his southern people.
— "I am, Your Highness," — Iron Axe replied respectfully. — "Though I still do not understand what a prince of Graycastle requires from an exile of the sands."
Roland crossed his arms, leaning back slightly against the edge of his oak desk.
— "What I require, Iron Axe, is simple: survival," — Roland said plainly. — "And for Border Town to survive the coming Months of Demons without running away like beggars, I have no use for noble titles or outdated prejudices. I only care about efficiency. William tells me you possess tactical instincts, unmatched marksmanship, and the discipline of a veteran who knows how to fight through pain."
Stepping over to a side table near the wall, Roland reached out and pulled back a rough linen cloth covering a long, strange object.
Picking it up with both hands, Roland walked back and held it out toward the hunter.
It was a thick, seamless tube of dark iron forged with Anna's high-temperature fire, fitted into a crudely carved stock of solid oak with a curved metal trigger mechanism and a flint clamp on the side — the very first functional prototype of a muzzle-loading flintlock musket.
Over by the fireplace, Arthur watched the exchange with a quiet, satisfied smile, knowing they were looking at a turning point in the continent's military history.
— "You have spent your whole life mastering the blade, the spear, and the recurve bow," — Roland said, placing the heavy iron-and-wood contraption directly into Iron Axe's large, calloused hands. — "Take a good look at this, and then forget everything you know about those old weapons."
Iron Axe held the strange object carefully, his brow furrowing in confusion as he felt its forward-heavy balance, the cold precision of the bored iron barrel, and the rough wooden grip that had no bowstring or blade.
— "What... is this tool, Your Highness? A club?" — Iron Axe asked hesitantly.
— "Come to the balcony window and see for yourself," — William grinned, walking over and pushing open the wooden shutters that overlooked the empty back training yard of the castle.
Down below, propped up against a dirt mound twenty-five paces away from the second-floor window, William had already set up a wooden post wearing a confiscated iron breastplate from the town guard's armory.
Roland stepped up beside Iron Axe, took the musket back for a second, primed the pan with a pinch of fine black powder from a small horn, and pulled the flint hammer back with two sharp metallic clicks.
— "Watch the armor plate down there," — Roland instructed, raising the wooden stock firmly against his shoulder and aiming down the barrel.
Iron Axe leaned out the window slightly, squinting at the iron breastplate twenty-five paces away. Even with his heavy recurve bow, at that angle and distance, an iron-tipped arrow would merely glance off the curved metal chest piece with a scratch.
Roland pulled the trigger.
CLACK—BOOM!
A blinding flash of orange fire and a deafening roar like a thunderclap erupted right beside Iron Axe's ear, filling the study with a thick cloud of acrid white smoke that smelled strongly of sulfur.
Down in the yard, in the exact same instant the thunder echoed off the stone walls, the iron breastplate violently jerked backward on its wooden post. Right in the center of the chest piece was a jagged, smoking hole the size of a man's thumb — punched straight through the solid iron and three inches deep into the oak post behind it!
For the first time since William had met him, Iron Axe's stoic mask completely shattered.
The giant warrior took half a step back from the window, his eyes wide with sheer, primal shock as he looked from the smoking hole in the armor down below to the dark iron tube in Roland's hands.
— "By the ancestors of the sands..." — Iron Axe breathed out, his voice barely a whisper. — "No bowstring... no magic... and it pierced solid armor faster than the eye could follow!"
— "In the next two months, I am going to assemble a militia made up of miners, farmers, and hunters who barely know how to hold a shield," — Roland said, lowering the smoking musket and looking straight up into the giant's stunned eyes. — "It takes ten years of noble training to make a knight with a sword, and five years of muscle growth to make an archer like you. With this weapon, I can teach a starving miner to punch a hole through a demonic wolf in two weeks."
Roland stepped closer, closing the distance until he was standing right in front of the tall warrior:
— "However, even the deadliest weapon in the world is useless if the man holding it drops it and runs the moment a monster charges at the wall," — Roland continued, his voice ringing with steel. — "Firearms require absolute iron discipline, synchronized reloading, and the nerve to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in a line of smoke and fire. I do not need knights in shining armor, Iron Axe. I need a Deputy Commander to stand beside William. I need a veteran who knows the beasts of the forest and can drill discipline into a raw militia when chaos breaks loose. Will you take the post?"
A heavy, profound silence fell over the smoke-filled office.
Iron Axe stared down at the cold iron barrel of the musket that Roland pressed back into his hands, then looked over at William — who gave him a firm, welcoming nod — and finally back at the young prince of Graycastle.
He, a despised "sand dog" who had spent years living in the mud outside the town walls, was not only being shown the greatest military secret in the kingdom, but was being asked to command its soldiers.
Inside the giant's chest, an emotion that had been buried under years of exile, hunger, and humiliation suddenly flared back to life like a roaring fire: Honor. Purpose.
Moving with solemn deliberation, Iron Axe stepped back, dropped onto one knee on the stone floor with a heavy thud, rested his right fist against the stock of the musket, and bowed his head low before the prince — not out of fear or forced submission, but out of genuine, unbreakable loyalty.
— "My life and my blood are yours to command, Your Highness," — Iron Axe vowed, his deep voice echoing through the room. — "If you do not mind the blood of the Sand Nation standing in your ranks, I will help Instructor William mold those miners and farmers into the deadliest wall of fire this kingdom has ever seen."
Over by the window, William let out a sharp, victorious whistle and clapped his hands together once, breaking the heavy solemnity with a massive grin.
— "Now that is what I'm talking about!" — William laughed, walking over and slapping a heavy hand onto Iron Axe's broad shoulder. — "Get up off the floor, Deputy Commander! Pull up a chair by the map table, because we're on the clock — and you're going to tell us everything you know about how these Demonic Beasts fight!"