The air before dawn hung cold and stagnant over the cobblestones. Perhaps another hour until the eastern sky began to pale. Watchfires atop the ramparts swayed in the wind, casting long shadows across the ground. Leon clutched the prototype magic-steel gun wrapped in cloth to his chest, climbing the deserted slope alone. The heavy weight of steel digging into both arms drove the reality of what he was about to do deep into his bones. (*Lumia*) In his mind, the face of the girl sleeping in the clinic's dim room surfaced. Cheeks white as paper. Purple hair plastered down with sweat. And the voice of the old physician Carlo—*"Three days is the limit."* Two nights had already passed. The time remaining—tonight was the last. (*It's fine. I can do this.*) The memories of his past life whispered that to him. The feel of trench mud. The scent of gunpowder smoke. The crosshairs of a scope. In that world, he had been called Iapetos. The Piercer—a legendary sniper. But now, those memories felt terribly distant. Past life or present, this tension before pulling the trigger was always the same. He arrived at the bell tower entrance. Twenty-eight meters high. A stone tower soaring from the highest point of Warmund's eastern wall. The watch post should have had three soldiers stationed there permanently. Leon drew a deep breath and climbed the stairs. "[surprised]The second son of Ferden?" A young soldier standing near the watchfire turned around with a puzzled look. "[calm]Patrol inspection. The lord ordered me to examine the bell tower's structure." His voice was so calm it surprised even himself. The soldiers exchanged glances, but seeing that the margrave's son had come in person, they nodded without particular suspicion. "[casual]If that's the case, we'll take a break downstairs. Call if you need anything." The footsteps of the three men descended the stairs and faded away. Leon was alone. The north wind stung his cheeks. Stepping out onto the watch platform, the townscape of Warmund spread out below him. A sleeping city. But beyond the walls, countless watchfires—the besieging army's encampment stretched to the horizon. To the southeast. Near a conspicuously large tent, he could see officers gathering. Distance: roughly two and a half kilometers. His past life's memories told him—it was just barely within reach. Leon unwrapped the cloth and took out the prototype gun. A crudely forged iron tube. No stock, no sights. Just a lump of metal. The one and only weapon in the world, which Master Dolk had spent all night machining. The moment he tried to take aim—his hands trembled. His fingertips wouldn't move as he wanted. (*What are you shaking for?*) His mind understood. He had done this hundreds of times in his past life. Distance to target, wind direction, trajectory. He could calculate it all. But—his heart was pounding too loud. His breathing was shallow. Lumia might die. If he failed, the medicine would never arrive, and the city would end with the all-out assault at dawn. What his brother couldn't do—could he do it? The pressure bore down on him. (*...Same as back then, huh.*) Leon set the gun down on his knee once. He closed his eyes. His consciousness slipped quietly into the past. The smell of mud. The scent of gunpowder. The lingering echo of gunfire like tinnitus. Enemy shouts audible in the distance. He had rested his elbows on the trench's edge, watching only the target. There had been no stray thoughts. His breathing naturally slowed. He exhaled deeply, three times. He opened his eyes. There was no hesitation anymore. Leon took up the gun again. The magic-steel barrel glowed faintly with a bluish-gray light. He had begun channeling mana into it. (*Inversion*) His inherent magic—Inversion—activated. Beyond his aim, in the space two and a half kilometers away, the flow of air distorted slightly. Reducing air resistance, stabilizing the trajectory. In terms of his past world, it was an operation that forcibly twisted wind reading through magic. The mana consumption was greater than expected. Sweat beaded on his forehead. But he couldn't stop. The enemy officer's helmet entered his sights. Now. His past life's instincts told him so. His finger touched the mana protrusion that served as a trigger. A single moment. The world seemed to fall silent. —He pulled the trigger. *BOOOOOOM!!!* The roar shook the nighttime ramparts. Fierce recoil surged through his shoulder, his arm kicking upward. A high-pitched ringing echoed deep in his ears. The mana residue rising from the barrel scattered the smell of scorched air. The next moment— Two and a half kilometers away, a small spark scattered. A faint flash of metal bursting apart. That officer's helmet had been blown away. Hit. Leon dropped to his knees on the bell tower floor. The arm supporting the gun suddenly grew heavy. His fingertips were still trembling. His knees were shaking. He couldn't even stand. Beyond the ramparts, the enemy's watchfires began to stir chaotically. "[scared]What kind of magic is that!?" "[panicked]Just the sound and his helmet—there's no wound, but his helmet is—!" "[terrified]Is it divine lightning!?" Carried on the wind, the panicked shouts of enemy soldiers reached him faintly. An attack from an unseen source. A strike from beyond range. Terror beyond their comprehension raced through the entire encampment like a plague. — At the same time, in the besieging army's headquarters tent. "[cold]We launch the all-out assault at dawn. All units, take your positions." Werner was calmly issuing the final confirmation orders. That was when it happened. *BOOM!!