The wind is cold. At night, the top of Valmund's ramparts is wrapped in a chill that freezes you to the bone. Standing on the stone watchtower, Ferden Leon watched his breath turn white, his mind elsewhere. He narrowed his deep brown eyes and looked down at the besieging army's encampment, shrouded in pitch-black darkness. Campfires flickered faintly in the distance. The encampment of the Kingdom of Andavari—looking so peaceful it was infuriating. The jailers who had kept this city locked away for ten years. He stretched, and his spine popped audibly. He stood just over 170 centimeters tall. Short black hair, with a single streak of red mixed in near his right temple. A white shirt, black slacks, and only a minimal leather sheath at his hip. His slender, flexible build was often said to resemble a dancer more than a swordsman. A cheerful smile and an easygoing air were his only redeeming qualities—a seventeen-year-old failure of a noble. That was the man known as Ferden Leon. "[sad]...Damn, it's cold." He muttered the words to no one in particular. He didn't dislike guard duty. In fact, he didn't mind this time alone atop the ramparts. Inside the city, he couldn't help but overhear things. —The next head of the family will be Lord Allen. —His Flame Dragon magic, his swordsmanship... a once-in-a-decade genius. —Compared to him, his younger brother Leon is... He was used to being compared. So used to it, it was almost laughable. His older brother, Ferden Allen, was a beautiful young man with shining golden hair and blue eyes, and on top of that, a master of both Flame Dragon magic and the longsword. As the successor to their father, Margrave Gustav, he was the perfect man. Everyone in Valmund called him the "Star of Hope." And as for himself? His inherent magic was "Inversion"—a power that merely flipped things upside down or left to right, utterly useless in combat. Put a sword in his hand and he was third-rate; his magical aptitude didn't fit any of the six systems. The best he could manage was being rumored as the "flippant second son." "...Heh." A bitter laugh escaped him. But still, Leon thought. —You guys aren't the only ones with secrets. He hadn't told anyone. He couldn't possibly tell them. Ferden Leon had memories of a past life. World War I. On a battlefield drenched in mud, iron, and blood, a man who cradled a bolt-action rifle with a 22x telescopic sight, burying enemy officers one after another, all alone—the legendary sniper Iapetos, "The Piercer." That was who he used to be. The last thing he remembered was the glint of an enemy sniper's muzzle, and a burning impact piercing his neck. Then darkness, and—before he knew it, he had been reborn as the baby Leon Ferden, in this world ruled by magic and swords. Reincarnation? An isekai? Honestly, he didn't care about any of that. The problem was that this world lacked "that." He closed his eyes. Instantly, a vivid blueprint surfaced in his mind. The M1903 Springfield. Overall length roughly 110 centimeters, barrel length 61 centimeters, caliber .30-06—the sniper rifle that had been his partner in his previous life. He remembered everything: the play of the bolt, the tolerances of the chamber, the feel of the trigger pull, even the grain of the stock. "[whispers]If only I had a gun here..." Below him sprawled the besieging army of twelve thousand. He could blow the enemy commander's head off with a single shot. From eight hundred meters away, without anyone noticing. The enemy's chain of command would collapse before they even understood what had happened. In the gap created by the loosening siege, the city could breathe again— "...Well, no gunpowder, no bullets, though." With a wry smile, Leon shook his head. In this world, the very concept of a "gun" didn't exist. Gunpowder technology was nonexistent. Battles were fought with magic, swords, and bows. The intermittent conflict between the southern Kingdom of Andavari and the northern coalition of lords, called the Hundred Years' War, was ultimately a war of attrition fought with swords and sorcery. The Hundred Years' War. A war of succession between north and south that began roughly 105 years ago when the Luminas Dynasty, which had unified the continent of Nordiga, died out. The southern military autocracy, the Kingdom of Andavari, continued its invasion under the banner of "Bloodline is Justice," while the seven houses of the north, including the Ferden Margraviate, united in resistance. Valmund was the lynchpin of that northern defense. Ten years ago, after Andavari's Jormund III dispatched a massive army, this city had been completely surrounded. The outer walls were eighteen meters high and six meters thick. They were also magically warded, so a frontal assault wouldn't bring them down easily. But in exchange, supplies were nearly exhausted. The population, once sixty thousand before the siege, had dwindled to thirty-eight thousand. Food was rationed; a loaf of bread that once cost two copper coins now sometimes couldn't be bought for three silver coins. Everyone in the city wore the expression of someone trapped in a tunnel with no end in sight. Leon once attended the Weissgard Military Academy at the eastern edge of the city. The headmaster, Berndt