The wide field was packed with more than a thousand men and boys, each holding a piece of charcoal and a blank canvas.
The scene looked so out of place that the women and children watching from the edges couldn't help but laugh. These were men who had spent their lives working the land, chopping wood, or hauling stone...yet now they were hunched over in the grass, fumbling with charcoal as if they'd been sent back to school.
"Your Majesty… is this really necessary?" one man with a scruffy beard finally asked, raising his head with a doubtful look.
From the sidelines, the laughter grew. "I never thought I'd see my husband like this," a woman whispered, covering her mouth. Another shook her head with a grin. "My brother looks like he's trying to wrestle the charcoal instead of drawing with it."
Ragon stood at the center of the field, raised slightly on a wooden bench so every man and boy could see him. A tall easel with a stretched parchment stood in front of him. He picked up a piece of charcoal and began sketching in steady strokes, speaking as he worked.
"Picture this in your mind," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "The weapon we're creating can change the course of any battle. Don't worry about what I'm drawing.....you just need to listen and put it down on your parchment."
The men shuffled, adjusting how they sat in the grass, clutching their charcoal like it was something foreign.
"Start with a long, straight rectangle....about the length of your forearm," Ragon continued, sketching bold lines on his own canvas. "This is the barrel. Keep it smooth and hollow, so it can fire projectiles with speed and accuracy. Proportions matter.....make it balanced."
The younger men glanced at each other nervously but followed his lead, their hands scratching across parchment.
"Now," Ragon said, his eyes still on his drawing, "beneath the barrel, add a curve. That's the trigger guard. Inside it, place a small lever. That's the trigger the release. Think of where your finger would naturally rest if you were holding it."
The sound of charcoal dragging grew louder as the men hurried to keep up.
"And here..." he drew another firm stroke "comes the grip. The handle should extend beneath the barrel. Make it thick enough to hold steady but not so bulky it feels clumsy. This is where control rests. Get that right, and the weapon will feel like an extension of your arm."
One of the boys raised his hand timidly. "Your Majesty, should the handle be curved or straight?"
Ragon paused for a brief moment, caught off guard by the question. Curved… straight… He sincerely didn't know why he thought about this? It wasn't knowledge he had been taught here. He wondered that maybe it might be partial memories from Ragon's unconscious soul a place filled with strange creations and advanced tools that was pushing its way back into his mind.
"A good question," he finally said, his voice steady again. "A slight curve will make it easier to hold. Think about how your fingers curl naturally when gripping something firm."
The boy nodded and bent back to his parchment.
"Lastly," Ragon continued, sketching the last details, "add a triangular shape at the back of the weapon. This is the stock. It keeps the weapon stable when it's fired. It should look sturdy—functional, not fancy."
The men scribbled with furrowed brows, sweat forming under the midday sun. Around the edges of the field, women and children watched, whispering and giggling. To them, it looked absurd—grown men crouched in the grass, gripping charcoal as though they were schoolboys instead of farmers and hunters.
Ragon waited a moment longer before straightening. "Enough. Put your tools down. Stand, and come forward one by one."
The crowd stirred uneasily. A few of the men shifted their weight, reluctant to reveal their work. Ragon turned, silver hair flashing in the light, and gestured for the first man to step up.
The sketch was rough, more a jumble of shapes than a weapon. Ragon tilted his head. "Hmm. Interesting attempt, but it won't work. Keep practicing." He handed the parchment back, forcing an encouraging smile.
One by one, the men presented their drawings. Most were awkward, some barely recognizable. But when the tenth man stepped forward, something in Ragon's expression changed.
"Now this," he said, holding up the sketch, "is promising."
He sifted through the stack carefully until he found ten designs that resembled the image in his head. Raising them for the crowd to see, he declared,
"These ten will be known as the Craftsmen of Light."
The chosen men puffed their chests proudly, their names now etched into something greater than themselves. Cheers broke out around the field.
"So," he said aloud, dismissing his unease with a smile, "the next step is the blacksmith."
He looked over the men and began dividing them with crisp certainty. "We now have the Shadow Team, the main force, the blacksmiths, the decoys, the Craftsmen of Light, the trap builders, and the saboteurs."
By the time the sun began to set, every man had been named and placed. The structure of his kingdom was no longer a dream but a living plan...and these men, flawed and untested as they were, would become the foundation of it all.
The real work which was training and preparing them for the coming orc ambush was only just beginning.
Day Four...
Ragon hadn't slept in four days. Every hour had been spent planning, reworking, and refining until the strategy felt unshakable. On top of that, he drilled his men nonstop in combat. Some, who had barely any energy to begin with, managed to break through under his pressure and rise as one-star warriors.
By now, the plan was complete. Victory felt close enough to touch.
Together with the Shadow Team, Ragon had scouted the enemy's grounds, marking food stores, weapon depots, and every location that could cripple the orcs once struck. Everything was set in motion.
Now, in a crowded room, the final transformation was underway. Instead of armor and banners, paint and disguise became their weapons.
To the astonishment of many, Ragon's men were being painted green, fitted with fake horns, and dressed like orcs. He hadn't recruited only men....some women had joined too.
They weren't sent into the most dangerous roles, but their contributions were invaluable. Makeup artists turned hardened warriors into convincing orcs, while skilled seamstresses tailored leather skirts nearly identical to the enemy's.
"Nice work, ladies," Ragon said as he studied his reflection in the mirror. He hadn't expected such skill in a small village, yet the disguises were flawless.
When he turned to his men, he found no trace of humanity left in their faces. Even the Craftsmen of Light had pitched in, building false muscular arms that blended seamlessly with the paint.
Satisfied, Ragon rose from his seat, thumping his chest with conviction.
"All men with me! We shall take back the lands your fathers and mothers toiled for. I give you my word...I will not stop until these lands are free from the orcs!"