16. The weight of ambition

The echo of the boulder's impact still lingered in Harsh's ears as the blacksmiths scrambled to examine the siege weapon. He flexed his fingers, feeling the strain of the mechanism still in his bones.

The noblewoman stepped forward, her expression calm but eyes gleaming with something new—calculation.

"You're not just an ambitious fool," she murmured. "You actually make things work."

Harsh smirked but said nothing. It wasn't about impressing her. It was about proving to himself that he could stand on his own.

And yet, he knew this was only the beginning.

They had a weapon. Now, they needed a plan.

---

By nightfall, Harsh sat before a small council of nobles and commanders. The noblewoman's father—a man of sharp eyes and a colder heart—occupied the seat of honor. He studied Harsh like one would an unusual beast.

"So," the old man said. "You claim that this—this machine—will win the coming war?"

Harsh placed his hands on the wooden table. "No. Machines don't win wars. Men do. But this will tilt the odds in our favor."

The room was silent.

A general, his arms crossed, scoffed. "We have held our borders for decades without toys. Why should we change now?"

Harsh didn't respond immediately. Instead, he reached for a small, carved stone on the table—a weight used for measurement.

He flicked it into the air with his fingers. It tumbled down, struck the table, and rolled to a stop.

"That's why," Harsh said. "Gravity. Momentum. Leverage. Your enemies are already ahead of you. If you don't adapt, you will be crushed by the weight of their ambition."

A few nobles exchanged glances.

The noblewoman's father chuckled. "You speak like a man who has nothing to lose."

Harsh met his gaze without flinching. "I have everything to lose."

A pause.

Then, the old man turned to his daughter. "And you? Do you trust this man's words?"

She hesitated for the briefest moment.

Then, she nodded.

"He may be reckless, but he's right. The war is already coming. We need him."

Silence settled once more.

Then, the old noble exhaled through his nose and stood.

"Very well," he said. "We shall see if this 'science' of yours has a place on the battlefield."

---

The next morning, Harsh stood atop a hill overlooking the open plains where the enemy forces gathered.

This was no minor skirmish.

Hundreds of men lined the opposing side, their banners fluttering in the wind. A sea of steel and leather, ready to carve through his forces.

Harsh's breath was steady, but his heart pounded.

Even with strategy, even with superior engineering, there was no guarantee of victory.

But he had learned something since arriving in this world—power was never given. It was taken.

"Ready the trebuchets," he commanded.

The soldiers hesitated. The siege weapons were untested in real combat.

But he had no time for doubt.

"Now!"

The first trebuchet groaned as the counterweight dropped.

The projectile soared through the sky, cutting through the morning haze like a vengeful spirit.

Then—impact.

The enemy scattered, screams filling the air as men and horses alike were thrown to the ground.

Harsh allowed himself a single breath of satisfaction.

Then, the true battle began.

Swords clashed. Arrows filled the air. Blood stained the soil.

And amidst the chaos, Harsh moved.

His body—twice as strong, twice as fast—carried him through the battlefield like a storm given flesh.

An enemy soldier swung an axe. Harsh caught his wrist mid-air, twisting until bone snapped.

Another rushed him. Harsh ducked, drove his knee into the man's ribs, and sent him crashing to the ground.

He was not a warrior by birth.

But physics didn't care about birthright.

He used angles, weight distribution, balance—the same principles he had studied in a lab—to break men like brittle wood.

Yet even with all his strength, he knew—this battle was not won by one man alone.

As the fighting raged, Harsh's gaze flickered toward the noblewoman.

She was not a mere observer.

From atop her horse, she sent silent signals, guiding the battlefield like a queen moving pieces on a chessboard.

For the first time, Harsh truly understood.

She didn't just see him as a tool.

She saw everyone as tools.

And if he wasn't careful, she would use him just as skillfully as she used her soldiers.

But for now, they were aligned.

For now, they had a war to win.