The sun rose the next morning on a village that was both grim and strangely energized.
The horrific events of the previous night were the sole topic of conversation, whispered in hushed, awestruck tones.
The charred section of the main street was a grim monument to their Baron's brutal effectiveness.
The cleanup crew, organized by Gideon, worked with a somber efficiency, scrubbing away the last traces of the battle.
The fear that had perpetually lingered over Greylock—the fear of random, opportunistic violence—had been dealt a decisive blow. Their Baron had proven that this was no longer a soft target.
Kaelen had forced himself out of bed at dawn, his face a pale, emotionless mask. He had spent the night staring at the ceiling, the smell of smoke still clinging to his senses.
Sleep had been impossible. But a leader couldn't afford to show weakness. The project had to continue.
His first stop was the makeshift infirmary, where a few villagers were nursing minor burns from the initial chaos. His presence caused an immediate stir.
The people looked at him with a new, profound respect that was deeply unsettling. He wasn't just their lord; he was their savior. A terrifying one.
His next stop was the training yard.
The Greylock Militia was assembled, but the atmosphere was completely different from their previous sessions.
The slouching, reluctant farmers were gone. In their place stood a group of men who had faced real, imminent death and survived. They stood straighter. Their eyes were harder.
They had been a joke. Last night, they had been part of a victory.
When Kaelen appeared, they snapped to a clumsy but earnest form of attention.
Seraphina was there, drilling them. She met Kaelen's gaze, her own expression complex and unreadable.
The awe and horror from the night before had settled into a quiet, intense watchfulness.
"Captain," Kaelen said, his voice all business. "A report on the salvage operation."
"It was successful, my Lord," she replied, her tone crisp and professional.
"We recovered twenty-seven serviceable swords, a dozen shortbows, and a mix of leather and chainmail armor. Most of it is low quality, but it's better than what we had."
"Good," Kaelen nodded. "Give the swords to your guards and the best men in the militia. The armor as well. Melt down the rest. Borin can use the steel."
He was already reprocessing the assets of his defeated enemy.
"And the bodies?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Buried," she said simply. "In a common grave outside the village walls."
He nodded again.
"See to it that the militia's training is doubled. They performed their task well, but their discipline in formation is still lacking. The next enemy might not be so foolish as to charge blindly into a trap."
"Yes, my Lord."
As he turned to leave, she spoke again, her voice softer. "The men... they are proud of what they did. You've given them more than just wages, my Lord. You've given them a victory."
"A victory is only useful if it prevents the next battle, Captain," he replied without looking back, and continued on his way to the forge.
✧✧✧
The forge was, as always, roaring. The victory had only strengthened Borin's resolve. Their ability to defend themselves was now directly linked to the amount of steel they could produce.
Kaelen found the blacksmith examining one of the salvaged bandit swords with a look of pure contempt.
"Garbage," Borin spat, pointing to a flaw in the blade. "Poorly forged. Impure metal. No wonder they lost."
He tossed the sword onto a pile destined for the furnace.
"Give me another month with this new forge, my Lord, and I'll arm your men with blades that can cut this junk in half."
"That's what I want to talk to you about, Borin," Kaelen said, unrolling a new set of blueprints on a workbench.
They weren't for pikes or swords. The drawings were intricate, filled with small, complex moving parts: a cylinder, a hammer, a trigger mechanism.
It was the design for a single-action revolver.
And beside it, a simpler but longer design: a breech-loading rifle.
Borin stared at the blueprints, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. "My Lord... what are these? Toys? Puzzles?"
"They're weapons, Borin," Kaelen said. "The next evolution. The trap worked last night, but it was a one-time trick. To secure this barony, we need a true technological advantage. We need firepower."
He explained the basic concept: a controlled explosion of gunpowder propelling a small piece of lead at incredible speeds.
The blacksmith listened, his skepticism slowly melting away as he began to grasp the brutal physics of it.
He, more than anyone, understood the power of a contained explosion. He worked with them every day in his forge.
"It would be... difficult," Borin said, his craftsman's mind already identifying the challenges. "The barrel needs to be strong enough to contain the blast. The moving parts are small, intricate. This is not a blacksmith's work. It's a watchmaker's."
"Then you will become a watchmaker," Kaelen said. "I'll help you design the new tools you'll need. We'll start with the rifle—it's simpler. One prototype. That's all I ask for now."
Borin looked from the complex blueprints to the roaring inferno of his forge. The challenge was immense. It was borderline impossible.
It was the most exciting thing he had ever heard.
"Aye, my Lord," he said with a grin. "Let's make some thunder."
✧✧✧
That night, Kaelen finally found a moment of peace. He sat in his room, the distant sounds of construction and the forge a comforting backdrop.
The victory had been costly to his psyche, but it had bought him something invaluable: time, resources, and the unwavering loyalty of his people.
He closed his eyes and began to meditate.
This time, when he reached for the small, warm spark of mana inside him, it felt different. It was brighter, more stable.
The trauma and the intense focus of the battle had, somehow, settled his mind.
He focused on the spark, trying to draw in the ambient energy from the air, just as he had before. A wisp of mana answered his call.
Then another. He pulled them towards the core, feeding it, nurturing it.
The spark pulsed. It grew, swirling into a tiny, stable vortex. He felt a distinct click in the center of his being, as if a lock had finally turned.
A gentle warmth spread through his entire body.
It flowed down his arms, into his legs, sharpening his senses.
The stone floor felt colder.
The scent of woodsmoke from the hall was more distinct. The low hum of the forge was clearer.
His Mana Core had formed.
It was small, pathetically weak compared to a true prodigy like Seraphina. It was just a 1-Star core, the very first step on a long road.
But he was no longer Unawakened.
A slow, tired, but deeply triumphant smile touched his lips. He had survived his first battle, secured his barony, and now, he had finally unlocked the first key to the power of this new world.
The foundation was laid. Now, it was time to build.