Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

After the officers had unpacked their belongings and taken time to familiarize themselves with the station, they regrouped in the main briefing hall as instructed. The room was functional—rows of benches, a chalkboard at the front, and a large map of Iron Hearth pinned along one wall with colored markers showing known trouble spots.

Lieutenant Talon stood at the head of the room, arms folded, his presence commanding silence without needing to raise his voice.

"Now that everyone's here," he began, eyes sweeping over the assembled officers, "I'll be blunt."

The room quieted further.

"I know you were told by His Majesty, King Arthur Tesla, that your mission is to eliminate the Iron Shield gang. That's the end goal, yes—but let's be realistic. Right now, that's not happening."

Murmurs stirred in the back rows, but Talon's voice cut through before anyone could interrupt.

"We don't have their exact base. We don't know the full extent of their network. And most importantly, we don't know who's protecting them behind the scenes. Rumors are one thing—evidence is another."

He stepped forward, tone sharpened with clarity.

"So forget about playing hero or charging into the unknown. Your job right now isn't to 'eliminate' anyone. Your job is to secure the streets, protect the civilians, and start gathering information—block by block, vendor by vendor, whisper by whisper."

He took a step forward, his boots clicking against the stone floor, and swept his gaze across the fresh faces of the newly sworn officers.

"Let me remind you of something important. Being an officer of the law is a new concept in this kingdom. To the people of Iron Hearth, you're not heroes. You're not protectors. Hell, you're not even familiar. They don't know if you're truly here to help them—or just another group of armed thugs wearing fresh uniforms and claiming authority."

A murmur of unease passed through the room, but Talon didn't let it fester.

"That's why your first assignment comes from me, not the king," he said, voice firm. "You are to go out into the streets—not to arrest, not to fight, but to introduce yourselves. Face to face. Group by group. You will tell them who you are, what your purpose is, and why you're here. You will make it clear that you serve them. Not the nobles. Not a distant crown. Them."

He gestured to a list posted on the wall behind him. It showed team assignments—groups of five to six officers each, spread across the various neighborhoods surrounding the station.

"You've all been trained in public conduct, de-escalation, and community engagement. Don't make me repeat what you should've already mastered in your officer exams. This isn't a test—but if you fail to earn the people's trust, we might as well pack up and go home. Because without them, we'll never find the Iron Shield."

A pause.

"Your mission begins now. Get out there. Shake hands, listen, observe. Show them that the badge on your chest means something."

The officers straightened up, and as one, they replied with conviction, "Understood, sir."

Lieutenant Talon gave a nod of approval, his tone easing slightly as he added, "Good. Move out in your assigned groups."

As the room stirred to life, officers moved quickly toward the large posting board nailed to the far wall, eager to learn who they'd be working with. Jareth walked briskly with the rest, weaving past his fellow recruits until he reached the front of the crowd. His eyes scanned the board, line by line, until his name finally appeared—Team 3.

There were five names under the heading, including his.

He quickly read through them: Rourke Vann, Mikel Thorne, Cid Erhart, Renford Bale, And lastly, himself—Jareth Elmar, newly sworn in.

Solid squad, he thought.

He stepped away just as a familiar voice called out from nearby, "Team 3! Over here."

It was Rourke, already standing by one of the wall near the exit. He had his arms folded and a confident smirk on his face.

Jareth approached, nodding. One by one, the others gathered. Mikel gave a casual nod as he tightened his gloves, while Cid merely adjusted the strap on his utility belt and muttered a soft greeting. Renford stood with arms crossed, his posture rigid and his gaze quietly calculating.

"Alright," Rourke said, scanning the group with a level gaze. "This is us, then. Let's keep things tight. We'll introduce ourselves properly as we head toward the patrol zone. If we're going to work as a team, we need to know how each of us handles pressure."

"Agreed," Renford replied, voice clipped and professional.

As they moved out from the station, boots striking rhythmically against the cobbled street, introductions came naturally. To Jareth's mild surprise, he quickly learned that he was the only local among them. Rourke and Mikel hailed from Eldoria, while Cid and Renford were both from Solornay. That made Jareth the most familiar with the layout, the streets, and—more importantly—the way things really worked in Iron Hearth.

By the time they arrived at their designated patrol zone—a bustling market tucked between rows of uneven buildings—Jareth had naturally slipped into the role of the unofficial leader. The others looked to him for directions, and he gave them readily, pointing out shortcuts, blind spots, and which stalls had a tendency to attract thieves or troublemakers.

But as they stepped into the crowd, all conversation faded.

Dozens of eyes turned their way. Vendors paused in mid-bargain. A child tugged at his mother's sleeve and pointed. A blacksmith leaned against his forge, wiping sweat from his brow as he gave the newcomers a long, guarded stare.

The cause was obvious.

They didn't look like anyone else here.

Their uniforms were crisp, structured, and unmistakably modern. Each officer wore a tailored shirt dyed a deep navy blue, reinforced with stitched leather along the shoulders and elbows for both mobility and protection. Silver fastenings gleamed at the cuffs and collar, while the left breast bore the insignia of Keldoria's Law Enforcement Division—a silver crown encircled by a sword and laurel. Matching trousers were tucked into polished black boots, and a lightweight utility belt carried standard-issue batons, signal whistles, pepper bombs, and other non-lethal gear.

Compared to the earth-toned robes, patched tunics, and roughspun cloaks of the average citizen, the officers looked like something out of a foreign tale—sharply drawn figures carved out of another world.

Curious glances followed them everywhere they walked.

"This'll take some getting used to," Mikel muttered under his breath, scratching the back of his head.

Jareth let out a slow breath, his eyes sweeping across the crowded market square. "Yeah," he murmured. "For now, let's split up and start putting up the signs we brought from the station. Make sure they're in places the public can't miss."