When I finally regained enough strength to move, I started physical therapy. I stretched extensively and focused on quick and easy muscle-building exercises I remembered from military medicine. I suffered more than my own fair share of injuries back on Earth, so I was familiar with this song and dance. Objectively, it wasn’t necessary. My body would restore itself over time, but I just wanted an excuse to get out of bed as soon as possible. I was an active person by nature, so I despised being bedridden, especially when there was so much work to do.

I was visited by the craftsmen and their leadership on a near daily basis. They grilled me on topics related to trains, steam engines, and railroads. They took notes and drew sketches of anything and everything I said. I was a treasure trove of eldritch knowledge and my days were filled with their constant babble.

Of particular interest was my own personal project: the creation of 5.56 rounds for my rifle. I anticipated the team’s arrival every waking moment. I provided them with an extremely detailed breakdown of the M4A1, pulled from online videos, books, and military technical manuals. Finally, I field-stripped my rifle so they could examine all the parts. I even disassembled the magazine.

“Ranger Levin, after almost two weeks, we are ready to test a prototype,” announced Duin, the artisan in charge of reverse-engineering the 5.56 rounds.

I leapt off my bed and suppressed a cringe when a spike of pain shot up from my feet into my skull.

“L-Lead the way.”

Duin took me deep into the mountain, to an isolated auditorium-like building where 12 other crafters were waiting. There were humanoid training dummies dressed in full plate staged at the center of the arena and I noticed several black scorch marks on the floor, the ceiling, and the walls.

This is where they test experimental technology. I nodded in newfound appreciation for the dwarves’ ingenuity. Though Toth limited them, they still tried to expand beyond its shackles. Hidden away from prying eyes, deep within the darkness of the earth, progress continued. Mortal curiosity would never be tamed, even by a god.

I pulled out my rifle and walked over to a table where a series of 5.56 were stationed, about 100 meters from the training dummies. There were ten different rounds, each one was symmetrically identical to the original, however each one had a model number carved into the shellcasing.

I loaded the first round into my magazine. Testing ammunition like this was nerve wracking. Not because it was dangerous - I was certain my HP would protect me from harm even if my rifle exploded in my hands - but because losing my rifle meant losing my greatest weapon. If this went wrong, I’d truly be up shit-creek without a paddle.

Duin suddenly spoke up.

“Testing Model #5451.”

The other dwarves took notes on scrolls of parchment.

“The round has chambered properly,” I announced. Then I leveled my rifle at the central training dummy and squeezed the trigger.

It popped but nothing happened.

“Weapon malfunctioned.” I maintained my point of aim in case of a hang fire discharge, but after 30 seconds, nothing happened, so I unjammed the rifle. I extracted the round safely with a sigh of relief. All the rounds up until the final one were either malfunctioned or were duds. I loaded the last one and aimed.

The resulting explosion blinded me for a moment. My HP dropped by 70%. When my vision cleared, the rifle's barrel split apart into a twisted, metal flower with four petals. My service weapon was now ruined and worthless.

“Fuck me! Fuck! Shit! Fuck!”

I slammed my rifle to the ground. It bounced and the sharp noise made all the dwarves recoil in fear. Objectively, I knew this wasn’t that bad. I only had 3 rounds remaining and reverse-engineering 5.56 without access to high quality, modern industrial machining techniques was a tall task.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK!

I was still royally pissed off! I still hoped I'd use it again!

My rifle was one of the only reasons I was still alive. It was a source of security and safety. I could always turn to it if my archery wasn’t enough. Each round traveled at 3,000 ft/s, almost 3 times the speed of sound. As far as I knew, no one, not even Idyia with Flash, could dodge that.

It dealt so much damage that it could one-shot 4th Level monsters with nothing but a single trigger squeeze. Even when I was at 1st Level, it made me feel like a god among men. My rifle was why I was Lydia’s savior. Without it, Hasting’s Barghests would have eaten me alive. My rifle was my ultimate trump card, to be relied upon when my stat block was just too weak to compensate. But now? Now I was truly fucking screwed.

Duin cautiously approached me but I stiff-armed him aside. He paused then quietly retrieved my rifle off the floor. Let him keep it. Maybe he could learn something from what was left but I couldn’t muster the energy to care.

I massaged my forehead when a migraine started to flare. It was like all the stress and anxiety of the last few months was attacking me all at once. Stripped of my primary weapon, I was trapped on a battlefield with no rifle, no reinforcements, and no real chance of survival. I needed a fuckload of liquor and some time to decompress.

I dragged three entire casks of mead with me on the way back to my room. Luckily, Renala was out hunting along the mountainside, so I could drink myself into an irresponsible stupor without looking like an alcoholic loser in front of his daughter. My pride couldn't take that blow, not right now. I wasn’t in the mood to gently uncork the barrels, so I punched a hole through the wood and dunked my mug into it.

The next few days were spent in a drunken delirium that numbed my emotions. I didn’t even bother bathing.

“C’mon, Dad! You smell like shit. Mom’s not coming back and I’m tired of eating out.”

