That evening, after supper, Thorris returned with a parchment detailing the men he’d chosen. Dohnal had done an impressive job cleaning and rearranging the dungeon’s lower chambers. Several more straw dummies waited in neat rows, and tables held small chests prepared to store ammunition and parts. Oil lamps cast a dim, flickering light over the stone floors, and the air was thick with anticipation.

  Reyn unrolled the parchment and scanned the names by candlelight. He recognized a few: Arlin, a young trainee knight from a family that had served Black Water’s lords for three generations; Rowan, a broad-shouldered militiaman who had earned respect for defending the village’s grain stores during a previous raid; Byrne, known for his steady nerves and quick reflexes. Each name came with a short note from Thorris, summarizing their loyalty and background.

  “Only four of your trainee knights?” Reyn asked, raising an eyebrow. He knew from memory that Thorris commanded a group of ten trainee knights at best, though their loyalty varied.

  Thorris’s face darkened slightly. “My lord, of the ten knights-in-training, only five have backgrounds I fully trust. The others have questionable ties. Some may have loyalties to the Count of NorthSeet, or report back to your father’s. I cannot be certain of where their loyaties lie.”

  Reyn’s stomach clenched at the mention of Count Grandrich—his estranged father, who had banished him here. “That’s understandable,” Reyn said evenly.

  Thorris indicated the other four he’d chosen: militia members from old warrior families that had always stood by the territory. “These men come from lineages that have bled for Black Water many times. Their loyalty is to this land and to whoever leads it, so long as that leader cares for them. They won’t betray you.”

  Reyn nodded, “Very well. This enough to start. With these weapons and proper drilling, they might become a force that even the Red Claws will fear.”

  Thorris allowed himself a confident grin. “We can begin their training tomorrow, my lord. I’ve already arranged for them to report to the castle at dawn. We’ll keep it quiet.”

  “Excellent. Reinforce the patrols tonight as well,” Reyn added. “We cannot let the bandits approach unseen.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Thorris bowed, saluted, and left to make his final preparations.

  Reyn watched him go, then turned to Dohnal---.

  ----------

  That night, Reyn felt a rare spark of relaxation. The Red Claws were a lurking on the horizon. So, he must put these weapons to good use. He knew little beyond the basics. He recalled how awkwardly he had fired the pistol and rifle, how his aim wavered and his shoulder ached afterwards. These men deserved a better instructor. If he could gain experience secretly, he could present himself as a source of knowledge and authority.

  In the privacy of his chamber, Reyn reached for his arm and felt the strange mark beneath his sleeve. It hummed faintly. The mysterious “CS world” might serve as a private training ground. He could spend hours there, practicing his aim, refining his shooting stance—all without any time passing in the real world. The idea made him smile. He had tested this once, using hourglasses. Time inside did not affect time outside. It was a priceless advantage.

  Slipping into bed, Reyn closed his eyes and summoned that hidden dimension. He concentrated, feeling the gentle pull, and then it was there: the mental image of dusty stone streets under an eternally still sun, crates and barrels arranged as cover, and shelves of items waiting in a spectral menu. He stepped through and found himself in the quiet DUST II environment once again, rifle in hand, ammunition crates at his feet.

  For hours—hours inside that pocket realm—he practiced. He learned to brace the stand firmly, to lean forward, to compensate for recoil. He tried short bursts of fire instead of holding the trigger down, finding the sweet spot for accuracy. Slowly, his shots grouped tighter around his chosen targets. He switched between different weapons: pistols, rifles, even trying out a heavier machine gun though he doubted he’d introduce it anytime soon. It was all about understanding the tools at his disposal.

  When he finally stepped back out into his chamber, no more than a few minutes had passed in the real world. He felt sore, his muscles protesting the repetitive drills, but he was more confident now. He dried sweat from his brow and climbed into bed, letting sleep take him. Tomorrow would be a long day.

  Dawn found Reyn in the dungeon’s torch-lit halls, accompanied by Thorris and Dohnal. The ten chosen men had already assembled. They wore sturdy leather and padded gambesons—standard local attire. Over these, Reyn had them don simple ballistic vests disguised under cloth, and helmets that looked somewhat like steel caps, though of a more intricate design. The firearms themselves had been hidden under tarps until now.

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  The men stood in a loose line, curiosity plain in their eyes. They knew they had been selected for something special, but no one had fully explained what. On Thorris’s orders, they had come without questions.

  Reyn stepped forward. “Good morning. You have been chosen to guard the land we stand. We face a grave threat: the Red Claw Bandits. They are cunning and brutal. But now new hope dawn upon us, we have new weapons— we have power now. With them, we can defend Black Water. So tell me, do we stant together?”

  A chorus of “Yes, my lord” followed, though some voices trembled. These men had expected perhaps improved swords or sturdier pikes, not some kind of powerfull weapon. Dohnal and Thorris began unveiling the rifles and pistols, neatly arranged on wooden stands. The men gasped. These weapons looked strange: gleaming barrels, intricate triggers, no bowstrings or limbs like a crossbow. Just metal tubes and wooden stocks.

