Arcane Exfil
Chapter 4: Size Matters

Fotham led them to the armory complex beside the training yards. Cole paused at the weapon racks. The rifles shared that Lee Enfield profile, but the builds were closer to anti-materiel weapons – the kinds normally reserved for taking out light vehicles. And these weren’t specialized loadouts. Every rack held the same heavy configuration, as if a weapon on the scale of a Barrett .50 cal was nothing but standard issue. Just how much punishment could demons take?

“Those shall come in due course,” Fotham said. “Though, I dare say we ought first attend to the matter of keeping your bones intact when firing one.”

Cole smirked. “Yeah, good idea.”

Past the ranks of weapons and armor in the main hall, an adjoining chamber opened up. Simple training equipment lined the walls – racks of weighted spheres and bars marked with numbered bands. Even in another world, pumping iron was still pumping iron.

Fotham pulled down three iron spheres. “Here. Take the measure of its weight first, without trying any magic.”

Cole grabbed the handle of one, compensating against the familiar heft – 60 pounds, based on the inscription on it. Exactly 60 pounds, oddly enough.

Before he could even begin to wonder what that implied, the Celdornian grabbed another, which had to mass at least twice as much.

Where a normal guy of his stature would’ve likely snapped a muscle just trying to pick it up, Fotham raised it over his head as easily as one would lift up a phone. Anyone who’d done enough weight training could spot the wrongness immediately. He lacked bracing, muscle tension – hell, there was basically no adjustment for the shifting center of mass at all!

The man’s body simply refused to acknowledge what that weight should be doing to it.

“Most practitioners, upon their first attempts, endeavor to envelop themselves in mana – rather like wrapping oneself in invisible armor. Most inefficient indeed. As with barriers – while one might certainly shroud oneself completely, you shall replace precise application yields superior results. A single, well-placed barrier demands far less mana than attempting to shield oneself from every quarter, does it not?”

Fotham set down his weight. “Start simple. How does lifting the sphere feel?”

Cole raised his arm, curling. “Familiar enough. Starts with a bit of tension in the forearm, then the bicep takes over. Gotta brace a bit so the shoulder stays locked in place.”

“Hell, ain’t nothin’ to it,” Miles said, working his weight.

“Quite so. Now then – attend to that inner warmth,” Fotham said, gesturing to his chest. “Rather like stoking a furnace, one must cultivate the heat ere attempting to direct it. Now, observe the sequence.”

He lifted his weight again. “The strength begins in the great muscles that anchor your arm to the chest wall. It flows thence through the shoulder, down through the upper arm, like blood through the veins. Each portion of flesh knows its role in sequence.”

Cole closed his eyes, focusing on that strange new organ and the warmth it produced. Getting the mana flowing wasn’t the hard part anymore. But trying to enhance his muscles directly just wasn’t working; almost like trying to fill a water balloon by spraying it with a hose. The mana dispersed uselessly, and the sphere stayed stubbornly, precisely 60 pounds.

“Too much force,” Fotham corrected. “Attend first to how you hold the sphere.”

Cole adjusted, toning down the flow of the warmth like he was twisting a faucet. Still nothing. Next to him, Miles kept shifting his grip slightly, like he was close to something but couldn’t quite get it.

“The tendons,” he explained, tracing lines across his arm, “guide its course, much as great ropes bind muscle to bone. Do you feel how they tighten in sequence? The mana must follow these same paths. Direct it elsewhere, and you shall replace yourself working quite against the natural design of your body.”

Made sense. They’d figured out the basic hardware, probably through a bit too many dissections – muscles, tendons, major nerve bundles. But they were missing the whole control system; the interplay of neural pathways that turned those mechanical parts into coordinated movement.

Wait.

Cole paused, glancing down at his weight. He thought back to the barrier magic, how the mana had felt like adrenaline flowing through his system. And adrenaline worked both ways, didn’t it? Flooding the bloodstream like Fotham was describing, but also firing through neural pathways. Two systems, working together.

