The Refinement

“I think you’re not even trying to be subtle about it.”

The group gathered inside the fort’s command center—an austere, reinforced concrete structure built at the heart of the base. No one wore the old Rhinian 18th-century garb anymore. Instead, every officer and soldier stood in full Multicam uniforms, courtesy of their generous benefactor. The only reminder of their origin was the faded Rhinian flag patch sewn onto their sleeves.

Lyka folded her arms, speaking flatly. “Back then, I intended this kind of force to stay in the shadows. Use them quietly, build something invisible, and when the time comes, reveal them to the world.”

She gestured toward the glowing interface that hovered mid-air like a digital omen. “But this? This doesn’t feel like that plan anymore.”

“I... don’t know what we’re about to face,” Anna muttered.

[Trial #1: PMC Grom - Beginner Level]

If you attempt to flee—even step outside the perimeter—you will be annihilated by a precision airstrike. You won’t see it coming. And yes, that includes if you evacuate more than 10% of your men. So don’t get clever. Stay in the fort. Here are the enemy details:

• 2,000x Infantry Units (Armed with AK-74 - FMJ Rounds, RPGs, PKMs, and so on)
• 75x BMP-2 (30mm Autocannons)
• 30x T-72A Main Battle Tanks (125mm Smoothbore Cannons)

[Reward: 25,000,000 EP]

Anna stared at the glowing display, unmoving. The faint hum of the command center faded into nothing—replaced by the silent, suffocating weight pressing down on her chest.

Her jaw clenched. Eyes flicked over the list again and again. A thousand hardened fighters. Tanks. BMPs. Autocannons. They weren’t just outnumbered—they were outclassed.

“People are going to die,” she said quietly. Not a question. A fact.

She exhaled shakily, fingers curling against the table’s metal edge. “We have rifles. Gear. Even a plan. But this—” Her voice cracked. “This is slaughter. We are throwing them into their death traps. They had BMPs, Tanks, with CANNONS, AUTOCANNONS.”

Anna leaned forward, burying her face in her hands.

“We’re fucked,” she whispered.

“No, not too much fucked,” Lisa replied, her voice bright, chipper, and entirely out of place. She leaned on the opposite side of the table, grinning like a cat who’d found the cream. “Look at the bright side. We have time. Four days is an eternity if you don’t sleep or think too hard.”

Anna looked up slowly, blinking at her.

Lisa snapped her fingers. “We dig channels, prep fallback zones. Stash launchers at critical points. Set up remote charges, kill zones, blind approaches—boom! Before they even reach the walls, half their armored shit is up in smoke.”

She dropped her tablet on the table. The display bloomed with red enemy markers, icons of tanks and IFVs superimposed on a contour map. Zoomed-in photos—grainy, ominous—of their actual vehicles flanked each icon.

Bell stepped up beside her, arms folded across his chest. “We’ve got open fields and the high ground. Treelines all around the fort too—enough cover in patches. That gives us options.” He tapped the map. “We spread out a few anti-tank teams. Some of our boys’ll die, yeah… but that’s war.” He nodded grimly. “And those trenches out front? Perfect choke points.”

Lisa cracked a grin—cold, tactical. “Perfect. We enfilade them hard. Make it look like we’ve got an entire brigade camped in this bloody fort. Defensive core stays tight. The contractors? They do the bloody dance up front. I hate it—but we don’t have the men to play this fair.”

Behind them, Nigel, Anja, Rieka, and Elric hovered near the tactical display like nervous students watching their professors conjure dark magic. Their eyes tracked the lines on the map, the icons of tanks and kill-zones. Reality was sinking in—fast.

Nigel squinted at the map. “You keep saying tanks. What exactly is that?”

“And autocannons,” Rieka added, brows knit. “That’s like a... repeating cannons?”

Anna, who’d been silently tracing enemy movement paths on the map, sighed and straightened up. She rubbed her temples, then motioned them closer.

“Alright. Crash course.”

She pointed to the tank icon, then tapped on an adjacent photo. “This is a main battle tank. Think of it as a mobile fortress. Steel-plated, fast for its size, with a main gun that could punch through three buildings in a row. And they don’t travel alone.”

Her finger moved to a cluster of lighter icons. “BMPs. Infantry fighting vehicles. Smaller, but just as deadly. Autocannons that fire high-caliber rounds by the dozen every second. They chew through flesh, bone, cover—it’s not like anything you’ve seen.”

Lyka, lounging on a crate nearby, cracked a humorless grin. “Do what she says, or you’ll be soup.”

Anja’s face had gone pale. Elric stared silently, his jaw tight. Rieka exhaled through her nose, fists clenched.

Nigel looked back at the display. “We’re... fighting demons in steel.”