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

Rebecca’s voice echoed through the haze. My eyes fluttered open. I turned to see the half-finished mug of mead sitting on top of an empty cask at my bedside. I grit my teeth and shoved the mug away. It spilled over the stone floor. Slowly, I dragged myself out of bed and toward the baths.

I couldn’t give up here. Rebecca was waiting.

Once I cleaned myself and my room, I marched into Balin’s office. He gasped in surprise and rushed to stand. It was no secret that I holed myself up for almost a week. Balin told everyone I was healing in solitude, but I think he knew the truth.

“Ranger Levin, how are you feeling?”

A loaded question.

“I’ve fully recovered,” I answered. Balin nodded and we shared a private meal while he updated me on what happened. The craftsmen who I met in the auditorium refused to give up. I had no idea why, but they were still trying to accomplish the mission I gave them.

Renala continued to lead dwarves into the tomb and collected everything of value within. Even now they were still parsing through all of it. I ordered Balin to guide me to the spoils.

I wanted to see what magic items I could add to my arsenal, but they were left unprotected after thousands of years in such a hot and humid climate. The magic items that survived until now were lifeless husks, so brittle they snapped at the lightest touch. The dwarves were carefully gathering them in a separate pile to disassemble for salvage, but even the best crafters were pessimistic about their chances.

The largest pile was the Magic Crystals. It was like a mountain of gravel. The dwarves had to use carts, shovels, and wheelbarrows to process all of it.

“Holy shit. We’re rich!”

Balin stroked his chin. His eyes danced with mirth. Even priests loved money. The Vatican was proof of that.

“Indeed. This will last for a decade at our current expenditure. Procuring funds for your railroad was a great concern, but now we will have more than enough to construct it. I’ve already drafted expansions to the railroad. Instead of one, we will have many.”

“Keep the best crystals for production. We can use the rest as currency and fuel.”

“My thoughts exactly, Ranger Levin.”

Money and logistics were the lifeblood of any military movement. I was worried I would have to pull more out of Lydia’s coffers when I marched into the Rift, but even a small fraction of Goldfire Renala’s collective wealth would be sufficient.

“I want your best crafters to focus on equipment for my army.”

“Those that you shall lead into the Endless Abyss? It shall be done. The dwarves of Akeroyd shall not lag behind the rest of the kingdom. I already have 37 craftsmen who will join your expedition and 29 dwarven warriors who possess Classes tailored toward combat awaiting your orders.”

My eyes raised into my hairline. “That’s fantastic. Send them to Veles. The Queen will coordinate training with the rest of my men until we sortie.”

“As you command.”

I turned to the final and the smallest pile, a collection of metallic, golden scales the size of my skull. Despite their age, each one was still pristine and flawless. After a few swipes of my sleeve, I could see my reflection in their polished surface. They were extraordinarily light, thin, and silky smooth despite their supernatural hardness. It was more like a fish scale than any dragonscale I’d ever read about in a book.

“The scales of Goldfire Renala, Ranger Levin. They contain the essence of her power. Even after all this time, they have survived, unblemished and unmarred even when her flesh and blood long decayed to dust. The artisans have told me weapons and armor forged from them will be magical, timeless, and priceless. They may even become Legendary.”

I whistled at Balin’s assessment. “I want sets of underarmor. Reserve your best sets for myself and the Queen and two more for adult women of medium builds.

Balin looked pensive and nodded. “I shall have the smiths forge them into chain mail, to be worn beneath clothing. It is obvious what you desire is a subtle appearance.”

I traced my finger along the edge of the scale and flinched when I saw my HP drop by 3.

“It’s sharp, huh? I also want heavy arrows. At least 400lbs worth.” My rifle was dead. For Rebecca's sake - for everyone's sake - I needed to move on.

Balin chuckled. “The wood and fletching will weigh more than the arrowhead. Said arrows will even draw blood from the hardest of hides. Even ghosts shall bleed.”

Duin strode up to me and I shot him a welcoming grin. I gave him a healthy handshake to make amends.

“It’s good to see you again. Sorry about last time,” I dipped my head into a slight bow.

“That’s quite all right. Warriors oft have wounds that cannot be seen and do not truly heal. To have your favored weapon break, it is a hard thing to endure.” He reached for the scale in my hand. “May I?”

I handed it to him and he inspected it for a few moments.

“Ranger Levin, I dare not promise anything, but do not yet despair. May I take a few scales?”

I let him pick whatever he wanted. I needed to make up for my poor discipline. He left shortly after.

“What was that all about?”

“I am unsure, Ranger Levin,” Balin shrugged and ordered some more crafters to select the best scales for armorsmithing. At this point, I was just extra chaff, so I returned to the baths for a second time. I still felt filthy after a whole week without washing.

Renala sat in the hot water, staring at me as I entered. In her mouth was a large brush.

“Does my baby girl want some scrubbies?” I cooed with the brightest smile I had in days.

Renala nodded eagerly. I waded through the water and hugged her huge chest without even bothering to strip out of my clothes.

“I’m sorry, Renala. Daddy’s back. C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”