The Crusades were many things.
They were heroism and massacres. They were faith and politics disguised as faith. They were the violent meeting of two religions that shared historical roots too deep to ignore each other — and that for exactly that reason couldn't coexist without conflict. The historical complementarity between them generated a friction that only resolved itself in war, and the war lasted long enough to consume entire generations on both sides.
What most didn't account for was who had won.
The West arrived in the Judean desert with technology, wealth and military organization. The East, led by the Kurds and their supreme commander Saladin, arrived with numbers, resilience and something the West took too long to take seriously. In the end, it wasn't the Kurds who decided the war — it was a civilization even further East, so ancient that its true name was too long and ornate to survive through time.
What survived was what it had created.
And that was the key for Saladin.
Black powder.
It wasn't complex. In fact it was quite simple — just three components — sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter — mixed in the right proportion produced something extremely volatile, capable of generating, with adequate heat, a rapid burn and a violent explosion. Unlike modern gunpowder, which was a controlled propellant with the specific function of propelling projectiles, black powder was chaotic. Uncontrollable. Dangerous for whoever used it as much as for whoever was on the wrong side of it.
Archaic, yes. Surpassed by more refined versions for centuries, certainly.
But in the Oasis, no gunpowder could be produced automatically by the system. And black powder was no exception.
The item to which it was applied, however — that was a success.
✦ ✦ ✦
I had spent days testing the limits of what the Oasis permitted.
The modern crossbow — denied. Old pistols — denied. Single-shot rifles, models I had researched specifically because they were primitive enough not to raise restrictions — denied. The pattern became clear quickly: any firearm was blocked before I finished elaborating it. The Oasis didn't need to explain the criterion. It simply gave the verdict and closed the matter.
Years of attempts would have been lost for anyone else. For me, using my Mark, they were seconds discarded and the next idea in the queue.
Until I tried the item that had been considered the doom of Constantinople and the first time black powder proved itself to be much more than a mere explosive. The Turkish bombard.
Silence from the system.
No denial.
I understood the reason immediately — and it was exactly the kind of logic the Oasis used. The Turkish bombard was heavy. It was static. It needed a crew to operate, considerable time between shots, and a fixed position that made it useless in open field. For the Oasis, that was probably less a weapon and more a structure — powerful enough to be interesting, limited enough not to break the balance.
For me, it was exactly what I needed.
An impassable territory wasn't built with soldiers. It was built with positions.
✦ ✦ ✦
"But what is this?"
Morgana and Livina ran their hands along the bronze.
The object was nearly as tall as them and eight meters long — a massive cylinder that weighed tons and had consumed almost all the mineral resources I had to produce a single unit. Reading about that Ottoman item in history books and seeing it in person were completely different experiences. On paper, it was a historical curiosity. In front of me, it was something that changed the perception of scale.
"This item has had many names."
I paused, letting their hands trace the bronze. It was clear the curiosity had arrived before me — they were already on the object the moment I pulled it from the ring, and I had no intention of interrupting that.
"The doom of Constantine. The destroyer of worlds. The Basilisk of the East."
Another pause.
"But I prefer the simplest one. Which, for me, describes exactly what it is."
I looked at both of them.
"Cannon."
The silence that followed had weight.
It was the kind of silence that happens when someone tries to process the difference between a word and the object it represents.
"My idea is to install these directly on the towers. The rate of fire will be low — but the destructive power will be immense. With enough workers and soldiers to operate and reload, my territory will become impassable."
One of the advantages I had over any historical civilization that had used that weapon was simple: I could put it in the ring, transport it to the exact point where I needed it, and install it without needing weeks of logistics. What would take months for any army, I did in hours.
"Can we test it?"
It had been a while since I had seen Morgana that excited.
Something had remained different between us since the Colosseum — a small distance, but present, the kind that builds when an event leaves marks that haven't yet been processed. Seeing that excitement was good. It was familiar.
"Of course. Let's mount it on the tower closest to the gate."
I turned before leaving.
"But first I need to go to the market. I have two of the three components of the gunpowder. The main one is missing."
✦ ✦ ✦
Saltpeter — potassium nitrate, as chemists preferred to call it, or simply salt, as common people knew it in those times.
The problem was that saltpeter wasn't easily found in human territory. Deserts, volcanic soils and arid regions, common places to find this resource, were out of reach — they weren't part of human territory. What existed were specific caves, and mine had traces, but not in useful quantity.
