The light above the council chamber flickered, a failing connection making it blink in irregular pulses. For a moment, silence reigned—tense and thick, like the breath before a blow. Then came the sharp, deliberate click of Archmage Lorien Quavek's staff against stone, a sound as precise and cold as the man himself.
"Before we adjourn," Lorien said, his voice cool as highland frost, "I'd like to revisit a matter that, curiously, was left off the agenda."
His eyes, pale and pitiless, turned toward Liam and locked onto him with the clinical focus of a scholar inspecting a dangerous anomaly. "General Vorn's recent stabilization efforts have been… efficient. Almost unnaturally so."
Lady Ysolde Calwin stepped forward beside the archmage, her gold-threaded sleeves whispering with regal weight. "Ashmere Ridge was reclaimed in a single evening," she said, her tone calm but edged. "Five enemy encampments eliminated. Not a single casualty."
Across the room, Mistress Calra Vynn folded her arms. Her expression darkened. "That level of efficiency doesn't come from swords and steel alone," she said. "That's machinery. Unauthorized and unregulated."
From the shadows near the edge of the chamber, a voice slid in like a dagger wrapped in velvet. "You gave him new weapons," Marquess Vaelros Nightbane said, his tone smooth, dangerous, and amused.
Liam didn't blink. "I did."
A wave of unease passed through the chamber. No longer was there awe or curiosity—only tension and suspicion. Lorien stepped forward again, his staff tapping once more in sharp emphasis.
"You stood before the emperor and swore the only weaponized invention in your possession was a primitive bolt-action rifle. Crude, barely above a mana-arrow spell. And now we find gas-operated rifles, electromagnetic sidearms, and battlefield suppression systems in circulation." His eyes narrowed. "You lied."
A beat passed before Liam answered, his voice calm but unyielding. "No. I withheld. And I would again."
"Why?" Lorien demanded, his voice rising with incredulous contempt. "Do you consider the rest of us unworthy of your toys?"
"Because," Liam said, stepping forward, "when I brought forth even that crude prototype, the Mage Association called it heresy. The Royal Knights wanted it destroyed. That was a bolt-action rifle. Had I revealed what I truly had, I would've been declared a public enemy before I left the chamber."
His voice took on a bitter edge, slicing through the chamber like cold steel. "Let's not pretend. Half of your Association wanted my head when my thesis exposed the fallacies in your arcane models. I was nothing then—just a too-precise alchemist whose formulas made your ancient incantations look like children's scribbles. You'd have buried me."
Liam turned his gaze toward Belore Bart, who stood impassive at the chamber's edge. "Only Belore told me to wait. Only he said, 'Not yet.' So I waited. Now the time has come."
Every eye turned to the Sword Master. He offered no words, no defense—only a faint, confirming nod.
Liam raised his hand and activated a fresh hololith. A sleek, matte-black rifle rotated in the air—compact, modular, and lethal.
"This is the LK-47," Liam said. "Gas-operated. Magazine-fed. Thirty high-velocity rounds per cycle. No mana. No rituals. Just pull the trigger."
He flicked to the next design—a bulky, multi-barreled emplacement weapon.
"Variant two. Rotary gun. Seven hundred rounds per minute. Fixed emplacement. Suppression, denial, chokepoint control. No chanting. No charge-up. Just results."
Another flick. A sleek, boxy pistol appeared, with a long, needle-like barrel.
"Coil-driver pistol. Electromagnetic. Silent. Reliable. Effective for infiltration teams, especially in zones where magic fails."
Calra's voice cut in. "How many?"
"Thirty-two LK-47s. Six rotary emplacements. Forty pistols," Liam replied. "All active. All deployed."
Ysolde Calwin tilted her head slightly, her voice low and measured. "I want the blueprints. I'll give you ten percent of all manufacturing profits. Exclusive rights for anything I buy."
Liam gave a half-nod. "Deal. No need to think it over."
Lorien's voice dropped to ice. "You're unleashing chaos into a city still struggling to stand."
"I'm giving it legs," Liam countered. His tone burned with conviction. "The gods tore open the sky. The divine order shattered. Bloodlines collapsed. Your relics and rites failed when they were needed most. What I offer is real. Brutal. Understandable. These weapons don't require prayer or permission—they follow cause and effect."
Vaelros leaned forward, his tone like silk spun over broken glass. "You want an arms race."
Liam's expression hardened. "I want pressure. Enough to force the world to move—forward or into oblivion. Either way, it won't stay stagnant."
Calra's voice lowered to a hiss. "And who gets to decide what survives that pressure?"
"The ones who act," Liam said simply. "Not the ones waiting for permission."
Silence returned—but this time, it wasn't empty. It was electric. The kind of stillness that only comes before the strike of flint.
Then, from his seat at the far end of the room, Vaelros gave a slow, serpentine smile. He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers laced like a man already savoring the fire to come.
"Then let it burn," he said softly. "Let the age of fire begin."