If mana followed that same pattern... maybe he was thinking about the wrong paths. Not just the blood vessels and muscles Fotham was describing, but the neural pathways that controlled them. The same ones that governed force production and power output – the real key to strength.

He focused on the grip sequence again; not on the muscles themselves, but on the force generation pathway. He focused on the way his body coordinated the lift, from stabilizers to prime movers. This time, he let the mana flow along those same neural roads. ṟ

The warmth spread differently now - not fighting his body’s architecture but enhancing it. It went from an uncontrollable overflow to following the exact pathways his system already used to produce force. The weight shifted slightly.

“Indeed, like so,” Fotham said, approving of Miles’ work.

Huh. It wasn’t Ethan this time. Cole continued the movement, letting the mana amplify each step of the sequence he knew by heart. Like taking his body’s normal strength production and cranking up the gain. No way would he let himself be the last to figure it out.

The weight began to feel very different indeed.

Fotham walked over to him. “Excellent. Now you must teach your body to accept its new capabilities.”

Cole knew exactly what he meant. Every muscle group was fighting against years of learned responses. It was like living through one of those gym prank videos – the one where the pranksters replaced weights with foam and just watched people overcompensate.

“Good,” Fotham addressed Ethan. He turned to the rack and lifted down another set of spheres – 80 pounds, if he recalled the number system from the manameter correctly. “We begin again. Attempt it with minimal strengthening – indeed, none at all if you believe yourself capable.”

Cole could probably pull it off, but a sphere attached to a handle didn’t exactly offer the same grip and distribution a normal dumbbell did. He paused, wrapping his hand around the handle. Better to play it safe; he wasn’t like Miles, after all.

He kept it minimal, about enough to make the 80-pound weight feel like it was 60 before amping it up. A quiet ‘nice’ from Miles drew his attention, probably glazing his own muscular abilities. Ethan was still working through the basics, but his persistence was paying off. Every few reps showed better form.

They progressed through 2 more weight increments until they reached the 100-pound spheres. The process felt different now. The mana flowed smoother – not quite at the reliability of Steph Curry’s money shots, but good enough that he didn’t need to allocate his full attention to it. All he needed to do was think it, and it was there.

“Excellently done,” Fotham said finally. “Come. I believe you are now ready.”

He led them back into the armory proper. The heavy rifles still fascinated Cole – their obvious similarity to historical long arms, but engineered for stresses that would tear a normal weapon apart. Fotham selected one, checking the action before gesturing them toward the range.

The next item from Fotham’s checklist turned out to be hearing protection. Christ, these looked like something straight out of a Bioshock game – brass and leather amalgamations that belonged in a museum, right next to Civil War rifle cases and whatever the hell a heliograph was.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The engineering geeks – including himself under normal circumstances – would probably get hard over the concentric damping rings, but all he could think about now was how effective these things would be. Or rather, how ineffective. He’d used ComTacs for the Barrett, and even those struggled with the concussion. Now they were about to fire what amounted to magical anti-tank rifles using these… contraptions.

The runic pattern didn’t inspire confidence either. They had fewer lines than the more complex runes along the rifle’s brass fitting and barrel. Simpler was just better, apparently. Or maybe Celdorne’s healers were really good at regenerating auditory nerves.

He braced himself as Fotham completed his checks and fired the handheld cannon.

The pressure wave hit like a hammer to the chest, but his ears barely registered more than a deep thud. No ringing, pain, or even that bone-conducted resonance he’d grown accustomed to.

Well then. Looks like Celdorne’s engineers knew what they were doing after all.

Fotham beckoned them closer, presenting the rifle grip-first. He ran them through the basic operations – mostly the same as any bolt gun, but with small enough differences to warrant attention.