Stein, was a one-armed former knight commander. A strict man, but now one of Leon's few understanding supporters. "Your magic depends on how you fight." That's what he told him, but in the end, his magic and swordsmanship were both below average, and he was on the verge of expulsion from the academy. After quitting, he scraped by day to day like this, standing guard on the ramparts and helping with ration distribution. —Well, that's fine. "[serious]I have my own way of fighting." He murmured the words quietly and looked down once more at the scenery spreading out from the ramparts before him. About two and a half kilometers beyond the wall was the main camp of the Andavari army. The commander was General Klaus Werner—a renowned forty-eight-year-old commander, a calm and collected strategist, he'd heard. How many times had he thought about blowing that guy's head off? But right now, he had no means to do it. A bow and arrow? Out of the question. Arrows couldn't reach that distance, and it was fundamentally different from sniping anyway. Magic? Inversion was useless in a fight. At best, it could momentarily distort an enemy's vision, and even then, there was a risk it would affect him too. A sword? It was presumptuous to even compare himself to his brother Allen. "[laughing]I really am hopeless." He could only laugh. He looked up at the night sky. The stars were beautiful. In this world's religion—the Stella Faith, the Founding Star belief—the stars were said to be the dwelling place of the gods who created the world. Leon had no religious faith, but looking at the stars like this reminded him of the night sky in his past life and calmed his heart a little. (I'll definitely make it.) He thought fiercely in his heart. (In this world, I'll make the M1903 Springfield. If there's no gunpowder, I'll substitute magic power. For materials, there's magic steel in the western mines. If I carve it out from that material and assemble the mechanism according to the blueprints—) The problem was the craftsman. The master who ran "Hammertal," the largest workshop on Blacksmith Street: Besen Dolk. A stubborn old man of fifty-five, but his skill as a magic steel alchemist was said to be the best on the continent. If he could persuade that man— That's when it happened. *Clatter.* He heard a sound. A small, metallic clatter. Leon's smile vanished instantly. "...What was that?" Unconsciously, his back straightened. He strained his ears. —It wasn't the wind. —Something visceral, lurking in the quiet of the night. He slowly peered over the stone rampart. In the darkness below, he saw writhing shadows. Twenty—no, thirty of them. Heavily armored infantry were silently swarming the base of the wall. Armor bearing the crest of Andavari, and in their hands, a massive battering ram. Those bastards, using the cover of night to— His heart leaped into his throat. "[scared]A battering ram, huh..." His voice trembled. Their aim was to destroy the wall. The magical barrier was strong against frontal attacks. But if a physical impact was concentrated on a single point, over and over—a weak spot could crack and crumble. In fact, a few years ago, the northern wall had nearly collapsed from the same tactic. Back then, his brother Allen had burned them all with his Flame Dragon magic, but his brother wasn't here now. "The alarm bell—" He started to run, but his feet stopped. —Wait. If he rang the alarm bell, the enemy would notice. Then they'd charge in with full force. Probably, the battering ram would land several hits before the wall guards could arrive. Could the barrier hold? He didn't know. "...A bow is useless." He gripped the bow in his hand. Thirty heavily armored infantry against one unreliable bow and arrow. Too many targets. And even if they weren't the Iron Crown Elite, they were wearing decent armor. He couldn't breathe. His fingertips were cold. But somewhere deep in his head, he was strangely calm. The instincts honed on the battlefields of his past life analyzed the crisis with precision. (There are two options.) (Ring the alarm bell. In exchange, the enemy will attempt a breakthrough.) (...Or, move alone.) (Delay the enemy's advance, even slightly.) —It was insane. Thirty to one. And with only a bow. There was no way he could win. Even so. "[serious]...The basics of sniping are: first, stop the enemy's movement." Unconsciously, the words of his instructor from his past life slipped from his lips. Leon drew his bow. His target was the soldier carrying the front of the battering ram. Humans freeze for a moment when a comrade falls. In that opening, another shot—spread confusion, delay the enemy's advance. Use that to buy time, then ring the alarm bell— (There's no chance of winning.) (But I have no choice but to do it.) He drew the bowstring taut. With trembling fingers, he took aim. —This single shot is the beginning. The first step in the battle to bring guns into this world. "[whispers]...Hit." *Twang.* The arrow was swallowed by the darkness of the night. Ahead of it, countless enemy soldiers. Ferden Leon's battle was quietly about to begin. —Ah, that's right. If he was going to do it anyway. "[excited]I'll take you all down at once!" A defiant grin on his face, Leon broke into a run.