The Sovereign System.

Luke was jolted awake by a sharp banging on the wooden door, dragging him from the depths of sleep. His eyes were bleary, his mouth dry with the lingering taste of woodsmoke. Irritated, he pushed himself up and strode to the door, pulling it open to find a soldier standing rigidly before him.

"What is it?" he asked, his annoyance plain in his voice.

The soldier hesitated. "D-Deputy General, sir. General Boyd requests your presence." He kept his eyes averted, fists clenched at his sides, his nervousness evident despite his best efforts to maintain composure.

Luke exhaled, already pushing aside his irritation. No matter how exhausted he felt, he couldn't afford to show disrespect toward Master Boyd—especially not in front of the men. "Where is he?"

"Atop the west wall ramparts, sir."

"Right. I'm on my way."

Before stepping out, Luke glanced over his shoulder. The alchemist, Adam Searle, remained fast asleep, clutching one of the clay pots to his chest like a cherished relic. The sight made Luke chuckle inwardly.

He stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. Five days had passed since they'd begun experimenting with gunpowder, and their progress had been substantial. Not only had they refined and purified the ingredients, but Luke had also determined the ideal ratio for maximum effect.

The next hurdle was figuring out how best to weaponize it. There was no time to manufacture cannons or muskets—he'd have to improvise.

Grenades were his first thought, but he needed the right container to house the powder without compromising its effectiveness. Testing was another issue. The last thing he wanted was to blow himself up in the process.

His mind churned with possibilities as he navigated the city streets toward the west gate. The ache from his stab wound had dulled considerably over the past few days, leaving only a faint throb as he walked. He could move freely now, though the stairs still posed a challenge. Gritting his teeth, he climbed without complaint.

At the top of the ramparts, he found Master Boyd, standing as he had so many times before—unmoving, eyes locked on the enemy encampment below. If Luke didn't know better, he might have believed the man hadn't budged since the siege began.

"You requested me, General?" Luke said, straightening.

"Mmm." Boyd didn't turn. "What's the progress on your alchemy?"

"We've made significant strides, General. If all goes well, we should have a viable weapon within two days. But..." Luke hesitated, his expression tightening. "I haven't had the time or resources to test them properly."

Boyd remained impassive. "It's no matter. In five days, we attack—whether your weapons work or not. If they fail, then so be it. It would be the will of the gods, just as it was when old Gale was taken from us."

Luke felt the weight of the man's grief beneath the detached words, but he didn't pry. Instead, he shifted the conversation. "Have the enemy made any moves while I've been gone?"

"The big bastard's been hurling spears every few hours. We've lost twenty men." Boyd's voice remained steady, unflinching. His next words were spoken with the same calm certainty. "When we go into battle, I'll be the one to take his head."

"Of course, General." Luke cupped his fist in salute. "May I ask where Kayson is?"

"He's been taking over my post at night. I'd wager he's sleeping now," Boyd replied. "I'll tell him to visit you the next time I see him. Now go—there's no time to waste."

"Thank you, General." Luke bowed once more before turning on his heel, making his way back toward the main street.

Master Boyd was usually a man of few words, his presence alone enough to command respect. There was always a quiet, unshakable confidence behind his broad frame. Yet today, Luke sensed a crack in that unwavering certainty. Even as the general declared his intent to take the enemy commander's head, doubt lingered in his voice.

Luke couldn't blame him.

He had no confidence that he could stand against his own subordinates—those who had been enhanced by his system. They were beyond human, their strength far exceeding what should have been possible.

And if the enemy commander was anything like them?

From the hints provided by his system and the sheer might these so-called Holy Knights had displayed, Luke suspected they, too, were superhuman. Whether their power came from divine blessings or another system different to his own, he didn't know.

He only knew which answer he preferred.

The thought of facing another system user—one beyond his control—was something he wasn't ready to entertain. Not now. Maybe not ever.

