The Villainess's Reputation [Kingdom Building]

Eastern Beach, Kim Island, Kim Dukedom, Ancorna Empire

"We'll hit them again, but when they're most vulnerable," John muttered. "Let them gather for their next push. Then we drown them."

He knelt near the trench's edge, crossbow resting across his lap, watching the silhouettes move faintly within the fog, Imperial ships regrouping for another push.

Around him, Kim City's frontline troops waited in tense silence. The air was heavy with the scent of salt, smoke, and damp soil. The previous spell had bloodied their side, but John knew this was only the beginning.

Fifteen minutes passed like slow-burning fuses. The enemy's movement grew bolder, lines forming, torches flickering, a sign of their next advance.

That was the signal.

"Deploy the next wave!" John ordered. "Send the unmanned ships again!"

A dozen unmanned steam-powered boats surged into the fog, their boilers hissing and engines chugging, creating enough commotion to have the enemy deal with them again.

"Halt steam units! Launch strike boats! Flank from the rear and ready the mobile ballistas!"

His command echoed down the lines as a new formation of smaller, swift assault boats slipped into motion, gliding like phantoms around the fog wall—each one armed with compact ballistas, each one carrying trained militia and seasoned knights.

It was time to hit the Imperials and show how it hurt.

Western Beach, Kim Island, Kim Dukedom, Ancorna Empire

Dame Aisha stood at its center, immovable as the stone cliffs that shadowed her. As the strike unit sailed around the fog going behind with the mobile ballistas on them.

She did not speak.

Her eyes, sharp as the steel she carried, followed the movement of their flanking strike boats, sailing around the fog like wolves circling a herd. Mounted with mobile ballistas and piloted by some of Kim City's most capable militia soldiers, the boats waited for the right moment to descend upon the enemy's exposed side.

Aisha gave a slow, deliberate nod. And the boats vanished into the mist.

Onboard a Strike Unit Boat, Western Flank, Western Beach, Kim Island

The sun above was completely masked by the rolling fog, casting the sea in a muted, ghostly gray. The wind chilled the air, clinging to every exposed inch of skin as the strike boats rowed in silence, slipping past the fog wall like shadows.

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Samuel, a young militia member, sat hunched forward, hands gripping the iron stock of a welded compact ballista. Around him, other knights and militiamen of Kim City were equally silent, their faces tense but determined. The only sound was the soft splash of oars and the distant hum of the magic ships of enemies.

Samuel gulped, a lump caught in his throat. The fear was real.

But so was the pride.

He glanced down at the armor on his chest, at the polished insignia stitched onto his militia cloak. To others, it may have seemed modest, but to him, it meant everything.

He hadn't always been free.

Samuel had arrived on Kim Island not as a soldier, but as a slave, taken from his homeland by the Ronin Town pirates along with his father, Brandon, and mother, Camila. Chained, broken, and branded, they would have been auctioned like cattle.

And then she came. Her Highness Ravenna.

She had rescued them, destroyed the pirates, shattered the obedience spells that bound their minds, and gave them something they thought they'd never have again: a home.

Now, Samuel's family lived within the safety of Kim Dukedom. His mother worked in the administration, earning honest wages and was respected by her peers. His father helped train new recruits in woodwork. And Samuel, he had joined the militia by choice, out of duty.

To protect this city. To protect what they'd finally built.

He tightened his grip on the ballista as the fog thickened, masking their presence.

"For Kim City," he whispered to himself, "and for her highness Ravenna's kindness." The ambush was moments away.

To steady his nerves, he turned his attention to the ballista before him—his hands tracing its edges as if seeking reassurance. It was a compact masterpiece of engineering, designed specifically for mobile warfare at sea. Despite its deadly power, the device was surprisingly small, about the size of a low table, allowing it to be mounted securely across various positions on the boat without obstructing movement or balance.

Its frame was forged from a lightweight steel alloy, strong enough to resist deformation from constant vibration and the recoil of repeated shots. Every joint had been expertly riveted and reinforced, making it feel less like a weapon and more like an extension of the boat itself. The base had been welded directly into the deck, providing a firm and stable platform, even amid the choppy currents of the coast.

Samuel gripped the crank handle, a thick, grooved wheel on the side of the ballista, his knuckles pale against the cold metal. He remembered what the instructor blacksmith had told him during training:

"The magic happens right at the end of the crank's turn."

The design was deceptively simple. As one rotated the crank, the string was pulled back smoothly. At the final stretch, a clever internal lever disengaged the holding pawl mechanism, automatically releasing the loaded string with precision. There was no trigger to pull, no separate motion, just a seamless, fluid fire with every turn.

The bolts were unlike typical arrows. Shorter, thicker, and heavier, they were made for close-range, armor-piercing efficiency, perfect for striking fast-moving targets in tight conditions. They weren't elegant, but they were brutal.

He looked at the spring-loaded feeder ramp, a compact mechanism that loaded each bolt as the string reset itself. It slid each projectile into place with crisp, mechanical precision. The whole thing felt like a machine built not just for function, but for war.

Samuel swallowed hard again, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

He couldn't afford to miss. He couldn't afford to panic.

And then, as the mist covered them, he heard the muffled shout of his captain's voice, slicing through the fog like a blade.

"Get steady!"

The time had come.