  Reyn nodded to Thorris, who retrieved an M9 pistol and showed it to the group. “This is called a ‘firearm’,” Reyn began. “Think of it as a crossbow that fits in one hand, but with tremendous force and speed. It uses special ammunition— The sound is loud, but don’t be alarmed. With proper training, a single shot can stop a wave of enemys dead.”

  The men exchanged uneasy glances. One, a tall fellow named Byrne, raised his hand timidly. “My lord, how… how does one fire it? Where is the string to draw back?”

  Reyn smiled. “There is no string. Instead, you load a magazine of bullets here.” He demonstrated by inserting the magazine into the pistol. “Then you release the safety, aim, and pull the trigger.”

  To ease their nerves, Reyn decided to give a demonstration. He took a pistol himself, checked it carefully as he had practiced countless times in the CS world, and aimed at a straw dummy. With a sharp crack, the shot rang out. The dummy jerked as straw and wood splinters flew.

  The men flinched at the noise, but their eyes widened in awe. A few murmured prayers under their breath. Weapons that could do this without any bowstring or winding mechanism seemed like magic. Yet their lord was not panicked, nor did Thorris seem disturbed. If anything, the captain of the guard looked eager. That steadied them.

  “Each of you will learn how to hold, load, and fire these weapons safely,” Reyn continued. “You must follow instructions carefully. Safety is paramount—any careless move could injure your brothers.” He walked along the line, meeting each man’s eye.

  Thorris stepped in next, guiding them through stances and grips. He echoed the lessons Reyn had privately taught him: hold the stock firmly against your shoulder for rifles; keep your elbows steady and your knees slightly bent. For pistols, hold them with both hands, arms not fully extended but stable. Even these basic instructions felt strange to the men, but they listened attentively.

  For the next hour, they practiced handling the firearms without firing them. Reyn walked among them, correcting posture. Dohnal replenished their practice materials and fetched water. Thorris demonstrated how to reload magazines and how to use the safety catch.

  When the men finally fired their first shots—one by one—the dungeon filled with a cacophony of booming echoes. At first, accuracy was terrible. Bullets went flying, some missing the dummies entirely and striking stone walls, chipping off fragments. But after a few attempts, they began adjusting. The recoil still surprised them, but these were no ordinary peasants. They were men who had been raised in hardship, whose muscles were honed by years of manual labor and tough living. They learned quickly.

  Reyn watched, impressed. They adapted faster than he had. Within the morning’s practice, some were managing decent shots at the targets. The noise still made them wince, but less so with every round. If they continued this pace, they could become a lethal squad within a few days.

  Soon, Dohnal reminded Reyn that it was noon. The lord realized his ears were ringing slightly from all the gunfire. He laughed to himself: in his old world, no one would train in a stone dungeon without ear protection, but here he had few choices. Perhaps he could find earplugs or something semiliar later.

  “Enough for now,” Reyn said, raising a hand. “You’ve done well for your first day. Let’s break for lunch. Dohnal, have the kitchen prepare extra meat. They’ve earned it.”

  The men grinned, exhausted but triumphant.

  He led them out of the dungeon and into the castle halls, where the smell of cooking drifted from the kitchens. The day was bright beyond the arrow-slit windows, and a cool breeze whispered through the corridors.

  As they settled into a quick meal—seated on benches in a small hall near the kitchen—Thorris excused himself for a moment. Duty called: he had to check on the patrols and ensure that no suspicious activity was happening at the borders. Reyn ate quickly, savoring the improved food. The men exchanged subdued whispers about how astonishing the new weapons were, each trying to find words to describe the experience. “Like thunder in your hands,” one said. “A strange kind of magic,” said another. Reyn allowed these quiet murmurs; a bit of mystique might keep them respectful and careful.

  About halfway through the meal, Thorris returned, breathing a bit heavily as if he had hurried. He approached Reyn’s table, leaning down to speak quietly.

  “My lord,” he said, voice low and grave. “I’ve just received a report. Our patrol at the northern edge of the forest has found fresh signs of the Red Claw Bandits again. Tracks and disturbed brush, likely scouts. They’re closing in.”

  Reyn’s appetite dulled instantly. He had known this time would come, but the news still sent a chill through him. “How close?” he asked.

  Thorris shook his head. “Hard to say. A day’s ride, maybe less if they move quickly. They’re testing our ours response.”

  Reyn frowned. The bandits must not learn of these new weapons too soon. He needed a few more days of training before risking a confrontation. At least the men that had shown progress. “Redouble patrols and keep watch. Do not engage them yet. Observe and report back to me.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Thorris replied.

  Reyn looking at the men enjoying their meal. They were weary from the morning’s training, but they would rest and recovery soom. The Red Claws expected a weak lord and hungry peasants with rusty spears. Instead, they would find something far deadlier.

  As Reyn sipped his wine, he contemplated the evening ahead. More practice inside the CS realm would sharpen his own skills. He would have to plan how best to deploy these firearms when the time came—perhaps ambush the raiders from behind the castle walls, or stage a sudden volley of gunfire that would send them fleeing.

  Outside, the late-afternoon sun angled through the narrow windows. A sense of calm settled over Reyn. Though danger crept closer, he no longer felt helpless. He raised his cup silently, toasting to his men.

  “Let them come,” he thought. “They will be exterminated.”