“Standard action,” he said, cycling it smoothly. “Brass cartridge, powder charge.” He pointed to patterns around the chamber. “These fire and air runes enhance the blast. Those along the barrel maintain flight.”

Damn. Between the caliber and the ‘enhanced blast,’ no wonder Fotham was so adamant about teaching them strengthening magic. Nothing short of a Humvee could handle this – certainly not any ordinary human.

“Now, the fitting here.” Fotham tapped the brass-like metal wrapping the chamber, next to the runes. “Aerochalcum. The rifle accepts mana through these channels, allowing for various effects as you shift the selector. Four positions, you’ll observe: standard ammunition, followed by ice, fire, and lightning.”

He turned to the rack behind them, selecting three more rifles. He handed them each one, along with leather pouches containing loaded box magazines.

“Observe first.” He slid a magazine home and worked the bolt. “Without enhancement.”

The rifle cracked. The round punched through an earthen target about a hundred meters out – pretty much what he’d expect from a powerful bolt gun.

“Your turn,” Fotham said, raising up more earthen dummies with his magic.

Cole stepped up to the line, checking the magazine before working the bolt. Weird going back to this; last time he’d handled this old of a weapon was what, that surplus Mosin at the range? The action felt smoother though, almost like handling a well-maintained Kar98k instead of something straight out of World War 1.

The bore looked clean enough to eat off of, and the action cycled like it was running on bearings. Though, it had different weight distribution from his usual gear – more front-heavy than even his loaded-out MK18. Seriously, what the hell was the barrel made of? Still, fundamentals were fundamentals. He squared up behind the sights.

The recoil was stout but manageable when Cole squeezed off his shot, kinda like a magnum rifle but nothing they hadn’t handled before. Miles and Ethan followed, their shots hitting on target.

Cole tried again, this time with strengthening magic. Thank goodness for it; his body probably would’ve been screaming for mercy if he had to deal with this for dozens of shots.

“Good. Now then – should you wish to impart enchantments or amplify the power of your shot, you must incorporate magic.” Fotham inserted a bluish gem into a slot near the rifle’s grip. “Allow me to demonstrate with a mana crystal.”

Mana crystal? It wasn’t the most creative name, but at least it was easy on the lips.

Fotham selected the fire rune, which flickered to life just before he squeezed the trigger. A red flash engulfed the weapon as he fired, accompanied by a much sharper crack – like comparing standard 5.56 to hot-loaded match ammo. Same round, way more juice behind it.

The target showed a clean hole, but what followed was pure high-explosive incendiary. The exit crater erupted in a shower of dirt and flames, leaving the earthen backstop glowing red-hot around the impact. Physics was still physics, at least. More velocity? More kinetic energy. But hell if the magic didn’t add its own crazy flavor to the mix.

“Much as with our prior exercise in strengthening, one must first perceive and direct its flow. The channels are already wrought within – you need only guide it.” Fotham showed his posture. “Place your hand thus. You’ll replace the crystal’s emanations rather cooler than your own mana.”

Cole did as Fotham instructed. The pathways were there, sure enough. It almost felt like an extension of himself; probably the same as what the various fictional characters he’d seen might’ve felt when handling a wand or sword.

“Now then – strengthen yourselves,” Fotham said. “And when channeling the crystal’s mana, begin with but a trickle. The rifle should be quite responsive even to minimal input.”

Cole nodded. He searched for the sweet spot where the rifle still had enough weight to handle naturally. Making it too light would be like trying to shoot a Nerf gun. He needed at least some mass for stability, for the familiar feedback of a proper weapon.

He focused on the crystal next. Minimal flow. The enchantment rune flickered dimly.

He fired.

The recoil was still substantial, but his enhanced muscles absorbed it better now. Like firing a .50 BMG, but with his whole body tuned to manage the force. The rifle stayed on target through the shot. Physics still applied, thankfully, but at least hitting follow-up shots would be easier with strengthening magic.

