Chapter 1207: A New Idea

In Neverwinter, Graycastle.

The Longsong Cannons were not portable. That single fact had rendered the Artillery Battalion unusually idle while the Gun Battalion shipped out to the Kingdom of Wolfheart and the Kingdom of Everwinter to execute Roland’s immigration plan. Daily training and the harvest filled a soldier’s hours well enough, and off-duty men drifted home to their families.

Van’er went home too.

As battalion commander, free time was a currency he rarely held. He spent it well: visiting neighbors, tracking down old friends, drinking in the evenings. The army expressly forbade alcohol in barracks, which meant that the only place Van’er could properly indulge was off-duty, in someone else’s establishment, with no rank and no responsibility attached.

After years of growth, Neverwinter’s commercial life had become something unrecognizable to anyone who had known the old city. Roland’s commercial district plan had transformed it root and branch. Both sides of every main street now blazed with two-story premises let out to shop owners and foreign merchants — hotels, restaurants, taverns, the smell of spiced goods from parts of the world Van’er had never seen. These shops ran alongside the Convenience Market, which handled necessities and staples. The combination felt, Van’er thought, like two different circulatory systems serving the same body.

He walked slowly, watching the peddlers in their designated booths, the pedestrians on their paved stone walkways, the carriages moving in their proper lanes down the center of the road. Everything in order. He remembered the arguments when construction began — people questioning whether they really needed to widen the road, whether separate lanes for pedestrians and wagons were worth the expense. Standing here now, he suspected Roland had already seen this moment. The man had a habit of knowing things before they happened.

Van’er passed two main driveways and pushed through the door of the Lucky Shell.

A figure limped around from behind the bar and grinned at him. “Sir, there you are!”

“Just Van’er. This isn’t the army.” Van’er pulled the man into a crushing hug. “How’s business? Looks good.”

The man everyone called Iron Crutch had earned the name the hard way. Half a year ago, during the fierce night battle at Tower Station No. 1, a spear had punched through his abdomen and leg as he charged the demons to retrieve the artillery field. He had lost consciousness on the spot. Nana had saved his life. His right leg was not recoverable, and an iron stick had replaced it. He retired from military service with the government’s benefits and his accumulated pay, opened the Lucky Shell in the eastern city, and it had become the natural meeting ground of the First Army on leave.

“Rent’s low for retired veterans. I manage,” Iron Crutch said, rubbing his hands. “If only you could come here more often.”

“Then you’ll have to wait for my retirement. Or until I’m like you.” Van’er looked toward the stairs. “Are the Rhone brothers here?”

“Both upstairs. Let me take you up.”

“No, stay. Come drink with us when the rush eases.”

“I’ll do that,” Iron Crutch said, pleased.

Upstairs, his old friends sat around a round table: Jop, Cat’s Claw, Rodney, Nelson. Men who had once trembled at charging knights back when the Artillery Battalion was new. Now every one of them held a command the whole battalion depended on. They had not all drunk together in one room for longer than Van’er could easily remember.

He sat down. The conversation ran wide and warm. It always circled back to the same center: the army, the upcoming Battle of Divine Will, what was coming.

According to the king, the scale would be unprecedented — the entire continent drawn in. No one at the table was certain they would all see each other when it was over.

“We’re the lucky ones, at least,” Rodney said, draining his glass. “We don’t have to face those monsters directly. If the artillery fails, the battle’s already lost.”

“The problem,” Cat’s Claw said with a shrug, “is that we don’t know what tricks the demons will try next. Remember that night attack at Tower Station No. 1? I hope our soldiers learn to handle demons themselves, without waiting for the Gun Battalion or the Special Unit of Strategies and Tactics to come save them.”

Heads nodded around the table.

“Exactly. If only we had something with more punch. Revolving rifles kill knights fine, but demons are a different matter.”

“Forget revolvers. Word is the army’s switching to bolt rifles across the board. Revolvers won’t be standard much longer.”

“Really? Commander, is that confirmed?”

Van’er met the questioning looks and nodded. “The First and Sixth Units have already switched. The rest of us will get there — production’s just slow.”

Jop frowned. “I tried the bolt rifle once. Powerful, accurate — but too slow at close range. Can’t the Artillery Battalion keep the old weapons?”