I needed to buy.
The price wouldn't be cheap. But if I managed to acquire in volume — saltpeter along with the minerals needed to produce more cannons — there was a real chance of negotiating a discount on the package.
"Can we come too?"
"Of course."
I was still tired from spending so long trying specific constructions in the iron and steel house. But I was satisfied — the kind of satisfaction that comes not from conquest, but from real progress after a long time pushing against a wall.
✦ ✦ ✦
The market was different.
I noticed before entering — there was something in the movement of people, an agitation that didn't match the usual afternoon. When we entered, it became clear.
Nobody was seated. Nobody was at the tables. Everyone was standing, clustered around a single man who was trying to shout above the noise in search of some order.
The man was large — prominent belly, little athletic build, the kind of physique that indicates a kingdom that hasn't faced external risks long enough for the Lord to forget what taking risks is. But he knew how to use words. That was visible in the way he chose them, even under pressure.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I need you to stay calm and listen to me."
"What's happening?"
My voice came out before I planned it.
The man turned.
Others fell silent. Not because of me — but because the question had touched something everyone was thinking and nobody wanted to be the first to formulate out loud.
"Young Lord, we received the request this morning. Representatives from Inora Prime arrived with a letter."
He stopped.
Swallowed hard.
"The Infernals declare their desire to eliminate us."
The market erupted again.
Overlapping voices. Immediate despair, the kind that doesn't filter before coming out. And in the middle of it all, one sentence that cut through the rest:
"When?"
It was the right question. Not whether anymore. When.
"Four months."
Silence.
Then, chaos.
"We're dead."
"How did the Confederation allow this?"
"Won't the Oasis interfere?"
"Shut up — we're not even among the five hundred most relevant. Do you think anyone will care if we die?"
I observed for a moment.
Four months seemed like a long time, but for those stagnant with constructions that would take years to be completed, four months wasn't enough. The Infernals were the Oasis elite — physical force that made walls irrelevant, combat capability that crushed any standard human army in open field. For most people in that hall, the war had already ended before it began.
But the economic chaos that was forming was an opportunity.
I knew the pattern. In wartime, food became scarce and expensive. Minerals and construction materials plummeted — everyone sold what they had to buy food. The window was small. And it was open now.
"Let's go, girls."
I advanced directly to the counter before the chaos organized enough for someone to pay attention to what I was doing. After five minutes I had already finalized my request.
[ Purchase request approved. Awaiting sellers. ]
This time I didn't hold back.
Ten exceptional quality stones. One hundred and two units of high quality stone. Eight hundred and fifty-seven units of medium stone. Everything converted into food — and the saltpeter I needed, acquired together with the volume necessary to produce more cannons at a discount. It hadn't been cheap but the time was short.
Nobody noticed.
The shock of the news was still being processed. It was the only time I could spend nearly my entire fortune in a market full of people without anyone looking twice.
"Let's go. There's nothing more to do here."
✦ ✦ ✦
The silence between us lasted until the market exit.
Morgana was the first to break it.
"Lord, what now? What are we going to do?"
"We're going to resolve one thing at a time."
I said that to her. But it was for me too.
The reasoning I needed to do was simple in structure and brutal in detail. The Infernals wouldn't attack humanity indiscriminately — nobody with real power wastes force on targets that can fight back. And humanity had an advantage the Infernals had certainly calculated: it wasn't physical, it was cognitive. In technology and adaptation, humans surpassed the Infernals. Not by much — but enough to make a frontal attack too costly to be worth it.
The smart move was different.
Force the displacement of humans from the Oasis — the only space where they had a real advantage. Without the Oasis, humans would lose access to resources, to evolution, to any possibility of parity. In a few years, the physical difference that today was manageable through technological disparity would end.
Losing the Oasis meant losing the war before it truly began.
The attack would be the human kingdom in the Oasis with 100% probability, and I needed to be prepared to hold whatever was sent against me.
And for that, I needed FireWood.
✦ ✦ ✦
I had promised time to the young Owlbear. And there I was collecting an answer before fulfilling what I had promised.
I knew the cost of that for a creature with that level of pride. FireWood deserved space to adapt, to get to know the territory at its own pace, to find its place before I started demanding the worst of it. It was the minimum.
But the Oasis didn't negotiate with what was fair.