Anna’s voice dropped. “No. Worse. Demons you can outsmart. These things? They don’t feel. They don’t flinch. They’re just machines doing a job. And we’re in the way. I wasn’t lying when I said we’re going to be obliterated, was I?”

The room fell into a tense silence, eerily still. Anna’s thoughts churned, a storm of logistics and dread. It was a trial by fire, and she knew it.

She needed something cheap. Brutal, but not suicidal.

“We can throw bodies,” she muttered, her voice low. “As grim as that sounds. It won’t be pretty. Casualty numbers will be high, no doubt about that.”

Lyka leaned forward, tone flat. “And we’ll need machine guns. Not a ton—our men have enough rifles to drown a field in brass. Still, forget overwhelming infantry formations. They won’t send waves. Just small, fast-moving squads backed by armor.”

Anna exhaled sharply. “Then the contractors go first. I doubt my regulars are ready for this.”

Lyka nodded. “Absolutely.”

[Items & Logistics Department Interface] [Search:______ ] [Open Sell Menu] [EP: 522,000]

• 10 x [Soltam K6] = 50,000 EP

• 400 x [120mm Mortar Round] = 200,000 EP

• 10 x [Recon Drone] = 10,000 EP

[Total: 230,000 EP] [Purchase?]

The plan was simple—at least on paper. The barely trained militia would handle logistics: ammo hauling, mortar loading, and target relaying. The professionals—the contractors—would hold the front, dug into trenches and prepared to face the storm.

Anna had expected pushback. But to her surprise, the contractors didn’t argue. “Worth a try,” one of them muttered. Grim acceptance.

The entire fort was now on high alert. Everyone understood the stakes—and the consequences of desertion. Anna didn’t have to issue threats. The enemy’s reputation did that for her. Word of what was coming spread like wildfire, and fear held the line. For now.

She had dispatched several contractors and Major Nigel to the estate with a single order: secure the treasury. Gold, silver, bonds—anything of value. Raising an army was expensive, and she was bleeding resources by the hour. If persuasion didn’t work, they were to use force. She didn’t care how they got it done—only that they did.

Leaving the fort herself was out of the question. Even stepping beyond the perimeter could trigger the airstrike protocols. She was trapped, just like the rest of them.

But she knew the treasury held reserves—rainy day funds, taxpayer stockpiles, emergency war chests—whatever the name, it didn’t matter now. She’d pay it all back after the trial. If there even was one. Her father could protest later, if he wanted to. That was his choice.

Anna stood at the edge of the courtyard, watching the transformation unfold. The once-sleepy fort now throbbed with purpose. Mortars were rolled into position, teams drilled under barking orders, and weapons were stacked at choke points like offerings to an unseen god. It wasn’t grim—at least not yet—but it was far from the world they knew.

Anja stood beside her, arms crossed, eyes scanning the bustle.

“This… isn’t what we were meant for,” she said quietly. “We’re supposed to be hosting salons, debating art and etiquette—not turning forts into kill zones. The palace won’t take this lightly. My father, the barons—they’ll come knocking, and not kindly.”

Anna met her gaze, steady and clear. “I’m not saying this is smart,” she said. “I’m saying it’s necessary. We deal with the rest if we’re alive to face it. And right now, Anja, I’m not even sure we will be.”

Anja smiled—dry, sharp. “The trial said ten percent, didn’t it? Means I can leave.” She shrugged. “But I won’t. Better to die beside you than live as some count’s obedient wife. If I go out, it’ll be on my own terms.”

Then she grinned—crooked, defiant.

“And judging by how things are shaping up... our little war’s about to get very interesting.”

“Little?” Anna scoffed, shaking her head. “My sister of another father, this battle alone could rattle every noble house in the region.”

She didn’t need to say more. They both understood the weight of what they’d set in motion. The presence of modern weapons alone would spark rumors—rifles, mortars, logistics running with machine precision—but the reason behind them… that would ignite panic. This wasn’t just about rebellion. They were preparing for something worse. Something the old world wasn’t ready to name.

Anja crossed her arms, eyes flicking over the courtyard as contractors barked orders and green recruits stumbled through their drills. “Do you think they’ll believe us?”

Anna didn’t answer immediately. She watched a crew hoist sandbags into place—sloppy, but getting better. “It doesn’t matter. Belief won’t stop what’s coming. Readiness might. If this curse spreads across the entire dukedom, we’ll have to secure more than twenty thousand square kilometers of land.”

Anja gave a dry chuckle, barely audible. “You sound like your father.”

Anna’s mouth twisted. “Then maybe he should’ve stayed out of the whiskey.”

A beat of silence passed between them—filled not by words, but by the rhythm of preparation: hammers striking wood, metal clinking against metal, the thud of boots on packed dirt.

“Yeah, we got a war incoming.”