"You said you needed n," Thorne repeated, stroking his beard. "What for exactly? Another incursion? Another Rift operation? Because if that’s the case, we’ll need weeks to find talent again. We’ve only just patched up from the last—"
"No," Inigo interrupted. "Not a raid. Not yet."
Thorne narrowed his eyes. "Then for what purpose?"
"To train them."
Thorne raised a brow. "Train them? You an combat drills? Sparring? Swordplay?"
Inigo gave a small smile. "No. I’ll show you."
The Guildmaster leaned back slowly, his arms crossing. "You’ve got curious now, boy. But if you’re asking for n from my ranks, you’ll need more than mystery to convince ."
"I don’t need veterans. I don’t even need adventurers. I need anyone willing to learn. n who can follow orders and aim straight."
"And that’s it?"
"For now."
Thorne chuckled, shaking his head. "You’re the strangest lad I’ve ever t, Inigo. But after what you’ve done... you’ll get your n."
Seven days later, under the open blue sky at the edge of Elandra, a wide forest clearing had been cordoned off by ropes and makeshift barricades. A wooden platform overlooked the field, where stacked crates of military hardware stood like a mismatched fortress—each one a sealed promise of modern warfare in a dieval world.
Inigo stood before twenty volunteers—n and won from various walks of life. So were young, barely out of their teens. Others were burly carpenters, farrs, or washed-up rcenaries hoping for a second chance. A few held wooden swords. Most looked skeptical.
Guildmaster Thorne watched from a shaded chair beside the platform, arms folded, flanked by two senior adventurers.
"All right," Inigo called out. "I won’t waste your ti. I know so of you think this is a joke. Maybe you’re waiting for to hand you a sword or start a chant. But that’s not why you’re here."
He walked to a crate, undid the latches, and opened the lid.
Inside glead rows of sleek, dark gray pistols. Real steel. Modern.
He pulled one free—a M1911, fully loaded—and held it up for all to see.
"This," Inigo said, "is your sword."
A murmur spread across the clearing.
"It’s called an M1911. Semi-automatic. .45 caliber. Seven-round magazine. Single-action. Recoil-operated. Simple to maintain. Simple to kill with."
One of the n in the back, a tall blond with a crooked nose, raised a hand. "You’re saying that thing’s better than a crossbow?"
"I’m saying you could shoot through a man’s armor before he gets close enough to breathe on you," Inigo replied. "And reload in three seconds flat."
He tossed the pistol to the ground in front of them. "Co pick it up."
No one moved at first.
Then a stout woman stepped forward. She wore a blacksmith’s apron and had short, oily hair tied back.
"Na’s Brenna," she said. "I’ll try it."
She walked up, picked up the pistol, and looked at it uncertainly.
"Good. Now watch ."
Inigo retrieved another M1911 and, with practiced ease, ejected the magazine, locked the slide, and showed the chamber.
"Safety is here," he pointed. "You flick it down to fire. Squeeze the trigger slow—don’t yank it. You’ll pull your shot off target. Brace your arms, keep your feet planted, and always treat it like it’s loaded."
He handed her an empty mag. "Load it."
She fumbled a bit, her fingers stiff, but managed to slide the mag into the grip.
"Good. Now, take a deep breath, aim at that barrel over there—see it? Twenty ters. Hit it."
Brenna nodded, lifted the pistol with both hands, and fired.
The crack echoed through the trees.
The shot hit low, kicking up dirt a foot from the barrel.
"Better than I expected," Inigo said with a smile. "Again."
She fired again. This ti it clipped the rim.
The others began to step forward now—curiosity overriding doubt.
"Form a line!" Inigo barked. "One at a ti. You’ll each take five shots. I’ll watch every stance, every shot. Don’t be cocky."
One by one, they stepped up. So missed every shot. So grazed targets. A few surprised even themselves.
Inigo made notes on a small pad, his mind already categorizing who had potential and who needed heavy supervision.
An hour later, he switched crates.
This ti he opened one filled with M4 Carbines—modern assault rifles, clean and freshly oiled.
"Phase two," he said. "Now we learn how to kill from a distance."
Gasps and whispers spread among the group.
"These are your main weapons. Modular, dependable, and deadly," Inigo explained, holding one up. "30-round mags. 5.56 NATO. Effective range up to 500 ters for trained shooters. You’ll learn to maintain them, load them, and fire them accurately under pressure."
"Where’d all this co from?" one of the older n asked.
"Let’s just say," Inigo replied dryly, "I brought it from sowhere far away."
He spent the next two hours walking them through field-stripping, magazine swapping, aiming, and burst control. Then ca live fire practice—short, controlled bursts at designated targets.
A few were naturals.
Brenna turned out to have deadly instincts. A young man nad Feron had steady hands and unnerving patience. An ex-guard nad Hal took notes obsessively and asked about sight calibration.
Thorne watched from the sidelines, eyes narrowing. At one point, he whispered to his aide, "He’s building sothing. Not just a squad—he’s building an army."
By midday, Inigo called for a rest.
They sat beneath the shade, drinking from water canteens and wiping sweat from their brows. A few were already talking shop—comparing recoil, bragging about shot placent.
Inigo stood in front of them again.
"You all did well today. You’re not soldiers yet. But you will be. If you stay."
Soone raised a hand. "What’s this all for? The demons?"
"No," Inigo said, voice steady. "This is for us. For the kingdom. For every person who can’t fight back when the demons co knocking."
"And they will co," Thorne added, stepping forward. "Make no mistake."
Inigo nodded. "We’ll be ready."
Behind him, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the clearing.
But even in the gathering dark, those twenty trainees looked more alive than they had in years.
And Inigo—once an outsider, once alone—felt sothing stirring in his chest.
He was building sothing real.
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