CH724 · Rewrite
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Chapter 724: A Higher Level of Power

She had composed herself before she arrived at the office.

The composure was deliberate — she had needed a few minutes after the exercise to reorder her internal taxonomy, to place what she had witnessed into a framework that could hold it. The framework was not entirely adequate for the task, but it was the best she could construct in the available time, and it would serve for a conversation.

Roland Wimbledon was at his desk when she entered with Agatha. His expression, as she had noted the first time she’d met him, was not the expression she would have associated with a man who had just demonstrated the ability to reshape ground at a kilometer’s distance. It had the particular quality of someone for whom this was one item on a list rather than the list’s entirety.

She had revised upward her estimate of what he represented. She revised it again now, looking at his face.

“Your Majesty. Before I contact the other survivors, I have some questions.”

“Of course.”

“The weapons from the exercise — can they be mass-produced?”

She watched his face as he worked through how to answer this, and found it genuinely difficult to read. The smile that appeared was brief and specific — the smile of someone who has a better answer than expected.

“First — the Longsong Cannon isn’t only a defensive weapon. It appears stationary, and the current versions are heavy, but the principle of the thing is portable. Large vehicles can carry it. On water, a three-masted ship is essentially a floating artillery platform. On land—” He paused. “We’re developing something that moves freely and can carry significant weight. It’s not ready yet, but the application you’re imagining is correct.”

A land vehicle capable of carrying a cannon. Moving freely. She tried to picture what that meant in practical terms and found she lacked the reference points.

“As for production scale,” he continued, “with the next generation of processing tools in common use, I expect the cannons to cover all border walls within a year or two.”

She heard this. She let it sit.

All border walls. One to two years.

In Taquila’s final period — when every remaining human being had concentrated in one city, when the Union was directing every available resource toward simple survival — they had produced what they could produce. The siege engines, the ballistas, the structures that required the most skilled craftspeople and the most time-intensive manufacturing processes. They had produced enough to survive for a while. Not enough to win.

The arithmetic Roland was describing was a different order of magnitude.

“My second question,” she said. “The final explosion — it wasn’t from the Longsong Cannons.”

“No.”

“Is that your most powerful weapon?”

The smile came back. “Judged against everything we’ve currently mastered — that would be the simplest one.”

She waited to be sure she’d heard correctly. “You have weapons that could create a larger explosion than that?”

“The development of explosive force doesn’t have an upper ceiling in the way you might expect.” He set down his cup. “The weapons at the exercise — call them the second level. The third level could burn a city to the ground in a single strike.”

The statement was so far outside her category of possible claims that her first instinct was to dismiss it. She looked at his eyes and found she couldn’t. There was no performance in them. He was simply describing something he believed to be true.

“What kind of weapon does that?” she asked quietly.

“What did the final explosion look like to you?”

She closed her eyes. The image was immediate and complete — the orange fireball rising through the dispersing smoke, the clouds above catching its light, the column climbing toward the sky.

“A sunrise,” she said.

“Yes. The third-level weapon is the actual sun. Not an imitation.” He leaned back slightly. “Too bright to look at directly — it burns the eyes. Too close to approach — the light itself causes injury at distance. Its core temperature turns stone to gas. The pressure wave it generates destroys structures at a range measured in kilometers.” He said this with the calm particularity of someone describing a calculation they’ve worked through. “We’d need to accomplish two things first. One is called resplendent radiance—”

“Your Majesty,” Agatha said. She had not moved from her position near the wall, but her tone was the tone of someone applying a brake.

“—and the other is called the distance to the sun,” he continued, and then appeared to register the expression on Agatha’s face and stopped.

Nightingale’s voice came from empty air, somewhere to Phyllis’s left: “This is not the moment.”

Phyllis looked from the empty air to Agatha, who was shrugging with the exact expression of someone who has been through this before, and then to Roland, who had assumed an expression of mild contrition.

“In summary,” he said, “it is very complicated, requires significant development, and depends on the kind of accelerated progress that comes from more witches contributing to research. Which is one reason I want to begin the deeper negotiation with your survivors as soon as possible.” He reached for his cup again. “What they found in the ruins may move some of this forward considerably.”

Phyllis absorbed this.

The question of whether she believed him — truly believed that the force she had witnessed today was the simpler version — was a question she chose not to resolve immediately. She could hold it as conditional and proceed from there.

She reached for the ring.

“As I promised — I’ll contact Pasha. When I crush the Five-Colors Stone, she and the others will sense my location. But preparing a magic core takes time; you may not be able to speak with them directly for a day or two.”

“Can you conduct the conversation anywhere?”

“Yes. Though a larger space makes things easier.”

“The hall, then.” He turned to Agatha. “Take her there. It should feel appropriately formal.”

Agatha inclined her head. “Your Majesty.”

They left the office together. In the corridor, Phyllis permitted herself a single slow breath.

She had done what she could. The rest waited on the other side of the stone she was about to break.

Whatever came next, she was no longer certain that she had an accurate sense of its scale.

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