“The management team has decided,” Van’er said, pointing at the ceiling. “We run revolvers on traditional black powder. The bullet type stays roughly the same, so anyone who was making black powder can shift to bullet production without much disruption.”

“Then maybe we petition Sir Iron Axe to convince His Majesty to design us something new?”

“Forget it,” Nelson snorted. “Brian will absolutely muscle in.”

“Exactly,” Cat’s Claw said, dropping into a dead-accurate imitation of Brian’s flat delivery. “The Artillery Battalion only needs cannons. Don’t you always say that larger barrels are better? Leave the small ones to us. Lads — drink!”

Laughter cracked around the table. Van’er alone went quiet, staring into his glass, one finger tracing the rim.

“Commander?”

He stroked his chin. “What if we made something ourselves?”

“What, a new flintlock?” Cat’s Claw’s eyebrows climbed. “Commander, you’ve had too much.”

“I’m not drunk. Listen.” Van’er set his glass down. “Have any of you noticed? Both the grapeshot guns used by the Special Unit and the Mark I HMGs in the Gun Battalion run an air duct for steady fire. I’ve handled enough disabled weapons to see it. The structures vary, but the mechanism is the same.”

“I — I didn’t know that,” someone admitted.

“That’s why you’re not the commander,” Rodney said sagely, though his lips twitched. “Even so — building weapons from scratch needs manpower and materials. Iron Axe doesn’t issue plant authorizations for private projects.”

“We aren’t building from scratch. We’re upgrading what we already have.” Van’er felt the idea sharpen as he said it aloud, the way ideas sometimes do when they finally leave the head and meet the air. “No plant authorization required. No Administrative Office. Just a skilled worker.”

Cat’s Claw, Rodney, and Nelson all turned and looked at Jop.

Jop closed his eyes for a long moment. Then he raised both hands in surrender. “Fine. My brother works in the industrial zone — processes and assembles steam engines. I’ll take you tomorrow.”