As he reached the workshop door, the faint sounds of movement greeted him from within. Pushing it open, he found Adam Searle already at work, carefully preparing another batch of ingredients.

It had taken days of trial and error, but they had finally refined the process. The result was a fine, black powder—volatile, and devastatingly effective.

Luke couldn't help but admire it. Beautiful in its own way. And deadly.

"Good morning, Alchemist," he greeted with a nod.

"To you as well, Deputy General," Adam replied, not looking up from his work.

Over the past few days, their working relationship had evolved. At first, Adam had been curt, speaking only when necessary. But as they edged closer to a breakthrough, his demeanor had shifted. Now, there was an undeniable spark of enthusiasm in his eyes.

"We have five days left," Luke said, getting straight to the point. "We need a container—something easy to mass-produce but still capable of dealing significant damage."

Adam didn't even hesitate. "We cannot have both." He shook his head. "Better to create a few effective weapons than many defective ones."

Luke's lips twitched into a grin. "Adam, I think you're underestimating our product."

The alchemist finally looked up, unimpressed. "Please elaborate, Deputy General."

Luke folded his arms. "If we throw a ball filled with gunpowder into an army of men, how many do you think would be injured?"

Adam set down his tools, considering the question. "That would depend on the size of the ball and the material. If we used a hollow clay shell, perhaps those within forty or fifty feet would be wounded. But even then, the damage wouldn't be fatal to most. And there's the matter of ignition—if it doesn't detonate properly, it may not explode at all."

Luke nodded. "That's an apt assessment. Ignition is an easy fix—we soak a rope in oil and light it before throwing the ball." He paused, letting the idea settle. "But what if gunpowder wasn't the only thing inside? What if we packed it with metal fragments?"

Adam's brows furrowed slightly before his eyes widened in realization.

"The range would increase," Luke continued, his voice measured, deliberate. "And so would the damage."

Adam frowned, sinking into deep thought. "It's possible… but how do we determine the right amount of metal fragments without compromising the gunpowder's explosive properties? We can't afford to experiment blindly—certainly not in this warehouse. One mistake, and we might blow ourselves to pieces."

"Once again, you're right," Luke conceded. "To be safe, we should stick to an 80-to-20 ratio—80% gunpowder, 20% metal fragments. Any more, and we might just be throwing away a perfectly good weapon."

Under normal circumstances, Luke wouldn't have been satisfied with a guess. But they had no choice.

"That would be for the best," Adam agreed after some thought. "So, will we move ahead with clay balls as the container? If you wish to mass-produce these weapons, that's our best option."

Luke nodded. "But we can't afford to spend time making them ourselves—not when we should be focusing on preparing the gunpowder. I'll order the citizens to assist. I also need to speak with the blacksmith—if we can forge a few iron or bronze containers, they'll be far more effective than clay."

Adam let out a quiet sigh, clearly relieved that he wouldn't be stuck making hundreds of fragile clay shells.

"I'll be back soon," Luke said, heading for the door. He paused, casting a glance over his shoulder. "Why don't you start the cook fire and make us some breakfast?"

"Yes, General," Adam replied automatically.

Luke grinned. It had sounded like a question, but it wasn't. The alchemist was a sharp man—he knew when an order was disguised as a suggestion.

Feeling optimistic, Luke made his way down the street toward the blacksmith.

Even before he reached the door, the heat of the forge radiated outward, thick and stifling against his skin. When he stepped inside, he was greeted by a nearly barren shopfront. The shelves were empty, likely stripped by the army's requisitions. Apart from a few shabby-looking swords shoved into a wooden bucket, there was nothing of value left.

Luke walked over to inspect them, picking one up. The blade was unbalanced, the edge poorly tempered. His optimism wavered. If this was the quality of work produced here, they might not be able to manufacture what he needed.

"You looking to buy one of my swords, sir?"

