Elias Vaeron stood at the threshold of the manor's shattered hall, the match in his small hand burning with a steady, defiant flame. The crimson-cloaked commander loomed before him, his sword gleaming under the moonlight that spilled through the broken roof. Behind the man, hooves thundered as twenty cavalrymen charged across the courtyard, their lances lowered, their armor clinking with lethal intent. The Dominion Interface pulsed in Elias's vision, its cold data a lifeline in the chaos: Enemy Forces: 38 infantry, 20 cavalry. Morale: Recovering. Time to Impact: 15 seconds.
Fifteen seconds to live or die.
Elias's steel-gray eyes locked onto the commander's, his frail body trembling not from fear but from the strain of holding the match and the makeshift musket barrel—a crude bomb packed with gunpowder and iron scraps. His mind, honed by years of war in a world of tanks and drones, churned through possibilities. The trap at the doorway could take out a handful of riders, maybe more if he timed it right. But the commander was the key. Break him, and the rest might falter.
"You're a bold one, boy," the commander said, his voice smooth and mocking, like a blade sliding from its sheath. He took a step forward, his crimson cloak billowing. "But boldness won't save House Vaeron. Your line is ash."
Elias didn't reply. Words were a waste of breath. He lowered the match toward the gunpowder line he'd poured across the threshold, his movements deliberate. The commander's eyes flicked to the powder, a flicker of confusion crossing his scarred face. He didn't know what it was. Good.
The cavalry was close now, their horses' hooves shaking the ground. Elias's heart pounded, but his mind was ice. He'd faced death before—hours ago, in another life, under a tank's cannon. This was just another battlefield, another puzzle to solve. The interface pinged: Tactics (Level 1): Suggest diversionary strike to disrupt enemy cohesion.
A diversion. Elias's gaze darted to the hall's shadows, where Mira, the servant girl, had hidden. She was still there, her knife clutched tight, her eyes wide but resolute. He caught her gaze and jerked his head toward a toppled chandelier near the doorway—a tangle of iron and crystal, heavy enough to cause havoc if dropped. She understood, nodding once before slipping toward it.
The commander took another step, his sword rising. "Last chance, whelp. Surrender, and I'll make it quick."
Elias's lips twitched into a smirk, the same unnerving expression he'd worn in his old life when a plan clicked into place. "You talk too much," he said, and dropped the match.
The gunpowder ignited with a hiss, a line of fire racing across the threshold. The commander's eyes widened, but he was too late. The musket barrel exploded in a deafening roar, spraying shrapnel across the courtyard. Horses screamed, rearing as nails and iron fragments tore through flesh and armor. Riders fell, their lances clattering uselessly. The blast wave knocked the commander back, his cloak singed, his face twisted in shock.
Elias didn't wait. He sprinted back into the hall, his small legs burning with effort. The interface updated: Enemy Forces: 32 infantry, 14 cavalry. Morale: Wavering. The trap had worked, but not enough. The survivors were regrouping, their shouts rising over the chaos.
Mira reached the chandelier, her knife slashing at the frayed rope holding it aloft. "Hurry!" Elias hissed, sliding to her side. The rope snapped, and the chandelier crashed onto the doorway, blocking the entrance with a tangle of metal and glass. It wouldn't hold long, but it bought seconds—precious seconds.
"Back to the forge," Elias said, grabbing Mira's arm. She didn't argue, her trust in him absolute despite the madness. They ran through the twisting corridors, the interface's map guiding them to the basement. The forge was still hot, its embers glowing like a beacon. Elias's half-finished musket lay on the anvil, its barrel roughly shaped, its stock a crude block of wood. He needed it finished. Now.
He shoved the musket into Mira's hands. "Hold this. Watch the door." She nodded, her grip steady despite her trembling. Elias turned to the forge, his small hands moving with a precision that defied his age. He hammered the barrel, shaping its curve, his mind overlaying the blueprint from the Legacy Protocol. The interface fed him data: Material Integrity: 82%. Estimated Completion: 8 minutes. Too long. He needed a shortcut.
The commander's voice boomed from above, muffled but clear. "Tear this place apart! Find the boy!" The manor shook as soldiers battered the chandelier barricade. Elias's jaw tightened. He didn't have eight minutes. He had five, maybe less.
He scanned the storeroom, his eyes landing on a rusty hand drill. Not ideal, but it'd do. He bored a crude firing chamber into the musket's barrel, his hands shaking from exhaustion. The interface pinged: Logistics (Level 1): Suggest pre-loading powder charge to reduce reload time. Elias nodded to himself, packing a small charge into the barrel, followed by a lead ball from the storeroom's meager supplies. One shot. That's all he'd get.
