The weather grew colder each day, and Roland woke up later and later.
As a member of the ruling class, he naturally enjoyed the privilege of sleeping in. Particularly, the large bed covered with three layers of velvet felt enveloped him in soft comfort upon lying down, further reinforcing his inclination to procrastinate.
When Roland finished his morning routine and entered the office, Nightingale was already waiting for him.
"Here's your breakfast. I ate half of it while it was still hot, so it's cold now," she said, pouting at the half-empty bread on the table, acting as if she were the one in charge.
"Nobody ever taught you to keep your distance from Prince," Roland said, reaching for the door and returning to his desk. "You were the one who always kept up the decorum at first." He sighed inwardly—no wonder this guy was such a social butterfly, always hanging around Anna or coming to his place. Once shy and low-key, he now strutted around the office without a care, even ditching his cap.
"Is this what you mean?" She leapt off the table and performed a flawless Noble bow. "You've been getting up later lately. Since I noticed your breakfast was left untouched, I took care of part of it. Your Highness," she leaned in close to Roland, "you don't care anyway, do you? And you don't like those tedious formalities—I can tell." "Do you have a sixth sense, you brat?" Roland retorted. "Can you tell?"
He sighed, "As you please, but finish it after breakfast. I'll order another portion if I feel like it." "As you wish, Your Highness!" She chuckled softly, picked up the plate, and walked away.
Roland spread out a blank sheet of parchment, ready to finish the design he had left unfinished the previous day.
To defend Border Town, the winter battle must not end in a Pyrrhic victory. Though a bloodless army is no true force, Roland fears these hastily trained troops might lose their resolve to defend the walls if heavy casualties occur.
He needs a cross-era weapon to gain absolute superiority over the evil beast.
Without a doubt, it is the musket.
In fact, this era already had all the necessary conditions for the emergence of firearms. Alchemists often prepared a substance called snow powder for ceremonial firecrackers at court celebrations. This was actually a misformed gunpowder that burned slowly, and when placed in a copper tube, it mostly produced only a loud bang.
Approximately a century later, the prototype of the musket—the firelock—would emerge. This firearm, due to its cumbersome operation, required two individuals to collaborate in the loading and firing process, and was generally used as a single-shot weapon. Moreover, its rate of fire and power were inferior to those of a well-trained archer.
Roland had no interest in repeating history. Like the steam engine, he could have easily used Witch's abilities to create a practical firearm.
"You checked the orders on the table when you weren't here," Nightingale said, swallowing the last piece of bread and asking casually. "Why buy so much ice pop? It's winter now—why not just chill the draft beer outside overnight?" The upper Noble class loved making ice pop (a nitrate-based drink) in summer, then chilling it with milk, wine, or juice. Thanks to the season, nitrate mining was now at rock-bottom prices.
"Make it chilled cheese. The temperature isn't low enough yet—it needs to freeze," Roland said with a grin.
The woman before him wasn't an enemy, yet she wasn't as familiar as Anna. Unlike steam engines, firearms posed no significant technical barriers. Once disseminated, they would clearly undermine his farming plans. Before uncovering her true intentions, it was better to keep some things under wraps. With this in mind, he tentatively asked, "Does the Witches Association also train assassins besides searching for the Holy Mountain?" "No, they're just a bunch of pitiful souls gathered for a dream," Nightingale waved her hand. "I only joined the Alliance two years ago." "So you were working for others before?" Her flawless throwing skills required years of unguided practice, Roland confirmed. "Besides me, are there others willing to take in Witches?" "Take in?" Nightingale's God-like complexion grew peculiar. "How could... If he knew I'd become a Witch, he wouldn't even let me through the gates. As for later, if I hadn't been useful to him, he'd have been secretly executed long ago." "Oh? Can you explain?" Nightingale smiled and shook her head, though this time the smile carried an ambiguous tone. "Your Highness, I'll tell you when the time is right. I know what you're worried about. Rest assured, I've been free for five years and no longer need to serve anyone." The negotiation failed, and it seems my charm attribute points aren't high enough... But her answer indirectly confirmed my suspicions—she had done some shady things for someone at least five years ago. Fortunately, his use of Nightingale seemed accidental, unlike my own plan to recruit witches on a large scale.
Roland didn't press further and kept working on his drawings with his head down.
To his slight surprise, the nightingale who usually lingered near him had now fallen silent, leaving only the crackling of the fireplace in the room. When Roland finally lifted his head to stretch his sore neck, she was nowhere to be seen in the office.
"Without even a word of goodbye," he muttered, folding the parchment in his hand and tucking it into his inner pocket.
After several days of hard work, with this blueprint, the weapon's design—or rather, its replication—was finally completed.
He was determined to craft the legendary flintlock gun. This time-tested weapon, with its rear-loading gunpowder and front-loading lead pellets, could fire nearly three rounds per minute. Its manufacturing complexity rivaled that of the matchlock, making it more than capable of taking down mindless mutant beasts.
Most animals cannot scale walls, so the shooting distance is roughly equivalent to the height from the top of the wall to the ground, which is twelve feet. Within this range, even if aiming with the feet, the target will not be missed, and the bullet's initial velocity remains almost unchanged. Unless the evil beast evolves a skin harder than steel, it can generally be killed with a single shot.
The drawback of flintlock guns lay in their production time. Initially, like matchlock guns, they were crafted by artisans hammering iron pieces one by one. The entire process—from barrel to trigger—typically took about three months. The barrel, being the largest component, required shaping iron sheets into cylindrical tubes, coating them with gunpowder, and drilling rifling patterns. While no sophisticated tools were needed, only skilled craftsmen could produce a functional barrel.
This is why Roland first built a steam engine.
With the steam engine, he could drill gun barrels directly into solid iron rods using steel bits, dramatically increasing production speed. This eliminated the need for skilled craftsmen, requiring only a workbench to secure the iron rods.