The successful test of the rifle did not lead to celebration. It led to a new, intense phase of secrecy.
Kaelen designated the "Thunder Project" as the barony's most vital secret.
The section of Borin's forge where the rifles were being meticulously handcrafted was cordoned off.
Only Borin and his most trusted apprentices were allowed inside. The militia members selected for training were sworn to absolute secrecy on pain of exile.
Kaelen knew that the moment any neighboring lord learned he possessed a weapon that could make an armored knight obsolete, Greylock would go from being an ignorable backwater to a threat that had to be eliminated at all costs.
He wasn't just in a race against winter anymore. He was in an arms race against the entire world.
His days became even more packed.
The grand construction projects—the new insulated houses, the water system—were nearing completion, freeing up more of the workforce.
The village was now a clean, orderly, and well-fed place, a stark contrast to the squalor he had found. The "Baron's Folly" was lush with healthy green turnip tops, promising a bountiful harvest.
But Kaelen's focus was now almost entirely on the military.
He established a dedicated shooting range in a secluded valley behind the castle. Here, he, along with a stunned but dedicated Seraphina, began training the first squad of riflemen.
The trainees were chosen not for their brawn, but for their temperament.
Kaelen picked the calmest, most patient men from the militia—men who were good hunters, who understood the value of a single, well-placed shot.
The training was unlike anything they had ever experienced.
"This is not a sword," Kaelen would drill into them, holding up one of the heavy, beautiful rifles.
"It is a tool of precision. It does not care about your strength or your anger. It only cares about your steadiness, your breath, and your aim."
He taught them the slow, methodical process: loading the cartridge, aiming down the long barrel, controlling their breathing, and gently squeezing the trigger.
The first few days were a cacophony of misfires, panicked flinches, and shots that went wide. The powerful kick of the rifle was intimidating, and the loud crack was unnerving.
Seraphina, though a master of the sword, was as much a student as the militiamen here.
She learned the weapon alongside them, her natural discipline and focus allowing her to grasp the fundamentals quickly.
She found the weapon deeply unsettling.
There was no mana, no flow, no connection. It was just a cold, mechanical process that ended in a devastating result.
"It feels... dishonorable," she confessed to Kaelen one evening after a training session. "To kill a man from so far away, without even looking him in the eye."
"It's not about honor, Seraphina,"
Kaelen replied, cleaning one of the prototypes with a practiced, methodical motion.
"It's about efficiency. Why risk one of our valuable, trained soldiers in a swordfight when a single, well-aimed shot can neutralize a threat from a safe distance? This weapon will keep our people alive. That is the only honor I care about."
His brutal pragmatism was, as always, unassailable. She couldn't argue with his goal, only with his methods.
As the riflemen trained, Kaelen's personal progress continued its slow, steady climb.
His mastery of his 1-Star Mana Core grew. He could now consistently coat his training sword in a thin, shimmering layer of mana, the blade humming with a faint energy.
It made the wooden sword feel heavier, more solid, and it hit with a satisfying thud.
During one of their evening sparring sessions, he surprised Seraphina.
She came at him with a fast, complex series of attacks.
In the past, he would have been overwhelmed, his defense crumbling after the second or third strike. But this time, he didn't just rely on the clumsy blocks he had learned.
He focused, drew on his core, and channeled a pulse of mana into his legs.
It wasn't a knight's graceful enhancement.
It was a crude, sudden burst of power.
He clumsily stumbled backward, dodging her final strike by a hair's breadth.
The movement was ugly and inefficient, costing him nearly all his focus, but it worked. He had avoided the hit.
Seraphina stopped, her sword point hovering an inch from his chest. She looked at him, surprised.
"You're learning to apply it," she said, a note of approval in her voice.
"Barely," he panted, the effort leaving him winded. "The energy cost is atrocious. It's not a sustainable combat model."
She actually laughed. A small, genuine laugh.
"You sound like a quartermaster complaining about the price of grain. Just be glad it worked, my Lord."
The small moment of shared levity, a laugh between two tired soldiers in the dark, felt more significant than any of his technological breakthroughs.
A bond was forming between them, forged not in a courtroom or a ballroom, but in the sweat and dust of the training yard.
One evening, as Kaelen was reviewing Borin's latest production report—they were now able to produce one complete rifle every three days—Gideon entered his study, his face pale.
"My Lord," the old steward said, his voice trembling slightly. "A message has arrived. From Baron Tyrell, to the east."
Kaelen looked up, his mind instantly shifting from military production to political strategy. A neighboring lord.
This was the first official contact from the outside world since he'd taken over.
"What does he want?" Kaelen asked.
"He... he has heard of our victory against the bandits, my Lord," Gideon explained. "And he has heard rumors of our... abundant harvest."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. News traveled faster than he'd like. A productive barony was a tempting target.
"He sends his congratulations," Gideon continued, swallowing hard.
"And... a proposal. An offer of a formal alliance between our houses."
"An alliance?" Kaelen leaned forward. An alliance could provide a buffer against other, greedier neighbors. "What are his terms?"
Gideon took a deep breath.
"He offers his support and a trade agreement. The alliance is to be sealed, my Lord..." he paused, looking deeply uncomfortable.
"...by a marriage."
Kaelen froze. Marriage.
"He proposes a union between House Greylock and House Tyrell," Gideon finished, his voice barely a whisper. "He offers you the hand of his third daughter."