CHAPTER 299: CHAPTER 299: TRAINING DAY I

Eastern Vengal, Coastal Town of Lorrik’s End

The sky was gray that morning, thick with salt and damp wind from the sea. Along the broken stone roads of Lorrik’s End, Kaen’s soldiers gathered in the old fortress yard, now repurposed as a training field. Mud caked their boots. Their armor—boiled leather, iron scale, and chainmail—looked outdated under the watchful eyes of the Bernardian visitors.

A steel-colored airtruck hummed low as it descended on the plateau above the town. Its landing stirred dust and fear. Out stepped four Bernardian soldiers, dressed not in shining plate or noble robes, but in dull green uniforms with black leather belts, gloves, and steel helmets. No ornament, no rank pins. Just clean lines and hard eyes.

One of them stepped forward. Sergeant Helmut, early forties. Scar on his left cheek. Cold voice. Cold posture.

He said nothing at first. Just looked. One hand rested on the Gewehr rifle slung across his chest. The others behind him opened long metal crates.

Inside: weapons. Tools of a new age.

Kaen stood on the old stone stairs above the yard, arms folded, cloak wrapped tight. His face was unreadable. He was watching his men more than the visitors.

"Let them show us what they brought," he muttered to his adjutant, who nodded and gave the order to start.

The Vengali troops shifted uneasily as Sergeant Helmut walked into the open.

"I am Sergeant Helmut Grau," he barked, his voice like gravel dragged across steel. His Vengali was rough, but understandable. "We are not here to entertain you. We are here to train you."

The silence around him was the silence of prey recognizing a predator.

"I am not your mother, your friend, or your godsdamned therapist. You will call me Sergeant. You will speak only when spoken to. And you will move when I say move."

His eyes scanned them—cold.

He tapped the Gewehr. "This is not a toy. This is a rifle. It will kill a man from over five hundred strides. You pull this," he gestured to the trigger, "he dies. Fast."

One of the Vengali officers, Captain Suran, smirked. "We have rifles too. Bought from the Malak. Slow loaders, wooden body. They’re just better than crossbows."

Helmut glanced at him. Walked over to a straw dummy that had been set up. He didn’t speak. He just raised the Gewehr, braced it, and pulled the trigger.

CRACK.

The dummy’s head burst open. Straw flew like blood. The force knocked it back.

Even the horses tethered near the gate flinched.

Silence held for several long seconds.

Some of the younger soldiers stepped back instinctively. A few stared, eyes wide. One whispered, "Spirits protect us..."

Helmut slung the rifle back. "That was a Gewehr-33. Bolt action. Fires seven rounds. One pull. One kill. You will train on these until you stop pissing your pants when they fire."

He gestured to one of his corporals, who cracked open a crate and hauled out a rifle, gleaming with fresh oil. The corporal shoved it into the arms of the nearest Vengali recruit—a wiry boy, maybe eighteen. The kid took it like it was heavier than expected.

"Shoulder it!" Helmut barked.

The boy jumped and clumsily brought the weapon up.

"Right side, godsdammit! Lean in! Elbow tight! You’re not holding your grandmother’s broom—this thing kicks like a mule with rabies! You aim with your eyes. You blink, you miss. You miss, you die. That simple."

Someone in the back chuckled. A bigger man, maybe twenty-five, with a half-smile and zero sense.

"It’s just a stick with a crack," he muttered.

Helmut turned his head—slowly, precisely—like a turret locking onto a heat signature.

"Step forward," he said. Calm. Too calm.

The man blinked. "Sergeant, I—"

"Did I stutter? Step. Forward."

The laughter vanished. The soldier obeyed, boots dragging a little too slow.

Helmut shoved a rifle into his hands and pointed toward a dummy twenty meters out.

"Mock it again."

The man hesitated, then spat to the side and raised the rifle like a toy. He pulled the trigger without bracing.

The crack echoed through the range. The Gewehr bucked like a beast. The man grunted—hard—and nearly lost the weapon to the recoil. The round went wide, digging into the dirt far off-target.

The men laughed again—this time at him.

"Again," Helmut snapped.

The soldier’s arms were shaking.

"You think this is a fucking game? You think these weapons are toys? You’re laughing? That stick just taught you more than your mother ever did—respect the damned recoil!"

He fired again. Missed again—but less.

"Again."

Third shot. It grazed the dummy’s chest—barely.

Helmut nodded once. "That one would bleed. If it was your enemy, he’d be dead before he drew a blade."

He let the silence linger. The laughter was gone now. All that remained was wind and tension.

Another crate thudded open. A smaller one. Inside sat a row of short, matte-black pistols, shaped like the bones of some mechanical predator.

Helmut reached in and pulled one out.

"This is a Browning M1911," he said, his voice gravel-coated steel. "Standard sidearm. Seven rounds. .45 caliber. Built to end a fight before it begins. Close range. Fast draw. Accurate if your hand doesn’t shake like a coward’s."

A few Vengali officers leaned in. One of them—an older man who had served under Kaen’s father—pointed.

"Looks like a hand-crossbow without the string."

Helmut didn’t speak. He turned, aimed at a dummy barely fifteen feet away, and pulled the trigger.

CRACK.

The shot punched the air like a hammer to the chest. The sound alone made several men flinch. The dummy’s heart region exploded, torn clean through. A hole the size of a fist smoked in its center.

Helmut stared down the barrel like it was just another day.

"It doesn’t miss," he said flatly.

No one laughed now.

Another crate opened—smaller, metallic spheres inside. Smooth with a pin.

Helmut didn’t bother lifting one. He just gestured.

"Fragmentation grenades," he said. "You pull the pin. You throw it. You take cover. Then it turns everything within three meters into screaming chunks."

"You’re saying it... explodes? Like fire oil?"

Helmut let out a dry breath—half scoff, half pity.

"Worse. Fire oil burns. This shreds."