"Success…"
Rhodes's lips curled into a pleased smile as he looked down at the cold metal of the operating table.
Stretched out on it lay the bulky form of one of his mercenaries—a man who, under layers of Magecraft suggestion and ritual control, now obeyed Rhodes with absolute loyalty.
At this moment, however, his entire body was covered in dark wolf fur. Muscles swelled like those of a bodybuilder, so tight they looked ready to burst apart.
That dense black pelt could shrug off small- and medium-caliber firearms. The thick cords of muscle granted him physical strength far beyond any mortal. His blood carried a substance that let wounds knit shut almost instantly. And in his hands gleamed claws sharp enough to rend steel.
Most importantly—Mystery coursed through his body.
The Mystery unique to a Phantasmal Species flowed through his veins, granting him at least a baseline level of Magic Resistance. Simple incantationless spells couldn't harm him at all, and even two- or three-verse Magecraft would struggle to deal damage. Combined with a werewolf's overwhelming speed, he could even hunt down and kill a Pride-ranked magus.
And that wasn't all. His "werewolf bloodline" could be spread through the exchange of bodily fluids. In other words, any human bitten by him would transform into a new werewolf—bound to him through their shared blood.
If Rhodes unleashed these werewolves on a Middle Eastern battlefield, it would take only a few villages cleared to build an army hundreds of thousands strong. They'd retain human intelligence, able to wield modern weapons, even disguise themselves as ordinary people—and thanks to the bloodline bond, they'd remain utterly loyal.
"Good. Let's move on to the heavy firepower trials. Don't slack off." Rhodes's smile deepened as he gave the order. The werewolf mercenary dipped his head in silent fealty.
Moments later, they arrived at the testing grounds for Mystic Codes. Rows of steel plates—twelve centimeters thick and completely solid—were set up in the distance. The werewolf hoisted a massive, brutal weapon onto his shoulder, its six barrels glinting coldly as they locked on to the targets.
This monstrous weapon was the M61 Vulcan rotary cannon. Its reputation as a "Vulcan Gun" was infamous: blistering rates of fire and terrifying destructive power, one of the crown jewels of modern industry.
Now, though—a weapon meant to be mounted on fighter jets was being hefted single-handed by a werewolf. The six barrels rotated with a slow, ominous hum. The yawning 20mm muzzles gleamed with killing intent.
Even the proudest noble magus, staring down those spinning barrels, would toss aside their useless pride and beg for mercy with snot and tears.
Once the trigger was pulled, not even corpses would remain. Only shredded flesh and bloody pulp. Cruel as it was, no spell of this age could rival the lethality of a modern rapid-fire autocannon.
The barrels spun faster and faster, whining with a rising metallic howl—then brass shells erupted forth. A storm of metal became a blazing golden whip, lashing across the line of targets.
The naked eye couldn't follow the bullets; only every sixth round was a tracer, streaking red light through the storm to mark the aim. At 1,200 rounds per minute, the Vulcan became a sword of judgment, reducing everything in its path to scraps.
"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM—!" The deafening thunder rolled across the testing grounds. Twelve-centimeter steel plates were cleaved clean through. The falling halves were torn apart midair, shattered into clouds of jagged fragments.
"Science is the ultimate productive force. That's never changed in all of history." Rhodes raised his voice, elated. "Now—activate the Magecraft! Show me true firepower!"
"Awooo!" The werewolf roared. The recoil bit into his arms, painful but nothing compared to the savage thrill of letting loose.
Suddenly, a glow of prana lit up along the cannon's body. The storm of bullets exploded outward in erratic arcs, tracing dozens of burning trails through the air.
The destruction was nightmarish. Where sustained fire had been needed to tear through steel before, now a single shot obliterated a target.
Worse still—not a single round missed. Even shattered fragments of steel were picked off one by one, shells detonating in relentless succession until nothing remained. In seconds, over a dozen targets were reduced to dust.
"Excellent."
Watching the bullet storm's devastation, Rhodes's grin twisted into something feral.
"What magus could withstand this barrage? A Pride-class? A colour? Or even those fossilized Crown Magi?"
"Werewolf soldiers, enhanced Vulcan cannons—I can mass-produce both in mere days. And how many years does it take the Clock Tower to train a single magus?"
"And the Vulcan is only the beginning. I still have main battle tanks, self-propelled artillery, aerial bombs—hell, even flying battleships! And if I really wanted, I've got the Sherman M1!"
"Fifty-six tons, three hundred and fifty rounds per minute, piercing and incendiary shells in one! A true hero among tanks!"
"And the old fossils at the Clock Tower think they can oppose me?"
Rhodes laughed to himself in delight, as if already seeing the Clock Tower cowering under his massive steel hammer, the decrepit aristocrats "called out" one by one by railguns.
"You're losing your composure, Master." At his side, RyuZU's gentle voice cut in. "Your creation is indeed impressive—but please, remember your dignity."
"Impressive? Don't joke with me." Rhodes's sudden retort made her blink. He barreled on, intoxicated by his own vision. "A perfect Golem isn't this trash. Werewolves made of flesh and blood, war machines piled together from steel—they're nothing but defective products!"
"Then… what's perfection?" RyuZU asked softly, almost childlike.
Rhodes's grin widened, sharp and wild.
"Why, Ship Girls, of course. Floating battleships paired with shipgirls—that's the 'art' I've long dreamed of!"