Mira's voice cut through his focus. "They're coming!" She stood at the basement door, her knife raised. Footsteps thundered down the corridor—three soldiers, maybe four, their armor clinking. Elias grabbed the musket, its weight awkward in his small hands. The interface flashed: Enemy Proximity: 10 meters.
"Stay behind me," he told Mira, his voice low and steady. He stepped to the door, raising the musket. It was untested, unbalanced, a prototype at best. But he'd made do with less.
The first soldier burst through, a burly man with a mace raised. Elias didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger, the flint sparking against the pan. The musket roared, the recoil slamming into his shoulder, nearly knocking him off his feet. The lead ball punched through the soldier's chest, dropping him instantly. Blood sprayed across the stone, the acrid smell of gunpowder filling the air.
The other soldiers froze, their eyes wide with terror. They'd never seen a weapon like this—a thunderclap that killed from a distance. The interface updated: Enemy Morale: Broken. Elias didn't wait for them to recover. He grabbed Mira and pulled her through a side passage, the musket still smoking in his hand.
They emerged into a narrow courtyard, the night air cold against Elias's sweat-soaked skin. The manor was surrounded now, torches flickering in the distance. The commander's voice rang out, closer than before. "Fan out! He's here somewhere!"
Elias's mind raced. The musket was empty, its single shot spent. The forge was too far to craft another. The interface offered no new blueprints, only a warning: Territory Defenses: Failing. Militia Status: 8 remaining, scattered. His fourteen men were down to eight, fighting or dying somewhere in the manor. He needed a new plan, a new choke point.
He scanned the courtyard, his eyes landing on a dilapidated stable. The interface highlighted it: Structure: Unstable. Flammable materials detected. An idea formed. Fire. If he couldn't outfight them, he could outthink them.
"Mira," he said, his voice calm despite the chaos. "Get to the stable. Find oil, lamp fuel, anything that burns."
She nodded, darting toward the stable. Elias followed, his small body aching but his mind razor-sharp. The interface fed him data: Resources: 2 barrels of lamp oil, 1 bale of dry hay. Enough for a trap, but it'd have to be precise.
Inside the stable, the air was thick with the smell of mold and manure. Mira dragged a barrel of oil to the center, her small frame straining. Elias helped, his hands slick with sweat. They spread the hay across the floor, dousing it with oil. The interface pinged: Tactics (Level 1): Suggest luring enemy into confined space for maximum effect.
Elias nodded to himself. "When I say run, you run," he told Mira. "Back to the servant's passage. Don't look back."
She met his gaze, her eyes fierce. "You're not dying here, are you?"
He smirked, the expression out of place on his boyish face. "Not planning on it."
The soldiers were closing in, their shouts growing louder. Elias lit a match, its flame a small defiance against the dark. He tossed it onto the hay, the oil catching instantly. Flames roared to life, spreading across the stable. He grabbed Mira's hand, pulling her toward the passage as the fire grew, its heat searing his back.
They reached the passage just as the stable became an inferno. Soldiers poured into the courtyard, their silhouettes stark against the flames. The commander appeared, his crimson cloak untouched by the chaos. He raised a hand, halting his men. His eyes scanned the fire, then locked onto the passage where Elias and Mira hid.
"You can't run forever, boy," he called, his voice carrying over the crackle of flames. "Your house is finished. Your people are dead."
Elias's grip tightened on the musket. He had no shot, no powder, no time. But he had his mind, and that was enough. The interface flashed: Legacy Protocol: Unlocked. Blueprint Available—Bayonet Attachment.
His eyes widened. A blade for the musket. A weapon for close quarters. He could attach it, turn the musket into a spear. But he needed tools, a forge, time he didn't have.
The commander stepped forward, his sword gleaming. "Come out, Vaeron. Face me like a man."
Elias's heart pounded. The fire was spreading, the stable collapsing. His militia was gone, his manor overrun. But he wasn't done. Not yet.
He leaned close to Mira, his voice a whisper. "When I move, you run. Find anyone left—militia, servants, anyone. Tell them to rally at the eastern gate."
She nodded, tears streaking her face. Elias stood, stepping into the open, the musket raised like a challenge. The commander smiled, a predator's grin.
The interface pulsed one final time: Command Tree: Leadership (Level 1) Unlocked. Rally allies to your cause.
Elias's voice rang out, clear and steady, echoing across the burning courtyard. "To me, Vaeron! To me!"
From the shadows, a cry answered—a ragged shout from the manor's survivors. Figures emerged, militia and servants, their weapons crude but their eyes burning with defiance. The commander's smile faltered.
Elias raised the musket, its barrel glinting in the firelight. He had no shot, but he had a spark—a spark that could ignite a legacy.
And then the eastern gate exploded.