Reincarnated with the Country System

Date: 20-6-1561 WC

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The dawn was a haze of smoke.

Kaen stood atop the forward ridge, the chill of the early morning wind biting at his face. Below him, two kilometers away, the city still loomed: stone ramparts, crooked towers, banners whipping in the ash-touched air. A hopeless city, outmatched by the weapons Kaen had brought to its gates.

The first day they had only prepared. But today—today was no longer about testing or preparation. Today the war engines would speak in full.

"Ready the batteries," Kaen commanded. His voice carried cold iron, steady, unshaken.

Along the Bernardian-style siege lines, earthworks and sandbag revetments shielded the barrels of seventy cannons. Their crews stood by, boots and uniforms blackened with soot, palms blistered from handling steel and powder. The guns were not medieval bombards nor crude culverins like the defenders clung to. These were machines of a later, deadlier age, imported and reinforced by Bernardian doctrine.

The gunners knew them well.

Closest to Kaen's command trench, a row of 76 mm divisional guns M1942 (ZiS-3) gleamed as tarpaulin covers were pulled aside. These field cannons—sleek, reliable—were the backbone of the artillery corps. Each weighed just over 1,200 kilograms, their steel carriages biting into the mud. With a maximum range exceeding 13 kilometers, they were more than capable of hitting targets deep within the city's heart.

Further back, crews loaded the heavier beasts: the 24-pounder siege guns, relics of an older but still lethal design. Unlike the ZiS-3, these were cumbersome, each weighing nearly three tons, requiring teams of horses and trucks to move them into position the previous night. But once set—once their massive iron barrels were leveled—they could smash through thick masonry.

And in between, arrayed like patient predators, rested the QF 4.5-inch howitzers. British-born designs from a bygone war, but perfected here under Bernardian hands. Each howitzer could lob a 25-kilogram shell in a high arc, reaching nearly 7 kilometers. Their purpose was not direct destruction alone but to rain fragmentation into the courtyards, the troop mustering yards, the places the defenders thought safe behind stone.

Seventy guns, three calibers, three philosophies of destruction. Together, they formed Kaen's chorus of annihilation.

The sun crested, and Kaen raised his hand.

"Commence fire."

The order fell, and the world convulsed.

The first to bark were the ZiS-3s. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! Their sharp reports split the air like breaking timber, barrels recoiling violently as shells screamed toward the city with a rising metallic whiiiine. A half-second later—KRA-KOOOM!—the first impact bloomed, stone shattered, dust rose in gouts along the southern wall. More shells followed, whistling death, slamming into towers, parapets, and streets beyond. The gun crews worked like parts of a machine: one ramming the shell, another slamming the breech closed with a metallic CLANG, a third adjusting elevation, the fourth hauling spent casings away with hollow thuds.

Then the 24-pounders thundered. BOOOOOOM! The ground trembled beneath Kaen's boots as the heavier siege guns fired in sequence. Deep, resonant thooms rolled across the battlefield, echoing against the hills. Their projectiles, slower but monstrous, smashed against the city gatehouse, KRRRASH! sending chunks of oak and masonry flying outward.

The howitzers joined the song. WHUMP—whiiiiistle—KRAAASH! Their shells arced high, vanishing into the pale morning sky before descending like iron rain. When they landed inside the city, explosions rippled through the alleys, BOOM-BOOM-BOOM! blooming fire and steel fragments that tore through flesh and timber alike.

It was not a battle—it was a storm.

For the defenders inside the city, the second day dawned as apocalypse.

On the ramparts, men shouted warnings, but their voices were drowned by the incoming barrage. Cannons they knew—yes—but never like this. Their own bombards, primitive culverins and wrought-iron pieces, boomed with pitiful thuds, a range of no more than a few hundred meters. To fire, they had to expose themselves on the walls, visible, vulnerable. Meanwhile, Kaen's guns sat safely beyond sight, striking them with invisible hands.

A captain of the city guard clung to the parapet as another ZiS-3 shell ripped into the stone fifteen paces to his left, KRAAACK!, sending shards of masonry slicing into his men. Screams echoed, blood sprayed across the battlements; helmets and bodies tumbled down into the courtyards.

"Return fire!" he bellowed, though he knew the futility.

Men dragged their bombards forward, crude black-powder engines centuries behind in design. They loaded them with grapeshot and stone, lit fuses with a hissss, and fired. BOOM! The roar was pitiful compared to Kaen's modern thunder. Their shots fell short, plowing harmlessly into the no-man's-land of churned mud and smoke a kilometer away.

From the command tower, the city's lord watched, face pale in the orange glow of fire blooming across his streets. His city was being torn apart by weapons he had never imagined. A church spire toppled under a howitzer strike with a CRRRASHH!; markets erupted in flame; soldiers assembling in the barracks were shredded before they could march.

He gripped the stone windowsill until his knuckles bled. "Monsters," he whispered.

Outside, Kaen's confidence grew with each volley.

"Good dispersion," he remarked as another salvo from the ZiS-3s struck the wall at precise intervals. CRACK—BOOM—CRACK—BOOM! The artillery officers nodded, adjusting their range tables, correcting aim with cold precision.

Kaen's adjutant leaned close. "Our ammunition stockpiles will last weeks at this rate, my lord. The Empire ensured our supply lines are secured."

Kaen gave a thin smile. He had Bernard Empire support; that made him confident. This city—this relic—would not hold. He would grind it down piece by piece, until its gates lay open and its defenders broken.

By midmorning, the city was choking under smoke. Fires burned uncontrolled; rubble filled the streets. The defenders still tried to counter. Archers loosed volleys at the distant enemy lines, their shafts whistling down only to fall uselessly in the mud. Cannon crews on the walls worked themselves to exhaustion, reloading, firing, reloading—BOOM!—only to watch their shots vanish into distance.

But Kaen's artillery kept coming.

The 24-pounders found their mark again, smashing a breach into the southern wall. KRRRRRUMMMMPH! Stones fell like thunder, dust clouds rising so high that for a moment it seemed the city was collapsing upon itself. Panic spread inside—civilians running, soldiers rallying, priests carrying relics to the square as if prayer could shield them.

"Keep pressure on the southern wall," Kaen ordered. "Break them there."

The guns obeyed. BOOOOM! BOOM! BOOOM!

Hour after hour, the duel dragged on, though only one side truly fought. The defenders bled for every attempt to fire back, every man on the walls a target for unseen artillery. Kaen's army lost barely a handful—stray countershots, unlucky fragments, accidents with powder.

The city lost hundreds.

Even the bravest captains in the city knew the truth. They could not win this battle of range and firepower. Their only hope lay in holding out, in surviving long enough for relief—or in praying that Kaen's supplies, despite his confidence, might falter.

But Kaen, watching the burning skyline, felt no such doubt. He had Bernard's logistics behind him. He had Bernard's guns in his hands.

And above all, he had patience.

The guns still thundered, BOOM—BOOM—BOOM! and the city drowned in smoke. Kaen's men cheered as another tower crumbled under bombardment with a CRRRAAAASHH!

Kaen stood tall against the sunset, the horizon aflame.

"Tomorrow," he said softly, more to himself than anyone else, "the walls will fall."

The guns answered, another salvo tearing the air, sealing his promise in thunder.