The crates were heavy. They smelled of pine wood and gun oil.Inside each one lay ten Resonance Model-1 Rifles.They were simple, rugged bolt-action firearms, modeled after the Karabiner 98k from Earth. No magic. No enchantments. Just machined steel and a chemical propellant.

  "Beautiful," Captain Vorian ran his hand over the polished walnut stock. He lifted the rifle, sighting down the iron sights. "And you say these don't require a mage to recharge?"

  "No mana," Julian said, his voice professional but flat. "Just the cartridges. One silver coin per round. Point, pull, cycle the bolt. A child could do it."

  "A child," Vorian chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "That’s a terrifying thought, Count."

  The Captain signaled his men. They loaded the crates onto the wagon."The bandits in the Red Valley have been raiding our caravans for months. They have a hedge-wizard with them who puts up wind walls to stop our arrows. Let's see how he likes your 'physics'."

  Vorian tossed a heavy bag of gold onto Julian's desk."Pleasure doing business with you."

  Sunset. The Barracks.

  Julian couldn't focus on his blueprints.The bag of gold sat on his desk. He hadn't opened it."Mark," he asked, staring at the wall. "What is the muzzle velocity of the Model-1?"

  "760 meters per second, Maker," Mark II replied instantly. "**At that speed, the kinetic energy transfer upon impact will cause hydrostatic shock, rupturing organs within a 10cm radius of the wound channel.**"

  "Right," Julian rubbed his temples. "Hydrostatic shock."On paper, it was just physics. Mass times velocity.

  "Maker, your heart rate is elevated. Are you experiencing remorse?"

  "Remorse?" Julian stood up and poured himself a drink. "I'm a merchant, Mark. I sell tools. If a man buys a hammer and smashes his neighbor's skull, do you blame the blacksmith?"

  "Logic dictates: No. However, a hammer is designed to hit nails. A rifle is designed to hit organs."

  Julian slammed the glass down. "Shut up, Mark."

  The Return.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Three hours later, the City Guard returned.They weren't cheering.Usually, after a victory against bandits, the soldiers would be singing, boasting about their sword skills.Tonight, they were silent.

  Julian walked out to the courtyard.The soldiers looked... pale. Some were shaking. They looked at the rifles in their hands not with pride, but with a strange mixture of awe and disgust.

  Captain Vorian dismounted. He didn't look like a victor. He looked like a man who had just witnessed a natural disaster.

  "How did it go?" Julian asked.

  Vorian looked at him."It wasn't a battle, Julian."The Captain unslung his rifle and leaned it against the wall. He refused to look at it."The wind wall... the wizard... it didn't matter. The bullets went right through his shield. He didn't even know he was dead until his chest exploded."

  Vorian lit a pipe, his hands trembling slightly."They charged us. Swords, axes, screaming war cries. We just... stood there. We pulled the triggers. They fell in rows. Like wheat before a scythe. They never got within fifty yards."

  "Zero casualties on our side," Vorian whispered. "We didn't even draw our swords. It felt... dishonorable."

  Behind the wagon, the "prisoners" were being unloaded.Or rather, the bodies.Julian walked over. He had to see.

  He looked into the back of the cart.It was a mess. Sword wounds were clean cuts. Arrows were punctures.But gunshot wounds...The damage was catastrophic. The "Hydrostatic Shock" Mark II had talked about wasn't a theory anymore. It was raw meat.

  Julian felt bile rise in his throat. He turned away, retching dryly.He had seen violence in movies. He had played shooters.But the smell... the smell of copper blood and burnt powder... that wasn't in the games.

  "You sold us a nightmare," Vorian said, standing behind him. "But... it works."

  The Captain looked at the dark valley."The bandits are gone. The trade route is safe. My men are alive. From a commander's perspective, this is a perfect weapon."

  Vorian turned to Julian."I need five hundred more."

  The Moral Ledger.

  Julian sat in his office, alone in the dark.The bag of gold was still on the desk.He reached out and opened it. The gold coins glinted in the moonlight.*Profit.*

  He had saved the trade route. He had protected the city.But he had also introduced industrial-scale death to a medieval world.

  "Mark," Julian whispered.

  "Yes, Maker?"

  "Open a new account. Label it 'The Widow's Fund'."

  "Purpose?"

  "I'm taking 20% of all weapons profits. We're going to use it to build that hospital we talked about. And... maybe an orphanage."

  "Maker," Mark II's voice was soft. "Buying bandages with bullet money does not erase the bullet."

  "I know!" Julian snapped. "I know..."He slumped back in his chair, staring at the ceiling."I can't stop the progress, Mark. If I don't sell them the guns, someone else will eventually figure it out. Or Malakor will give them lasers."

  "I have to be the one holding the leash," Julian said, his voice hardening. "I have to control the supply. I have to decide who gets the trigger."

  He picked up a gold coin. It felt cold and heavy."Accept the order for the five hundred rifles. But triple the price."

  "Triple?"

  "If they want to kill that easily," Julian closed his eyes. "They're going to have to pay for the privilege. War shouldn't be cheap."

  Author's Note:

  This chapter was necessary.

  I didn't want to glorify the guns. I wanted to show the horror of modern ballistics in a world that isn't ready for them.

  Julian is walking a fine line now.

  Can he stay "Good" while selling the tools of "Evil"?

  Let me know your thoughts in the comments.