Chapter 1207 - A New Idea

Translator: Transn Editor: Transn In Neverwinter, Graycastle. Since the Longsong Cannons were not portable, the Artillery Battalion had become exceptionally unoccupied these days compared to the Gun Battalion that had set out for the Kingdom of Wolfheart and the Kingdom of Everwinter to execute Roland’s immigration plan. Apart from the daily training and the harvest, off-duty soldiers all went back home to spend time with their families. Van’er also chose to go home. As the battalion commander, he rarely had free time these days, so Van’er treasured this rare opportunity to unite with his families. He also took the advantage of this break calling on neighbors and old friends. Since alcohol was expressively forbidden in the army, the only time Van’er could indulge in relvery was when he was off duty. After years of development, businesses in Neverwinter were currently far more dynamic and diverse than those in the old king’s city. Under the influence of Roland’s commercial district plan, the premises on either side of the street had now been in extremely high demand. Two-story premises were soon let out to shop owners and foreign merchants and were subsequently transformed into hotels, restaurants and taverns. Commodies from various parts of world were being constantly shipped to Neverwinter for sale. These shops supplemented the Convenience Market that mainly provided citizens with life necessities and staples. Van’er was impressed with the king’s foresight as he wandered about on the street while surveying peddling vendors. The city was busy but not congested. Everything was in a strict order: peddlers set up their booths in a designated area; pedestrians walked on the walkway paved with slabs; carriages ran in the middle of the road. Van’er remembered that someone had raised questions as to why they needed to broaden up the road in the beginning the construction work. Many people questioned about the necessity to create two respective lanes for pedestrians and wagons. Now, it appeared that it was quite a wise decision. Van’er suspected that Roland might have foreseen the future beforehand. After passing two main driveways, Van’er reached his destination, the tavern “Lucky Shell”. As soon as he entered the store, a person limped up to him from behind the bar and greeted him. “Sir, there you are!” “Just Van’er. This isn’t the army,” Van’er said smilingly while pulling the bartender into a crushing hug. “How’s your business going? It looks good, eh?” This person was known as “Iron Crutch”. Half a year ago during that fierce night battle against the demons at Tower Station No. 1, a spear had penetrated Iron Crutch’s abdomen and leg when he had been charging at the demons to retrieve the artillery field. He lost his consciousness on the spot. Although Nana later saved him, he still lost his right leg and had to replace it with an iron stick. That was how he got his nickname. Iron Crutch thus retired from the military service. He opened this “Lucky Shell” in the eastern city with the benefits received from the government and his salaries, and this tavern became where the First Army often met each other during their break. “Since I’m a retired veteran, the rent is relatively low for me. I can manage,” Iron Crutch said while messaging his hands in excitement. “If only you could come here a little more often.” Van’er replied, “Then you’ll have to wait for my retirement or when I’m like you. By the way, Are Rhone brothers here?” “They’re both upstairs. Let me take you up there.” “No, that’s fine. Don’t worry about me. Come drink with us when you aren’t so busy.” “Sounds good,” Iron Crutch agreed pleasantly. Van’er went up stairs and immediately saw his old friends sitting at a round table. Jop. Cat’s Claw, Rodney and Nelson were all there. These people used to shudder at charging knights when the Artillery Battalion had first been founded. Now, they had all elevated themselves to military officers that the whole Artillery Battalion relied on. Because each of them had their own duties, they had not drunk together in the tavern for a while. Van’er joined them. They exchanged opinions on various matters ardently. The most frequent topic of discussion was naturally the army and the upcoming Battle of Divine Will. According to the king, this would be an unprecedentedly massive war that would involve the entire continent. They were not certain whether they could see each other again after the war ended. “We’re actually quite lucky. At least, we don’t need to fight those monsters directly,” Rodney drained his glass and sighed. “If the artillery is defeated, then we pretty much lose the battle.” “The problem is that we don’t know what new tricks demons will play… Remember that unexpected night attack at Tower Station No.1?” Cat’s Claw commented while shrugging. “I hope our soldiers could learn to cope with the demons themselves. They shouldn’t wait for the Gun Battalion or the Special Unit of Strategies and Tactics to rescue them.” Everyone assented in earnest. “Exactly. If only we have powerful weapons as well. Revolving rifles could kill knights but not the demons.” “Drop it. I’ve heard that the army is going to use bolt rifles in the future. There’ll be no revolvers anymore soon.” “Really? Commander, are you positive?” Van’er confirmed with a nod in response to the others’ inquiring look, “The First Unit and the Sixth Unit have already switched to the new weapons. It may take a while for all of us to have one due to limited production.” Jop said, frowning, “I tried the new gun once. It’s powerful and accurate, but it’s too slow for a close-range attack. Can’t the Artillery Battalion keep using the old weapons?” “I’m afraid not. The management team has made the decision,” Van’er replied while pointing at the ceiling. “We use traditional black powder to operate revolvers. The bullet will be pretty much the same, so those who used to produce black powder could now help with the bullet production.” “Then… maybe we should ask Sir Iron Axe to persuade His Majesty to design a new weapon for us?” “Forget it,” Nelson snorted. “Brian will definitely butt in!” “Yes, the Artillery Battalion only needs cannons,” Cat’s Claw said with a perfect imitation of Brian’s tone. “Don’t you often say that the barrels should be as large as possible? Leave those tiny ones to us Gun Battalion. Lads, drink on!” The group of officers roared with laughter. Only Van’er remained silent. He gazed at his glass, apparently lost in thought. “Commander?” Van’er stroked his chin and said slowly, “What if we create a weapon on our own?” “What weapon? A new flintlock?” Cat’s Claw asked, his brows raised. “Commander, you’re drunk, aren’t you?” “Shut up! I’m not sure if you have noticed it. Both the grapeshot guns used by the Special Unit of Strategies and Tactics and the Mark I type HMGs operated by the Gun Battalion are equipped with an air duct for steady firing,” Van’er said meditatively. “I’ve seen many disposed weapons. Although their structures are not always the same, they have pretty much the same mechanism.” “Er… Really? How come I don’t know?” “That’s why you aren’t the commander,” Rodney said sagely while twitching his lips. “Having said that, we would need manpower and supplies to create weapons. Sir Iron Axe doesn’t charge the plant that manufactures weapons.” “No, we aren’t making weapons from scratch but are simply upgrading the ones we currently have,” Van’er said, feeling more confident about what he was saying. “It won’t involve the plant or the Administrative Office. We just need a skillful worker.” Cat’s Claw, Rodney and Nelson all rested their eyes on Jop. Jop sighed deeply and raised his hands. “Fine. My brother is working in the industrial zone. His job is to process and assemble steam engines. I’ll take you there tomorrow.”