When I arrived at the stable I found him observing another of my creatures.
FireWood was standing in front of the Prince's trough. The Griffin was on the inside, motionless, eyes fixed on the creature on the outside. There was no hostility — there was something stranger than that. It was the kind of mutual observation between creatures that recognize something in each other without being able to name what.
I stood still for a moment, without interrupting.
Then I advanced.
"FireWood. We have a problem."
He looked at me.
I didn't need many words. The bond we had — still new, still being calibrated — was sufficient to convey the weight of what was happening. Urgency didn't need to be explained to a creature that had lost something to war. FireWood knew what that feeling meant before I finished.
What came next surprised me.
He accepted.
Not with resignation. With something more like deliberation — the choice of someone who calculates the cost, decides it's worth it, and doesn't need to be convinced twice. I was happy and shocked at the same time. Perhaps I hadn't believed it was possible until I saw it happen. But it made sense, in the end. FireWood had the physical resistance to endure the process. He had the life magic to renew himself for as long as was necessary. The price he would pay was real — but small compared to what he would gain: food, a place to stay, and the safety of not meeting the same end as his parents.
✦ ✦ ✦
With FireWood resolved, I went to speak with Arachne.
The conversation was more delicate.
What I needed from her was parthenogenesis — reproduction alone, without a male, in the shortest time she could sustain. The growth period for combat offspring was two to four weeks, with litters of five units in the same period. If she had access to a male, she could double production in half the time.
But there was a problem.
Arachne was still young. Still growing — and growing visibly, day by day, but even so still smaller than an adult soldier. A fully developed male Yokai would crush her before reproduction was possible. It was a risk I wasn't willing to take — not for strategy, but because I wasn't willing to put her in that position.
She understood without my needing to finish the sentence.
The bond between us translated what words couldn't reach. What I felt when I thought about the risk was sufficient for her to process the decision on her own. She was silent for a moment — that dense silence I had learned to recognize as reflection, not refusal.
Then she signaled she would do it.
Alone.
✦ ✦ ✦
With the numbers in hand, I assembled the complete picture.
Zeus had informed me that, based on records of other constructions made by humans who had acquired creatures in a similar way to mine — unicorns and other parallel cases — the number of Griffins available upon completion would be ten units: five males and five females. I would retain two to preserve the lineage, one male and one female. The remaining eight would enter operation. On their backs, last-generation archers.
Yokai mounts via Arachne: between twenty and thirty units within four months, depending on her recovery rate between litters. On their backs, the Knights — the only cavalry unit that made sense for that type of combat.
Cannons on the towers: thirty units distributed across the strategic points of the territory. Operation by soldiers designated exclusively for firing rate and reloading.
The constructable space remaining from the cannon costs would allow me twenty more level-five houses by the deadline. Sixty additional workers — and I needed to choose how to distribute them throughout the kingdom.
Traditional soldiers were out of the equation. Against Infernals in open field, soldiers weren't a force — they were wasted training at the first real contact. The sixty I had would be more useful split between the cannons: two per unit, responsible exclusively for reloading. Workers were capable of operating the equipment, but half-ton cannonballs were a different conversation — they needed someone with enough combat capability to maintain the rhythm under pressure, without collapsing the first time the enemy got close enough to frighten.
What I needed were units that multiplied what I already had. Not numbers that gave the illusion of force. The final distribution came out like this:
[ Last Generation Armored Archers — + 50 units ] Which added to the other 50 I had available would allow me 100 Archers, from which I intended to pull 8 to be archers under Griffins.
[ Last Generation Armored Knights — + 20 units ] These would add to the other 5 I had. All would have mounts, the majority mounted on Yokais with the remainder on Urskras. Unfortunately I couldn't count on the mother who would have to stay out of the battle due to the final period of her pregnancy.
In the worst scenario, I would have fewer than one hundred and fifty total units.
In the best, slightly more than that.
But they would be elite units — each in position, each with a defined function, each multiplied by the terrain I had built around them. Cannons on the towers to break any mass advance. Griffins in the sky to eliminate whatever tried to flank. Yokai mounts on the ground for the attack and retreat tactics that made numerical superiority useless.
The question that remained was simple and impossible to answer with the data I had.
Would it be enough?
It would have to be.
I looked at the sky.
Then I looked at the one variable I had decided not to use.
The temple was there. Quiet. Waiting.