Elias Vaeron's small hands trembled as he pressed himself against the cold stone wall, the faint glow of the Dominion Interface still burning in his vision. The words hovered like a ghost: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Primitive Musket. His mind, sharpened by years of war and engineering, raced to process the impossible. He was no longer in the rubble of a dying city, no longer the battle-hardened commander who'd stared down tanks and death. He was here, in this frail, unfamiliar body, in a world of swords and stone, with enemies closing in.
The thud of boots grew louder, echoing through the manor's crumbling halls. Shouts carried from the courtyard below—harsh, guttural orders barked in a language he instinctively understood, though it felt alien on his tongue. The crimson-cloaked man's words replayed in his head: "House Vaeron ends tonight." Elias's lips tightened. They thought they were hunting a helpless child. They were wrong.
He crept to the door of his sparse room, the straw mattress and chipped basin barely registering in his periphery. Every sense was tuned to survival. The interface pulsed again, its data crisp and demanding:
Territory Status: Critical. Defensive Forces: 14 militia, poorly equipped. Enemy Estimate: 50-60 soldiers, light cavalry, archers.
Command Tree: Tactics (Level 1) Unlocked. Recommendation: Assess resources, deploy defensive measures.
Elias's steel-gray eyes narrowed. Fifty men against fourteen. A manor that looked like it hadn't seen maintenance in decades. A body that could barely hold itself upright. He'd faced worse odds, but not like this—not as a six-year-old with lungs that burned from a single sprint across the room.
The musket blueprint flickered in his mind, a mental schematic so vivid it felt like a memory from his old life. A flintlock design, crude but functional: iron barrel, wooden stock, basic trigger mechanism. He'd built worse in his early days, cobbling together prototypes in makeshift workshops. But this world—where swords and bows ruled—had no concept of gunpowder. He'd need materials, tools, time. And time was something he didn't have.
A crash echoed from downstairs, followed by a scream—high-pitched, abruptly cut off. Elias's heart thudded, not with fear but with the cold clarity of necessity. He'd heard screams before, too many to count. Each one carved a scar on his soul, but they didn't break him. Not then, not now.
He slipped into the hallway, his bare feet silent on the cracked stone floor. The manor was a maze of decay: peeling tapestries, splintered beams, cobwebs thick as curtains. Moonlight spilled through broken windows, casting jagged shadows. He moved low, his small frame a shadow among shadows, guided by instincts honed in urban warfare. Every corner was a potential ambush, every sound a threat.
The interface pinged again, overlaying his vision with a map of the manor—rudimentary, but enough to show the layout. Three exits: the main hall, a servant's passage, and a collapsed tower. The enemy was already inside, their heat signatures clustering near the main entrance. Elias's mind churned. He needed a choke point, a way to funnel them. The grand staircase, narrow and winding, was his best bet.
He reached a balcony overlooking the main hall, crouching behind a rotting banister. Below, soldiers in leather armor tore through the room, overturning tables and smashing what little furniture remained. Their leader, the crimson-cloaked man, stood at the center, his face half-lit by a flickering torch. He was older, perhaps forty, with a scar slashing across his cheek and a sword at his hip that gleamed with menace. His voice was calm, almost bored, as he addressed his men.
"Search every room. The boy's sickly—can't have gone far. Kill anyone who resists."
Elias's fingers tightened into fists. They didn't know he was watching. Good. Surprise was his only advantage. He scanned the interface again, pulling up the manor's inventory: Resources: 12 iron ingots, 3 barrels of charcoal, 1 sack of sulfur, 4 carpenter's tools, 1 anvil. Enough to start something, but not enough to finish it. Not yet.
A memory flashed—his old life, mixing gunpowder in a field lab under artillery fire. The ratio was simple: 75% saltpeter, 15% charcoal, 10% sulfur. He didn't have saltpeter, but the interface marked a nearby storeroom with "alchemical supplies." If this world's alchemy was anything like his own, he might find what he needed.
He slipped back into the shadows, moving toward the servant's passage. The manor's corridors twisted like a labyrinth, but the interface guided him, its map updating with every step. He reached the storeroom, a cramped space filled with dusty crates and jars. His small hands fumbled, knocking over a clay pot that shattered on the floor. He froze, listening for footsteps. None came.
The interface highlighted a jar labeled "niter crystals." Elias's pulse quickened. Saltpeter. He grabbed it, along with a sack of charcoal and a small vial of sulfur dust. The proportions weren't perfect, but they'd do. He needed a weapon—something to even the odds. The musket blueprint required a barrel, a stock, a flintlock mechanism. The anvil and tools could shape the iron, but crafting a functional firearm in hours was a fantasy. He needed something simpler.
A new idea sparked. Not a musket—grenades. Crude, black-powder bombs. He'd made them before, in his early days, when supplies were scarce. A clay pot, a fuse, a handful of nails for shrapnel. Lethal in close quarters.
He worked quickly, his small hands clumsy but guided by a mind that had built weapons under worse conditions. He mixed the powder, packing it into three clay jars from the storeroom. For fuses, he tore strips from his tattered nightshirt, soaking them in oil from a nearby lamp. The nails were harder to find, but a rusted toolbox yielded a handful of iron scraps. It wasn't perfect, but it would kill.
As he finished the third grenade, a shout echoed from the hallway. "Upstairs! Check the upper floors!"
