CHAPTER 300: CHAPTER 300 : TRAINING DAY II

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

"Worse. Fire oil burns. This shreds."

He waved them toward the stone wall.

"Place a dummy beside it."

They obeyed. The dummy was set upright beside the wall, awkward and lifeless, like a man waiting for execution.

Helmut pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade with casual precision.

"Take cover."

They scattered. Some ducked behind crates. Others threw themselves to the mud like animals sensing a coming quake.

BOOM.

The explosion was not theatrical—it was brutal. Final. The shockwave slammed into their chests, left ears ringing, lungs seizing. Steel shrapnel screamed through the air like a chorus of demons, embedding itself into stone, splintering wood.

When the dust settled, the dummy was gone. Not damaged—gone. Bits of straw, cloth, and wood were embedded in the stone wall. The closest recruits stared at it, eyes wide, hearts thudding. A few looked down to check they were still whole, relieved they were alive.

Someone muttered, voice trembling, "That... that was a demon’s breath."

Helmut didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

"You don’t hold it more than four seconds," he said, voice stripped of sympathy. "You hold it longer, you die. You pull the pin, that little piece of metal becomes your fucking will. You throw it late? You’ll never throw anything again—because we’ll be picking your arms out of trees."

Fear was growing. But alongside it, something else crept in—something deeper than awe. Curiosity. The kind that made men touch fire just to know what burning felt like.

Then came the last crate.

It wasn’t small like the grenade case. This one was a coffin, longer than a man and sealed with black steel hinges. It took two Bernardian corporals to undo the latches.

Even before it was fully revealed, the air changed.

Inside lay something vast and heavy. A beast made of metal, coiled like a sleeping god. The barrel stretched nearly four feet, dull black with a water-cooled casing. Beside it: a long belt of copper-tipped rounds.

Even Helmut paused. Just a breath. A nod. As if acknowledging a peer.

"This," he said, voice lower now—not reverent, but grim, like a priest naming a curse, "is the Browning M1917."

He let the name hang.

"Water-cooled. Crew-operated. Fires six hundred rounds a minute."

His eyes swept the line of soldiers.

"That’s ten rounds every second. Continuous fire. Area denial. You don’t aim it to hit a man. You aim it to make sure no man dares to stand there."

Kaen’s officers stared at it like they were witnessing the bones of some buried god.

One muttered under his breath, "Gods..."

Another shook his head. "This isn’t war. This is butchery."

Helmut said nothing.

He stepped forward, fed the belt into the receiver, locked it in with a heavy clunk. A low mechanical hum buzzed as the internals came to life.

"Five targets. Across the field."

His corporals moved quickly—setting up five fresh dummies in a spread pattern. Some near. Some far. One partially obscured.

"Watch."

Helmut didn’t hesitate. He braced himself behind the weapon. Took a breath.

And pulled the trigger.

The field became a storm.

THRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

The roar was relentless. Deafening. The gun didn’t fire—it tore. Earth exploded. Dummies vanished in clouds of wood pulp and straw. Dust rose like smoke from a scorched battlefield. The ground itself shuddered under the weight of war.

And the gun didn’t move. It stayed locked, anchored, spewing death with machine precision.

When it finally stopped, the silence afterward felt unnatural—as if the world was holding its breath. The air was thick with gunsmoke and disbelief.

The dummies were gone. No remains. Just scorched dirt and fragments scattered like bones after a beast’s feast.

Kaen’s soldiers looked pale. Even the arrogant ones. Their armor and blades suddenly felt small.

Helmut stepped back. Slowly. Wiped his gloves like a butcher cleaning after the kill.

He turned to them and said, "This is the new age of war." He gestured at the steaming barrel. "You are either ready for it—or you die in it."

Then he pointed to the field, where nothing remained.

"You want to fight with honor? Die swinging a blade? Go ahead. Charge the enemy. Shout your name. Maybe they’ll write it on a rock somewhere." He took a step forward. "But if you want to win... if you want to come home breathing... learn this. Learn to kill at a distance. Learn to kill first."

The silence held.

And this time, it respected him.

Kaen stood silent at the top of the stairs. Smoke still hung in the air from the machine gun’s final breath. Below, the recruits were frozen—caught between horror and revelation.

He took in the sight: broken dummies, scorched dirt, wide eyes, clenched jaws.

"Sergeant."

His voice cut clean through the yard.

Helmut looked up, face blank, eyes hard.

Kaen didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

"Begin their training."

Helmut gave a sharp nod. Just the acknowledgement of a man receiving the order he’d been waiting for.

"Form lines!" he barked. "Recruits—front! Officers—back! I don’t care what title you wore before this. Out here, you’re all meat with potential."

The yard exploded into motion. Bernardian corporals barked orders, yanked open crates, dragged gear across the mud. Vengali recruits hesitated—some unsure whether to step forward or retreat. A few were still flinching from the grenade’s echo or the vision of the shredded field.

Helmut stepped between them like a butcher through a cattle yard. "Move! If you can’t find a place, dig one! If you don’t know what to do, ask someone who’s louder than you! This will take weeks. Maybe months. But when we’re done, you’ll know how to kill like machines."

Armor clattered. Boots stamped into line. Blades were unbuckled and tossed aside like relics.

Kaen watched. He saw the resistance in his men’s eyes—pride clashing with fear. He also saw something deeper: hunger.

They wanted this power. Even if they didn’t admit it yet.

He turned, walked away.

Behind him, the hammering sounds of a new army being built rang out like thunder across the muddy yard.