Reincarnated with the Country System

Stormhall Valley – Dawn Drills

The valley beneath Stormhall was still damp from the storm that passed two nights before. Mist rolled low across the ground, stirred only by the boots of two hundred soldiers standing in disciplined rows. The gray morning light touched the polished barrels of their rifles—Gewehr-98s, foreign and precise, gleaming like fangs beneath the iron sky.

Prince Kaen stood on the ridge above, arms folded behind his back. His cloak snapped softly in the wind. The command dais, raised with dark stone and lacquered wood, bore the weight of history—and change.

Beside him stood his council of inland nobles. Lord Edran of Raem's Hill, the old wolf in silver-lined mail. Lord Carten Vael, thin-lipped and silk-robed, more diplomat than fighter. Baroness Sura Venar, hawk-eyed and quiet, her ringed fingers resting on a cane blade. And Marshal Devrin, the only one armored for battle, iron helm tucked beneath his arm like a disapproving father.

None of them had seen this before.

"This," Kaen said, voice low but firm, "is how we fight now."

A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Without hesitation, the front line of Vengali infantry dropped to one knee, leveling rifles. The second line stepped forward, barrels raised just above their comrades' shoulders.

"Fire!"

A unified crack tore through the mist—a wall of sound. White smoke erupted in synchronized bloom. The recoil was sharp but controlled. The lines did not waver.

"Reload!"

Hands moved with practiced speed. In less than seconds, the front line was rising, and the rear had dropped in turn.

"Fire!"

Another thunderclap. More smoke. The dummies downrange—painted with old enemy sigils—were reduced to splinters and cloth.

Kaen did not smile. He didn't need to. He heard it—the involuntary gasp from Lord Edran, the stunned silence from Carten, the stiff shifting of Devrin's jaw.

"Incredible," Edran muttered. "They're like clockwork…"

"They're soldiers," Kaen replied. "Not serfs with sticks."

A fresh wave of recruits surged forward—grenadiers bearing small round charges in leather pouches. Smoke bombs hissed. Firebombs arced. Wooden bunkers, constructed days before, erupted into controlled infernos.

Baroness Sura flinched despite herself. "That's… morbid."

"It's reality," Kaen said flatly.

From the western field came the beat of drums. A cavalry simulation rode in—a dozen men on mock horses with armor plating, galloping in thunderous charge. The infantry reacted instantly: front line knelt, forming spear bracers; second line fired upward in an angled volley. The cavalry peeled away before contact, saluting with raised lances.

Kaen gestured toward a small flag station beside the ridge.

"Signal system. Colors and motion, no voice required. Orders can be issued across fields of smoke and battle."

Lord Carten squinted. "And these aren't trained men? You drilled peasants for this?"

"Peasants," Kaen said, "don't carry bloodline pride. They learn fast. They follow faster."

A silence followed—one not of objection, but of quiet, growing fear.

Then came the final act.

A trio of wheeled catapult frames rolled onto the ridge—mounted not with bolts, but with Bernardian firebomb drums, loaded under guidance from their imperial instructors. At Kaen's signal, they launched.

The projectiles arced high into the sky. One landed atop the mock-fort ahead. A heartbeat later—FWUUMPH—the entire outpost ignited in roaring flame.

Kaen let the nobles watch the fire spread.

Then, without turning his head, he said, "This is how I plan to win."

Southern Coast – Lorrik's End, Two Nights Later

Captain Rhun stood atop the cliff watchtower, breath misting in the wind. Below him, the black ocean slammed against jagged stone, the surf boiling and retreating in endless rhythm. Fog coiled around the watch-fires, thicker than smoke, swallowing light.

He didn't like it.

The fog had lingered for two days. No breeze cleared it. No tide pulled it away.

It felt wrong.

Inside the fortress yard, Vengali troops patrolled. The compound had grown in recent weeks: Bernardian instructors, supply depots, training yards. Rifles gleamed under lanterns. Machine gun nests had been placed on the upper wall, their water jackets freshly polished. At least two dozen Bernardian soldiers remained, overseeing the transition. It should have felt secure.

Rhun moved along the rampart. "Third post, sound off," he called.

No reply.

He frowned.

The post wasn't empty. A spear stood upright—stabbed clean into the dirt. But the man? Gone.

Rhun drew steel.

Behind him, the sea hissed louder.

Then it came. A sound—sharp, wet, alien.

Click. Click. Click.

Not metal.

Bone.

He spun. Shadows shifted below. Between rocks and waves, figures rose from the surf, tall and thin, cloaked in glistening seaweed. Their arms bent in impossible ways. Gills fluttered at their throats. Black coral knives gleamed in their hands.

Meranite assassins.

One guard screamed as a blade opened his neck before he could shout a full warning. Others surged toward the wall—bare feet clinging to stone like spiders, ascending with terrifying silence.

Rhun shouted. "We're under attack! Light the bells!"

But the fog swallowed the sound.

A siren started—barely. Then it was choked off.

Muzzle flashes burst from the courtyard as Bernardian troops emerged, rifles at the ready.

"CONTACT FRONT!" someone roared.

Gunfire cracked—short, sharp volleys from well-trained men. A Meranite took a round to the chest and folded. But the others kept coming.

"They don't stop!" one recruit screamed.

A grenade flew.

BOOM.

Saltwater and shredded robes flew. One assassin dissolved in the blast. But two more landed inside the yard. Chaos exploded.

Rhun turned just in time.

One of the creatures dropped from above. It landed in front of him—black eyes shining, gills flaring, blade in hand. He parried once. Twice. But the creature was fast, darting beneath his guard. A blade pierced under his ribs.

Rhun gasped, knees buckling.

He hit the stone—and looked up through haze and pain.

Then—

THRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

The roar split the air.

The Browning M1917 opened fire.

From the main wall, Sergeant Helmut Grau stood braced behind the mounted machine gun.

The gun barked steel—six hundred rounds per minute. The gate was painted with blood and broken sea-armor.

Meranites tried to flee. Some reached the outer wall. One climbed

THRRRACK.

Gone.

Another rose from the mist—

CRACK.

A Bernardian corporal put a round through its skull with his AK.

Vengali soldiers formed lines. Not perfectly—but better than most. Grenadiers hurled fragmentation bombs over the walls. Bernardian troops barked orders, corrected stances, tightened aim.

A second machine gun roared to life near another gate. Its field of fire cut the courtyard in half. The remaining Meranites found no escape. No fog could protect them now.

One assassin tried to charge Helmut.

He didn't flinch.

THRACK.

Gone.

Within five minutes, the attack ended.

Fog clung to the bodies. Blood slicked the stone like algae.