Elias's breath hitched. They were close. He tucked the grenades into his belt, their weight awkward against his frail frame. The interface pinged: Enemy Movement: 12 soldiers ascending main staircase. The choke point he'd wanted was here, but he needed help—someone to draw their attention.
He crept back to the balcony, scanning the hall below. A figure caught his eye—a girl, no older than ten, huddled behind a toppled cabinet. Her face was pale, streaked with tears, but her eyes burned with defiance. She clutched a kitchen knife, her hands shaking but steady enough to use it. One of his militia? No, the interface marked her as Mira, Servant Girl. Loyalty: High.
Elias hesitated. In his old life, he'd never involved civilians, especially not children. But this wasn't his world, and he wasn't the commander he'd been. He needed every advantage.
He slid down to her, keeping low. "Mira," he whispered, his voice calm but firm. "You want to live?"
Her eyes widened, but she nodded, gripping the knife tighter. "They killed my brother," she hissed, her voice raw. "I want them dead."
Elias's chest tightened. He knew that pain, that rage. He'd felt it when his squad died, when his city burned. "Then listen," he said. "Run to the staircase. Scream, make noise, draw them up. I'll handle the rest."
Mira stared at him, her gaze searching his face. He was just a boy to her, a sickly noble barely older than she was. But something in his eyes—cold, unyielding—made her nod. "Okay," she whispered.
She darted toward the staircase, her footsteps loud against the stone. Elias moved to a shadowed alcove above the stairs, his grenades ready. Mira's scream pierced the air, shrill and desperate. "Help! He's up here!"
The soldiers reacted instantly, their boots pounding up the narrow staircase. Elias counted them—ten, twelve, packed tight in the confined space. Perfect.
He lit the first grenade's fuse with a flint from the storeroom, the spark hissing to life. He leaned over the banister, calculating the angle. The soldiers were halfway up, their torches casting flickering light. He tossed the grenade.
It arced through the air, landing at the base of the group. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the world exploded.
The blast was deafening, a roar of fire and shrapnel that tore through the staircase. Soldiers screamed, their bodies flung back, blood spraying across the walls. The stone steps cracked, collapsing under the force. Elias didn't flinch. He'd seen worse.
He lit the second grenade, tossing it lower to catch the stragglers. Another explosion, more screams. The air filled with smoke and the acrid stench of gunpowder. The interface updated: Enemy Forces: Reduced to 38. Morale: Shaken.
Mira reappeared, coughing, her knife still in hand. "You… you did that?" she stammered, staring at the carnage below.
Elias didn't answer. His mind was already moving to the next step. The grenades had bought time, but the crimson-cloaked man was still out there, and his forces weren't broken yet. He needed a real weapon, a musket, something to shift the battle.
He turned to Mira. "The forge—where is it?"
She pointed down a side corridor. "Basement. But it's old, barely works."
"It'll do," Elias said, his voice clipped. He grabbed the remaining grenade and the alchemical supplies, his small body straining under the weight. "Stay here. Keep watch."
Mira nodded, her fear giving way to something else—trust, maybe, or desperation. Elias didn't care which. He moved toward the basement, the interface guiding him through the manor's twisting halls.
The forge was a relic, its bellows torn, its anvil pitted with rust. But the interface marked the iron ingots and tools he'd seen earlier. He could work with this. The musket blueprint unfolded in his mind, its components clear: barrel, stock, trigger. He'd need to smelt the iron, shape it, carve the wood. Hours of work, compressed into minutes.
He set to it, his hands moving with a precision that belied his frail body. The forge roared to life, its heat searing his skin. He didn't feel the pain. His mind was a machine, calculating, refining, building. The musket took shape—crude, unbalanced, but functional. A single shot, maybe two before it jammed.
As he hammered the barrel, a new sound reached him—a horn, low and ominous, from the courtyard. The interface flashed: Enemy Reinforcements: 20 cavalry approaching. Estimated Arrival: 10 minutes.
Elias's jaw tightened. The crimson-cloaked man wasn't done. He was bringing more men, more blades, to finish the job. Elias glanced at the musket, half-finished on the anvil. Ten minutes. Not enough time.
Unless he changed the game.
He grabbed the musket barrel, still hot from the forge, and the remaining gunpowder. The interface pinged: Command Tree: Logistics (Level 1) Unlocked. Recommendation: Improvise explosive trap.
A grim smile curved his lips. He'd faced tanks with less. These bastards didn't know what was coming.
He sprinted back to the main hall, the musket barrel clutched in one hand, the gunpowder sack in the other. Mira was still there, her knife ready. "They're coming," she whispered, her voice trembling.
"I know," Elias said. "Get to the servant's passage. Hide."
She hesitated, then obeyed, disappearing into the shadows. Elias moved to the hall's entrance, where the broken staircase met the courtyard door. He poured the gunpowder in a thin line across the threshold, rigging the musket barrel as a makeshift bomb. One spark, and it'd blow.
The horn sounded again, closer now. Hooves thundered outside. Elias lit a match, its flame steady in his small hand. The interface pulsed one final time: Warning: Enemy Commander Approaching.
The crimson-cloaked man stepped into view, his sword drawn, his eyes locking onto Elias's. "So," he said, his voice cold as iron, "the Vaeron whelp has teeth."
Elias didn't flinch. He raised the match, its flame casting shadows across his face. "Come closer," he said, his voice a low growl, "and see how sharp they are."
The man smiled, raising his sword. Behind him, his cavalry charged.