Another morning broke over Haven, though for the city itself, the distinction between night and day had become a mere formality.

  Alaric stepped out of his residence for his morning walk, the cold sea air biting at his cheeks. The sun was just beginning to seep through the grey mist, but the sound of construction was already deafening.

  Clang. Thud. Saw. Grind.

  The rhythm was relentless. The workers were operating on twelve-hour shifts, a constant rotation of manpower designed to ensure that the city expanded as fast as the refugees arrived. The skeleton of a new housing sector was rising in the west.

  Alaric walked through the streets, nodding to the tired workers changing shifts. He turned his path toward the central district, where the new military infrastructure was being established.

  As he approached the expanded training grounds, the sheer scale of his growing force became apparent.

  The fields were packed. Hundreds of new recruits were running laps, their boots thundering against the earth. With the town’s population breaching the thirty-thousand mark, the guard corps had swelled to nearly one thousand permanent soldiers.

  Alaric paused by the fence, watching a drill sergeant scream at a formation.

  It’s not enough, Alaric thought, his mind projecting into the future. Only one thousand men isn’t enough.

  He was already drafting the legislation in his head. A mandatory one-year military service for all male citizens of age. It wouldn't be a draft for conquest, but a system for survival. He wanted every baker, mason, and fisherman to know how to hold a spear or sword and follow a command structure. In times of national emergency, he didn't want a panicked mob but a militia.

  He moved further down the field, toward the cordoned-off section reserved for the Knights

  Here, the atmosphere was different. Forty Knights stood in formation.

  They weren't the arrogant, silk-clad nobles of the capital. Most of them were rough-edged, fresh graduates from the Knight Academy, commoners who had scraped and clawed for their titles.

  They had flocked to Alaric. First, because he paid well. But secondly, and more importantly, because of who he was. A commoner who became a Viscount. To these young knights, Alaric wasn't just a Lord, he was proof that the glass ceiling could be shattered.

  "Straighten that line! You call that a stance?"

  The shout came from Knight Orban.

  Alaric smiled faintly. Orban was the Vice Commander of his new order, a veteran knight Alaric had partnered with during the Nightmaw hunt . He was originally one of Duke Thorne’s men, but the Duke, in his infinite generosity (and perhaps to ensure Alaric could build up a force), had sent Orban to Haven to whip the greenhorns into shape.

  Orban wasn't alone. A team of Thorne’s veteran instructors moved through the ranks, correcting grips and adjusting postures.

  And there, in the thick of it, was Kellan.

  "Come on! Put your back into it!" Kellan roared, sparring with two recruits at once.

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  Kellan had been appointed Knight Captain naturally. His rank from the Royal Order carried weight. They were a lively bunch, sweating and shouting in the six a.m. , driving themselves to meet the impossible standard their Lord had set.

  Alaric watched them for a moment, feeling a surge of pride, before turning away. His destination lay further on.

  Alaric walked past the hangars, approaching a heavy, reinforced door guarded by his most trusted sentries.

  He descended the spiral stone staircase, the air growing cooler with a smell of furnace and hot metal. This was the underground research center, located directly beneath the airship hangar.

  Inside, a team of master blacksmiths was waiting, but they stood back as Alaric approached the main workbench.

  Lying on the table was a weapon.

  It wasn't like his dual-wielding guns. This was a monster, a long-barreled rifle.

  "Is the barrel alignment precise?" Alaric asked, running his hand over the cold steel.

  "To the last hair’s breadth, my Lord," the head smith replied nervously.

  Alaric nodded. "Leave me."

  As the smiths retreated, Alaric picked up the weapon. He had been working on this for weeks. His control over lightning magic had reached a point where he could act as a power source for this, and with that power came the ability to recreate the deadliest weapons of his past life.

  The Railgun.

  Alaric didn't remember much of his past life, faces and names were blurry but the knowledge remained. He remembered he had a formal education, likely higher education. The concepts were burned into his subconscious.

  He opened the breach of the rifle.

  Inside the barrel, running along the entire length side-by-side, were two parallel conductive rails.

  The theory is simple, Alaric channeling a spark of electricity between his fingers.

  He visualized the flow. He would generate a massive surge of Lightning Magic. The negative charge would enter one plate, travel through the conductive metallic bullet sitting between the rails turning the air around it into plasma and cross into the second plate to complete the circuit.

  This loop would create a massive, magnetic field between the plates. That field would exert a physical force on the plasma-sheathed bullet, launching it forward.

  But there had been a problem. Friction.

  Alaric picked up a prototype bullet. It was solid steel, not the conjured granite he usually used for his guns.

  In the beginning, I tried to make the barrel a total vacuum using Wind Magic, Alaric recalled, grimacing at the memory of the failed test. But without air, there was no medium to turn into plasma. The circuit wouldn't close. The gun didn't fire.

  He had found a workaround.

  He placed the bullet into the chamber.

  "Creo Ventus: Low Pressure."

  Alaric focused. He didn't remove all the air. He lowered the atmospheric pressure inside the barrel to a near-vacuum state, just enough gas molecules remained to ignite into plasma and conduct the charge, but not enough to create significant drag.

  But the real trick was what happened the moment the bullet left the barrel.

  He layered a spell at the muzzle. As soon as the bullet exited, a localized vacuum would be generated around the projectile, carving a path of zero resistance through the air.

  Alaric had already tested the gun once outside and its velocity was fast enough to make the bullet feel instantaneous.

  There were some problems though, he couldn't use his infinite earth bullets for this. He had to use ferromagnetic metal. It was expensive but was necessary.

  His mind flashed back to the battle. He remembered Malakor, slipping through a crack in the air. He remembered firing his pistols, the hypersonic bullets racing toward the void, but falling just milliseconds short before the portal snapped shut.

  Teleportation was a cheat. It was instant.

  But every being had reaction times. Even a demon needed a split second to perceive a threat and activate a spell.

  Alaric looked at the long-barreled railgun with sheer, terrifying pride.

  At such speeds, the bullet would cross a kilometer in a fraction of a second.

  "Let's see you dodge this," Alaric murmured to the memory. "Even teleportation won't save you next time."