The voice came from the forge entrance. Turning, Luke found himself facing a broad-shouldered boy, his hands and forearms thick with muscle from years of labor. Yet his face was young—too young. He barely looked like a teenager.

"Not at this time," Luke replied, setting the sword back in the bucket. "You're the blacksmith?"

The boy's chest puffed up slightly. "I'm the apprentice. I made those swords over there." He pointed toward the bucket with a hint of pride. "My pa says they're a waste of good iron, but I think they've got character."

Luke studied the boy for a moment before nodding. "I'm here to see the blacksmith. Can you fetch him for me?"

The boy's expression faltered. He hesitated, shifting his weight awkwardly. "My pa's busy making armor for the soldiers," he said, almost apologetically. "He doesn't have time to see people. Sorry, sir."

Instead of getting mad, Luke smiled. The young boy was a good kid, but he clearly didn't recognize him. "Please tell your father that the Deputy General seeks an audience."

"D-Deputy General?!" The boy's eyes widened in shock as he stumbled a step back. He muttered something under his breath, clearly trying to process the revelation, before quickly regaining his composure. "I—I will get him now, Deputy General!" He bowed deeply.

Too deeply.

With a loud thud, his head slammed into the wooden countertop, forcing a yelp of pain from him. Wincing, he clutched his forehead before scrambling toward the back room, nearly tripping over himself in the process.

Luke stifled a laugh. Something about the boy's clumsy earnestness made him momentarily forget about the siege, the tension weighing on his shoulders easing just a fraction.

From the forge, he soon heard the distinct sounds of shouting, followed by another yelp—this time not from the boy. Moments later, the door swung open, and a massive man emerged, covered in sweat and soot. His thick black beard was matted with ash, and his muscular arms bore fresh burns from the forge's relentless heat.

"Deputy General, I apologize for keeping you waiting." The blacksmith inclined his head deeply. "I hope my son didn't offend you."

Luke waved a dismissive hand. "Not at all. Your son was quite hospitable—there's no need for concern." He paused, shifting to a more serious tone. "I have an urgent request for you. Do you have time to spare?"

"Yes, Deputy General. Please, come through." The blacksmith stepped aside, gesturing toward the forge.

Luke nodded in satisfaction and followed him in.

The first thing that hit him was the sheer heat. It was leagues hotter than the shopfront, the air thick with the scent of molten metal and burning coal. Sweat prickled at his skin instantly.

'How do people do this for a living?' he wondered, already feeling parched.

"What can I do for you, sir?" the blacksmith asked, wiping his brow.

"Do you have paper? I'll sketch a design for you."

"Liam, fetch my paper and ink. And be quick about it."

A few moments later, the boy returned, slightly red-faced but eager, handing Luke the requested materials. Moving to a sturdy wooden counter, Luke set to work.

He lacked any real artistic talent, but his lines were precise, the design well-thought-out. Scholarly Pursuit allowed him to convey exactly what he envisioned, ensuring there was no ambiguity in his instructions.

Once finished, he slid the paper toward the blacksmith, who took it with a furrowed brow.

"I've never seen a design like this before," the man mused, tracing a thick finger over the lines. "What's it for?"

"It's a new weapon," Luke answered plainly. There was no reason to hide it.

The blacksmith frowned, skepticism creeping into his expression. "With all due respect, Deputy General, I'm not sure what kind of damage something like this could do."

Luke let out a hearty laugh. "You don't need to worry about its effectiveness. I only need to know if you can craft this design." He leaned forward slightly. "I need as many as you can make within the next four days."

The blacksmith stroked his beard, considering. "Aye, I can make them. The best way would be to craft a mold first, but that'll take at least a day. After that, I should be able to forge fifteen by the end of four days."

"That'll do," Luke said with a nod. "One more thing—I need as many small metal fragments as you can provide. The pieces must be small enough to fit through the hole in the design. Can you do that?"

"Aye, Deputy General. Consider it done."