Chapter 8

It took over a month of grinding attrition, but the Fortress of the Western Reach was finally reclaimed by humanity. The cost of victory was high, but the price paid by the enemy was absolute: two Demon Grand Dukes and over eighty thousand demons were buried beneath the ruins.

To mark this monumental triumph, the Coalition Army announced a grand victory gala within the reclaimed city. Prince Abner and Archduke Edwin jointly hosted the affair—a bacchanal scheduled to last three days and three nights.

Charlo made a token appearance at the opening ceremony, offered the requisite toasts, and immediately led his troops back toward the exit.

Notably, Charlo's older brother, Drake de Rose, remained behind. As a Court Noble (Palatine), he was bound by protocol to attend the entire duration.

This highlighted the structural divide within the Empire’s aristocracy: the Landed Nobles (Feudal) versus the Court Nobles.

 Landed Nobles held actual territory, collected taxes, and maintained private armies. Apart from mandatory military conscription during wartime, they enjoyed significant autonomy. For Imperial ceremonies, they needed only to show their face on the first day to prove loyalty; after that, they were free to return to their domains.

Court Nobles derived their power solely from proximity to the Crown. They held titles but often no land, living on stipends and intrigue within the palace. Their attendance was mandatory because their "job" was to be seen supporting the Royal Family.

Generally speaking, few Landed nobles would leave early. The Empire rarely held such grand celebrations, and for the minor country aristocracy, these banquets were a rare currency—a chance to trade favors with High Lords and secure marriages.

Charlo, however, felt nothing but revulsion. He found the air in the banquet hall suffocating.

The agenda for the first day was tolerable: the distribution of medals, the eulogizing of the dead, followed by a standard evening feast.

But the second day featured the "sport" of the aristocracy: The Slave Deathmatches.

The nobles would select their "favorites" from the demon-collaborator slaves who had survived the siege as cannon fodder. These unfortunates would be herded into a makeshift pit to slaughter one another. The owner of the sole survivor would receive a handsome reward—a prize meant to compliment their "extraordinary eye for martial talent."

As for the third day... even if no one explicitly told Charlo, the convoys of terrified women being carted through the city gates made the itinerary sickeningly clear.

"Heh. Nobles..."

Charlo sat on his horse, watching wagon after wagon of "fresh stock" roll past. He let out a cold, cynical sneer.

"My Lord, the baggage train is packed," Davis rode up to report, his hand resting on his sword pommel.

"Good. Let's go. The soldiers are waiting for us outside the city."

Charlo cracked his whip, leading Davis and the Iron Rose Knights toward the gate.

As the distinct, imposing banner of the Iron Rose—a cogwheel wreathed in thorns—appeared, the surrounding slaves immediately threw themselves into the mud, prostrating in fear of offending a high-born. Even the commoners scattered to the sides, not daring to make eye contact.

As they passed the transport wagons, Charlo noticed several women among the captives. They had graceful figures, manicured hands, and fair skin—traits that commoners, who toiled under the sun, could never possess. Clearly, these were women of status.

But status meant nothing now.

Although the demons had only ravaged the Western Region for a month, they had wiped out thirty to forty percent of the minor noble houses. The female relatives who were lucky enough to escape might be taken in by kin. Those with bad luck, or no surviving connections, were reduced to this—branded as "masterless," seized by the victors, and shipped here to "entertain" the heroes of the war.

This was the reality of the world. Once the protection of the family crest was broken, there was no law to save them.

Ironwood Keep.

After a month of travel, Charlo finally returned home. The air here didn't smell of blood and perfume; it smelled of coal smoke and ozone.

During his two-month absence, the industrialization of the Ironwood Territory had continued with clockwork precision, completely unaffected by the chaos on the frontier.

The Mana Steam Engines had successfully entered mass production. Four units had been bolted down; two were powering the elevator systems in the mines, and two were driving the massive industrial triphammers in the forge.

Railway tracks were being laid, scarring the green earth with lines of iron, and the brick foundations for new factories were rising from the soil like geometric flowers.

"Excellent. Lawrence, you have done incredible work."

Charlo reviewed the reports in his study, nodding repeatedly. "What about the standardized ratio for the Mana Stone Powder and the miniaturization of the magical arrays?"