* At the distant roar, the commanders inside the tent all reached for their sword hilts at once. "[sharp]What was that!?" After a brief pause, a watch soldier burst in, his face pale. "[panicked]Reporting! Approximately one hundred meters ahead of headquarters, an officer has been attacked! His helmet was destroyed, and the man himself is unconscious, but his life is not—" "[cold]The attack's point of origin." Werner's voice was as flat as ever. "That's... unknown. We are over two and a half kilometers from the ramparts. There are no magic impact marks, no arrows confirmed—just the sound, and then the helmet burst apart..." A stir of agitation ran through the commanders. For the first time, Werner's eyebrows moved slightly. (*It should be out of range. A distance no magic can reach.*) His gray eyes turned toward a single point on the map—Warmund's bell tower. But from there to headquarters was two and a half kilometers. Impossible. "[cold]...Say it again. The attack's point of origin is unknown?" "Y-yes." A beat of silence. "[cold]Inform the entire army. The all-out assault is temporarily on hold. Move headquarters further to the rear." "B-but, Your Excellency! Just one attack—" "[cold]As long as we do not know the enemy's true nature, this could be the precursor to a surprise attack. Actions lacking rationality are death for a commander." His voice remained cold to the end. But—the moment he gave that order, Werner understood for the first time that he had been put on the back foot. The man who had kept Warmund under siege for ten years had retreated from a single, unidentified strike. Behind his tone of suppressed emotion, his eyes glinted sharply for just an instant. — Silence had returned to the bell tower. Leon was still on his knees on the floor. The arm holding the gun hung limply, strength drained from his fingertips. Beyond the ramparts, he could see the enemy's watchfires gradually retreating. (*I did it... huh.*) The realization slowly seeped into his body. In his past life, he had taken down so many. This time, the target had only had his helmet blown off—his life was spared. And yet—his body trembled and wouldn't move. (*Pathetic.*) Heat welled up behind his eyes. Atop the bell tower where no one could see, Leon quietly shed tears. Pride, and shame, and relief—all mixed together into an emotion he couldn't quite name. "[whispers]...I could do it too." Those words weren't an inferiority complex toward his brother, nor proof for anyone else—they were directed only at himself. — As dawn began to pale, Leon ran to the clinic. In the hallway, the old physician Carlo turned around with a surprised face. "[surprised]It's you... You've come at a good time. Supply goods just arrived through the underground waterway. It seems the besieging army was strangely flustered, and the smuggling route opened up." "[urgent]The medicine!? Was there any White Frost Herb!?" "[satisfied]Ah, the fever medicine was properly included. I've already administered it. She's past the worst of it." Leon fought the urge to collapse on the spot. "She's in the back. She just woke up a little while ago." Stifling his footsteps, Leon opened the door to the inner room just a crack. Beneath the thin futon, Lumia's eyes were slightly open. The fever must still have lingered—her cheeks were faintly flushed. But those silver eyes were properly looking at Leon. Leon sat down beside her pillow without a word. Lumia's pale hand slowly reached out and grasped Leon's hand. "[gentle]...I believed in you." It was a faint, tiny voice. There were no specific words about what she had believed in. But—she had believed that Leon would do something. Leon couldn't find the words to reply. He simply held her hand in return. Silence flowed between them for a while. The morning sun streaming through the window gradually brightened the room. This quiet warmth—this was what he had wanted to protect, Leon thought. — Past noon. "[excited]Did you hear!? Before dawn, there was an attack you couldn't even see from the ramparts!" "[serious]Near the enemy headquarters, just the helmet got blown clean off. The soldier himself was apparently unharmed, though." "[whispers]Divine judgment... It must be a miracle of the Stellna faith." "[skeptical]Don't be stupid. It's obviously some new type of long-range magic. Though no one knows who did it." At the tavern "The Slanted Moon Pavilion" and in the marketplace, the rumors were spreading. But no one imagined that the single strike had come from the margrave's second son. The topic was dominated by the identity of the "mysterious hero." Ignoring such rumors, Leon walked alone through Blacksmiths' Row. When he opened the door to Hammer Tal's workshop, Master Dolk was waiting with his arms crossed. "[calm]...Did the enemy flinch?" "[serious]They've temporarily withdrawn. The all-out assault at dawn seems to have been put on hold as well." Dolk snorted quietly. "[satisfied]...Two and a half kilometers with a crude gun, huh." He offered no further comment. He simply brought out a new magic-steel ingot from the back of the workshop and placed it heavily on the desk. "[serious]Materials needed for the next improvement. Hurry up and draft the blueprints." It was a brusque way of speaking, but this was his greatest form of praise. Leon smiled wryly, but as he rewrapped the prototype gun in cloth, he thought. (*Klaus Werner... Next, it's your turn.*) An enemy commander once shaken would inevitably play his next hand. Before that—he had to make a more accurate, more powerful gun. This time, the target wasn't a subordinate officer. In Leon's mind, Werner's cold gray eyes surfaced, but that was a story for a little further ahead. For now—Lumia had been saved. That fact alone glowed warmly within his chest.