"It worked…"
Rhodes smiled as he studied the cold experimental table before him.
A massive figure lay atop it—one of the mercenaries under his control. Through magecraft suggestion and spell manipulation, the man's loyalty to Rhodes was absolute.
Now his body was covered in jet-black wolf fur. His muscles bulged like a bodybuilder's, swollen to the point they looked ready to burst.
That dense black hide rendered small- and medium-caliber firearms useless. Those muscles granted strength far beyond any human limit. Regenerative substances surged through his blood, dulling pain and shrugging off injury. Steel would tear apart beneath the claws on his hands.
Most important of all was the Mystery flowing through his body.
The Mystery unique to a Phantasmal Species coursed through his bloodline, granting him the lowest tier of Magic Resistance. Ordinary unchanted magecraft couldn't harm him at all. Even spells with two or three verses struggled to pose a threat. Combined with a werewolf's terrifying speed, he could even assassinate a Pride-ranked magus.
That wasn't all. His werewolf bloodline could spread through the exchange of bodily fluids. Anyone he bit would become a new werewolf, bound to him through bloodline dominance.
If Rhodes unleashed these werewolves onto the Middle Eastern battlefields, clearing a few villages would be enough to build an army of hundreds of thousands. They would retain human intelligence, wield modern weapons, pass as ordinary people—and thanks to bloodline control, their loyalty would be absolute.
"Good. Begin testing with heavy weapons. Stay sharp," Rhodes said calmly, smiling.
The transformed mercenary bowed slightly, pledging his loyalty.
Moments later, they arrived at the Mystic Code testing grounds. Solid steel plates, twelve centimeters thick, stood in the distance. The werewolf hoisted a massive heavy weapon onto his shoulder, six barrels aimed at the targets.
The weapon was an M61 Vulcan rotary cannon.
Its name alone carried fear. Its brutal rate of fire and destructive power represented the peak of industrial technology in this era.
A weapon meant to be mounted on fighter aircraft was now held one-handed by a towering werewolf. The six linked barrels began to rotate, the twenty-millimeter muzzle glinting with lethal cold light.
Even the most arrogant aristocratic magus would abandon worthless pride when facing that rotating barrel, reduced to tears as they begged for mercy.
Once it fired, there would be no intact corpses—only shredded flesh and pulverized remains. In this age, no magecraft was more threatening than a modern rapid-fire autocannon.
The barrels spun faster and faster, whining through the air. Brass shells erupted from the muzzle—metal storm becoming a blazing golden whip that lashed across the targets.
The shells moved too fast for the naked eye to track, so every sixth round was a tracer. At twelve hundred rounds per minute, the Vulcan became a sword of judgment, grinding everything in its path into debris.
"Boom! Boom! Boom—"
Thunderous explosions echoed across the testing ground. The twelve-centimeter steel plates were cleaved clean through. As the broken slabs fell, they were pulverized midair, reduced to a storm of metallic fragments.
"Technology has always been the primary force of production," Rhodes shouted. "Activate the magecraft! Let me see real firepower!"
"Awooo!"
The werewolf roared. The recoil sent a dull ache through his body, trivial compared to the exhilaration of firing.
Magecraft light flared along the cannon. The shells scattered outward, arcing through the air along countless curved trajectories toward the targets.
Dozens of rounds fell like a violent storm, wreaking even greater destruction. Where sustained fire had been required before, a single shell now shattered a target.
More terrifying still—not a single round missed.
Even after the targets exploded into clouds of fragments, the largest pieces were struck again and again, blasted apart in sequence. Not one shell lost its mark. Dozens of rounds utterly erased more than ten targets.
"Excellent."
Rhodes felt the power contained within that storm of bullets and bared a savage grin.
"What magus could stand against this? Pride? Brand? Or those Grand old men?"
"Werewolf soldiers, modified aircraft cannons—I can mass-produce them in days. How long does it take to train a magus?"
"And this isn't even counting main battle tanks, self-propelled artillery, aerial bombs… or soaring flying battleships. If all else fails, I still have the M1 Sherman!"
"Fifty-six tons. Three hundred fifty rounds per minute. Armor-piercing and high-explosive effects in one instant! A hero among tanks!"
"What right do those Clock Tower fossils have to oppose me?"
Rhodes laughed to himself, intoxicated by the vision. He could already see the Clock Tower trembling beneath his steel might, rotten nobles picked off one by one by railguns.
"You're getting carried away, Master," RyuZU said softly from his side. "Your creations are impressive, but please mind your composure."
"Impressive? Don't make me laugh." Rhodes snapped, startling her. His excitement spilled over unchecked. "True perfection isn't this trash. Werewolf golems built from flesh, or war machines piled from steel—they're all flawed prototypes."
"Then… what is perfection?" RyuZU asked innocently.
Rhodes answered with a feral grin.
"Shipgirls, of course. Pair flying warships with shipgirls—that's the art I've been dreaming of."