Steel, Guns, and the Industrial Party in Another World

The militiaman watched intently as figures approached along the trade route in the distance.

Just as he was contemplating whether to immediately light the beacon for help, the uninvited guests gradually became clearer in his sight.

Not an army!

Not an army, could it be a merchant caravan boldly crossing the border at such a time?

Even smugglers should choose the lesser-known paths, not commonly trodden by others.

He observed carefully, finally discerning the banner carried by the group.

It was the flag of the church, indeed, adorned with a flame pattern embroidered in gold thread – the holy emblem of the Heavenly Father.

The militiaman thought for a moment, then opened the pigeon cage hanging in the watchtower, pulling out a gray and white pigeon.

The pigeon, disturbed during its meal, flapped its wings reluctantly and took to the sky, flying southward.

A finely crafted and elegantly decorated four-wheeled carriage, pulled by two horses, gradually neared the checkpoint. Surrounding the carriage were ten fully-armed knights, each tall and robust, clad in splendid armor, their faces covered by helmets.

The militiaman ran down from the watchtower and removed the roadblock at the checkpoint.

The procession halted, and two knights rode forward, keeping their eyes on the militiaman.

"Honorable sirs!" The militiaman greeted them respectfully.

Despite any grievances against the church, he felt it was better to be polite in front of ten skilled church knights.

"We are envoys sent by the Vatican. Summon your superior to meet us."

One knight spoke, his voice somewhat muffled due to the helmet.

"My lord, unfortunately, my captain has taken the others on patrol."

The term "Vatican" did not catch the militiaman's attention; in the minds of most, there was no difference between the Vatican and the church.

"In that case, we shall proceed," the knight said, ready to whip his horse to cross the checkpoint.

"Oh! No, you can't!"

The militiaman, suppressing his inner fear, mustered the courage to speak.

"We have been instructed to have you wait here. A venerable member of the council is in the nearby town and will arrive shortly upon receiving the message. At most…"

He held up two fingers, "It will be a wait of two hours."

In truth, the militiaman was worried. What if the pigeon, not fully fed when released, had flown off somewhere else in search of food?

The captain should have left someone else here – the militiaman grumbled inwardly.

"How dare you!"

As expected, the anticipated wrath descended swiftly.

The knight who had spoken earlier brandished his whip fiercely, making the militiaman fear the next lash would land on him.

"You wretched commoner, daring to make a special envoy wait in your dog kennel. Do you wish to taste the whip?"

Frightened, the militiaman immediately shut his eyes, then hunched over, tensing his muscles in preparation for the whipping.

It had become an instinct; most commoners would react this way in the presence of nobility.

"Stop!"

A voice from the carriage spared the militiaman, saving him from a painful lashing.

Gratefully glancing towards the carriage, he saw the door creak open, and first, a tall young man stepped out, followed by an older man shorter than the youth. ℞ἈℕȎ𐌱Ęŝ

Judging by the young man's respectful demeanor, this older man must be the special envoy.

The elder spoke, "I'm rather tired from sitting too long. Let's rest here for a while."

He kindly looked at the militiaman, "Ah, the wind outside is a bit strong. If you permit, may I sit in your house?"

"Of course, my lord, you are most welcome. The interior is clean, I assure you," the militiaman quickly replied.

The old man said to the knights, "I want to rest quietly for a while, do not disturb me. Oh, Antony, come inside. I might have some matters to discuss with you."

Then he and the young man followed the militiaman towards the house.

…

Antony entered the guard's resting cabin first, not noticing anything unusual, and made way for the elder named Libett to enter.

Once Libett was comfortably seated on a chair, he said, "Sir, I will go out and instruct our knights, lest they be too rigid when the Alliance's officials arrive. You know how delicate the current situation is…"

Libett nodded, "You're right, they should be reminded. Go ahead."

Antony turned around and instructed the militiaman still standing at the door, "Fetch a bucket of water for the envoy to wash off the dust from his journey."

The militiaman pointed to a bucket in the corner, "Sir, there's already one here."

Antony frowned, raising his voice, "Mind your manners, guard! Are you suggesting that the envoy sent by the Vatican should wash with water you've already used?"

The startled militiaman jolted, "I'll get it right away."

"Hurry up, and don't forget to scrub the bucket."

The militiaman left with the bucket, and Antony followed suit.

Libett closed his eyes, his thoughts gradually focusing on the upcoming negotiations.

How to persuade the Horn Bay Alliance? As the strongest among the coastal nations, if the Alliance could be convinced to drop their hostility, the other countries would follow.

What concessions should I make? On what issues must I remain firm?

Libett pondered each potential issue in the negotiations, carefully considering his strategy.

He was so engrossed in thought that he didn't notice someone entering the room.

By the time he felt a grip on his neck and the ensuing suffocation, it was too late.

When Libett realized he was under attack, a strong hand had already tightly clasped his throat, and another covered his mouth so tightly that he couldn't make a sound.

His instinct to survive made him struggle, but the more he did, the less strength he had, as he couldn't breathe.

Upon recognizing the attacker, a mix of shock, sorrow, and pity overwhelmed him, unsure whether the pity was for himself or the other.

Just as he thought he might die from suffocation, a sharp pain struck from behind, and Libett lost all his strength.

Blood flowed from the wound on his back, and his already oxygen-starved brain grew even more confused.

"Is there another person?" Libett wondered, still being suffocated.

"Ah, well, let it be…"

That was Libett's last thought before his body completely lost its vitality.

…

The church knights waited outside, bored.

After coming out, Priest Antony gathered them together.

Be polite when the Alliance's officials arrive! Libett had high hopes for these negotiations.

The priest admonished them thus.

Negotiations, negotiations! What a joke!

That was what many knights thought.

But they dared not disobey their superiors' instructions.

The militiaman returned with a bucket of water from a distant pond, re-entering the cabin.

They had already searched him, and with the priest inside, the knights were not worried.

Then a roar filled with grief and pain emanated from the cabin.

"Sinner! Do you know what you are doing?"

The force of it even scared the nearby birds into the sky.

One thought occurred to everyone.

It's over, something terrible has happened.