"Miss Freya has cracked the powder ratio!" Lawrence replied efficiently. "Following the chemical principles you provided, she successfully found a stable mixture. However... regarding the array miniaturization, Miss Alice is still struggling to find a solution."

"Hmm... forget it. Getting the powder ratio right is a massive victory for now." Charlo sighed, leaning back. "The arrays are usable as they are; we can take our time refining the geometry."

The "gunpowder" of this world was easy to recreate since he had Earth's chemical formulas as a reference point. However, magical arrays were a different beast. He was fumbling through the dark, trying to apply engineering logic to the engraving of mystical runes that channeled cosmic power.

"It is quite late, My Lord. Miss Freya is likely asleep. Perhaps you should visit the lab tomorrow?" Lawrence suggested, seeing Charlo rise as if ready to dash out immediately.

"True." Charlo nodded and sat back down, rubbing his temples. "It would be rude to disturb them in the middle of the night. Tomorrow it is."

The Next Day.

Charlo arrived at the dedicated magical laboratory he had built for his "Grand Magus."

Pushing open the heavy oak door, he saw a spacious, brightly lit room filled with expensive brass instruments, though most sat idle.

Slumped over a large drafting table were two girls—one large, one small. Both were mages, and both looked exhausted.

They were so immersed in their argument that they didn't notice Charlo enter.

"Aiyah! Alice, look at this! If we change the runes here—twist the fire logic like this—doesn't the array become much smaller?"

The speaker was a little girl who looked about twelve, with long, fiery red hair. She slapped a piece of parchment, comparing her scribbles vigorously to the blueprint spread on the table.

"Sigh... Freya, yours is still too big," replied the other girl, a blonde of about eighteen. She sounded weary. "Besides, you've modified the Flame Array to be way too volatile. If we put this inside the engine cylinder, it won't drive the piston smoothly; it will melt the casing and likely blow the cylinder head off! What use is an engine that explodes?"

"No... that array is actually very useful!" Charlo said, stepping up behind them.

"Eh!?"

"Ah!"

Both girls jumped, spinning around simultaneously.

"Hi. Sorry, I saw you two were debating so intensely, I didn't want to interrupt," Charlo said with a warm smile.

"N-No! Not at all, you are too kind," Alice stammered, nervously twirling a lock of blonde hair. She looked terrified of having been caught arguing.

"My Compatriot! Thou hast finally returned from the abyss of war!"

Freya placed her hands on her waist, puffing out her flat chest and tilting her chin up in a display of pure, unadulterated chunibyo arrogance. "The commission thou entrusted to The Great Me... it is complete! The world trembles at my genius!"

"Yes, I heard. I came today specifically to see your work. I just didn't expect Alice to be here as well." Charlo chuckled and reached out to pat the little mage’s head.

"Hmph, hmph!"

Freya closed her eyes, humming haughtily, but she leaned her head into his palm, rubbing against it like a contented cat.

"I apologize, My Lord. I have yet to complete the miniaturization task you gave me," Alice lowered her head, speaking in a whisper. "I had to ask Freya for help today... but as you heard, we haven't succeeded. The heat output is too high for a contained engine."

"It's fine. I know nothing about arrays; I rely entirely on you two. Take your time, there is no rush," Charlo comforted her.

"Besides, it's not like there are no results!" Charlo picked up the discarded blueprint Freya had drawn. He studied the rune structure—it was aggressive, unstable, and designed to release a massive burst of thermal energy upon a trigger.

"My Compatriot... has thy wisdom sparked a new inspiration?" Freya asked, opening one eye.

"My Lord, is that... useful?" Alice asked, confused. "It ruins the engine."

"Hahaha! Of course! Alice, you are thinking about propulsion. But this? This is Area Denial." Charlo grinned, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

If used in a mechanical engine, this array would be a disaster. But for a Landmine? It was perfect.

As a weapon that remained relevant well into the 21st century on Earth, the landmine was the king of defensive warfare. A simple pressure plate, connected to a mana trigger, activating Freya’s "unstable" explosion array.

In a world dominated by tight formations of heavy cavalry and charging knights, a field sown with these buried nightmares wouldn't just kill enemies—it would break their psychology.

"Freya, Alice," Charlo said, placing the blueprint down. "We aren't scrapping this. We're mass-producing it."