The fire and air runes though… improved deflagration was one thing, but that kind of power increase? The pressure curve had to be getting modified somehow. Maybe the runes were controlling the gas expansion rate in the chamber? Regular deflagration could only push a round so hard, no matter how perfectly the powder burned.

It kinda reminded him of those experimental ETC guns DARPA had played around with, using plasma to jack up the energy transfer. He couldn’t say for sure without dissecting it or learning how to read runes, but the magic had to be doing something similar – pushing that pressure wave faster, harder, closer to detonation speeds without actually crossing that line. No wonder they needed special chamber materials.

“Well, holy hot damn.” Miles lowered his rifle, a grin stretching across his face. His target showed similar handiwork – clean in, catastrophic out. “And that’s barely any juice?”

“Indeed. While precision and control shall generally serve you better, occasions arise whereby brute force proves necessary. The greater demons are not so readily dispatched. Best to master both approaches. Start with minimal enhancement, then we shall proceed upward in measure. Now, try the other selections.”

Next up were the ice rounds. Leave it to Victorian combat engineers to look at hollow points and think ‘ eh, not quite devastating enough.’ The initial wound channel was just the starting point – those crystalline formations propagated through the target mass as if giving it the Han Solo treatment, only engineered specifically for maximum tissue destruction.

Hell of a way to bypass the Geneva Convention’s restrictions. Though given what they were up against, perhaps excessive force was precisely the point. And besides, demons definitely weren’t covered under the accords.

Then there was the lightning setting.

DARPA had blown billions trying to develop directed energy weapons, and here was Celdorne solving the problem with Victorian metallurgy and some particularly aggressive runes. Not those neuromuscular disruption payloads that never quite worked; nah, this was actual lightning delivered straight through a bullet somehow. The projectile punched through and turned the whole wound channel into a conductor. The great Nikola Tesla would've been either fascinated or apoplectic.

“Now, without the crystal. Steady pressure, like a well-regulated steam valve. Too much force will strain the channels.”

Cole channeled his mana outward – a similar feeling to casting barrier magic. However, this required more finesse, more like maintaining steady pressure through an IV drip than trying to fill a pool with a fire hose. Once he found the right flow rate, it felt no different from using the crystal’s power supply. Same pathways, same response from the rifle; just drawing from his own reserves instead of an external source.

And thank God it didn’t demand much from his own reserves. His head was still throbbing from the strengthening magic and barrier test, and that dull ache in his lower back had grown from a minor pain into an acupuncturing mishap. Only his admiration of the weapon’s design philosophy offered any hope of distraction, though even that seemed questionable.

The Celdorians must have approached this through steam engine theory, but wasn’t mana flow closer to fluid dynamics? Too much flow rate leading to turbulence, wasting energy and risking damage? Would explain their emphasis on control, and why the crystals seemed to output at specific rates. Made sense as a backup too – something that enabled tired men to keep on trucking. He’d have to check the library when he could; there had to be something on the framework behind all this.

“Excellent progress,” Fotham said. “I perceive you possess a rather promising facility for channeling. We shall, of course, refine your sustained output during your initial course of instruction.”

Ethan chuckled. “He’s got a way with words, doesn’t he?”

The library comment stuck with Cole. Fotham carried the same presumptive tone as the king’s offer – as if their acceptance was merely a formality waiting to happen. Which, it was, quite honestly. But hell if the lack of agency didn’t just grind his gears.

“The rest of the tour beckons,” Fotham announced, barely giving them time to process. “I believe you’ll be rather excited to see what our kitchens and guest accommodations have to offer.”

Cole returned his cleared rifle to the rack. All the planning that must’ve gone into this – not just the weapons themselves, but also the civilization that had spent years, decades, perfecting them… It couldn’t be from some haphazard response to a demon incursion. It was a long-term development that suggested an equally long-term threat, one he’d be signing away his life to. But hey, it’d all be worth it if the food’s good and if the beds are comfy, right?