Reincarnated with the Country System

Vangal Kingdom

Date: 19-6-1561 WC

♦♦♦

The cold wind came down from the mountains and rolled across the plains like a whisper of steel. It carried dust, the smell of coal, and the distant iron tang of war.

Northern Mountain City stood tall before Kaen's army, a fortress carved into stone and ambition. Its walls rose twenty meters high, thick, gray, and weather-beaten, lined with watchtowers every hundred steps. Men stood—archers with bows taut, musketeers cradling long barrels, spearmen. Smoke drifted from within the city, not of battle but of industry. Northern Mountain—it was a mining hub, its veins of copper, iron, and precious stone worth more than palaces. Its wealth was buried under rock, and its people were stubborn as the mountain itself.

Kaen sat astride his horse at the forward slope, his jaw clenched as he studied the walls. Sarul's attack had been insult enough—that was unforgivable. Now, Kaen had brought war to Sarul's allies, and he would break them piece by piece until vengeance was satisfied.

Behind him stretched twenty thousand soldiers, a sight to make even kings think twice. Fifteen thousand carried Bernardian-made rifles, their polished barrels gleaming faintly under the fading light. The other five thousand bore spears, swords, and shields—levy troops hardened by Vangal's bitter lands. Seventy field cannons stood arranged across the plain like iron beasts, their wheels braced and their black mouths pointed at the city walls.

The army camp sprawled like a small city of its own. Rows of Bernardian-style tents, white with stitched insignia of Kaen's banner, spread across the flatland—military order, supplies, powder magazines, and field kitchens all. The discipline was no accident. Kaen's men had been trained by Bernardian officers in volley fire, artillery placement, and modern siege tactics.

Kaen turned his horse, watching them. His anger was still hot, but discipline steadied him. Rage won battles in single duels, but armies needed clarity. And clarity he had—Northern Mountain City would fall.

A single rider left the Bernardian-trained lines. The messenger rode forward beneath a flag of truce, his horse's hooves crunching on frost-hardened ground. All eyes followed him as he stopped before the gate and raised his voice.

"Surrender your city! Lay down your arms, and Lord Kaen will spare your people. Resist—and your walls will be broken, your wealth taken, your families cast into ruin."

The words echoed across the field, bouncing from stone to stone. The city gave its reply in silence—until a musket cracked from the walls, the shot sparking harmlessly into the dirt near the messenger's horse.

"Tell your master that Northern Mountain City bows to no man. If he seeks ore, he will dig his grave here instead!"

The rider turned back, face pale, and galloped for safety. The message was clear.

Kaen's teeth bared. "So be it."

He gave the signal.

Drums pounded through the camp. The army began to shift.

The cannon crews rolled their guns into prepared earthworks—low mounds of packed soil and wood that Bernardian engineers had instructed them to raise the night before. Behind them, infantry lines spread out in disciplined wings, bayonets glinting, rifles slung. The camp itself transformed from rest into readiness—fires doused, horses moved to rear corrals, officers shouting orders.

The siege had begun.

The walls of Northern Mountain City loomed defiant, but Kaen knew walls could bleed. The Bernardian cannons would hammer them. And once breaches opened, his men—trained in the storming tactics of a modern army—would pour through like a tide of steel.

Still, the city was not defenseless. From the battlements, torches moved like restless stars. Drums thudded faintly within. The defenders shouted orders Kaen could not hear, their voices carried by the mountain wind. Smoke curled from forges—inside, they were likely melting lead, forging bolts, preparing oil for fire. These were mining folk, men who had lived with stone and iron all their lives. They would not yield easily.

Kaen rode back through the camp, passing rows of cannon as crews loaded powder bags and checked fuses. Each gun had its number painted in Bernardian style, each crew drilled until every movement was clockwork. He watched one gun-captain, a scarred veteran, slap a young boy across the head for fumbling a ramrod. The soldier corrected instantly, fear sharper than discipline. Kaen approved. In siege war, precision was survival.

Past the guns, rifle regiments stood ready.

Kaen halted at the command tent. Inside, maps were spread across a wooden table, pins marking ranges and arcs of fire. Officers bent over them, arguing in hushed tones.

Kaen leaned over the map, his gauntleted hand pressing against the mountain symbol that marked the city. "We cut them from water first. They have cisterns, but not endless. The mines will trap them with their own hunger for air. The cannons fire at dawn—no rest for their walls. Night will belong to us."

The officers nodded. Orders rippled outward. Soon, soldiers dragged heavy timbers, setting stakes around the city to prevent sally attempts. Cavalry patrols trotted out to guard the perimeter. Every hour, the ring around Northern Mountain tightened like a noose.

Inside the city, life was already shifting into siege rhythm. Kaen could see torches along the wall, hear faint horns and bells. Their weapons looked like relics compared to Bernardian rifles.

Night came slowly, draping itself across the valley. Fires burned in Kaen's camp, small and controlled. The smell of cooked rations mingled with gunpowder. Soldiers spoke in low tones, cleaning rifles, checking packs. The cannons loomed in silence, black mouths staring at the city as if eager to roar.

Kaen stood outside his tent, staring at the walls. His blood still burned at the thought of Sarul, but here was the first step of his vengeance. He would tear Sarul's allies from their strongholds until the man stood alone, naked before his fury.

The city walls gleamed faintly in moonlight. From atop them, Kaen thought he could see movement—archers adjusting their quivers, musketeers watching nervously, a captain walking with lantern raised. They were men, not monsters. But war made no space for pity.