Author: Archivist In The 19th Legion
Date: 56 AP
On the northern border of the recently annexed country of Great Tendor, a brigade of peldaks should be watching the hills and plains that sit beyond the mountains.
Instead, a thousand men and women, with hundreds of native tendori, are cheering, whistling, and taking bets. Tendori servants of the lower castes are scrambling to keep everyone’s drinks full, but it’s the elven chefs responsible for providing the high-quality meals that every peldak demands.
“Me next!” A young man bellows, stepping out onto the field and yanking off his winter coat. Snow crunches beneath his boots, and he punches the air to psyche himself up.
The tendori prince who rules the border territory leans to the side of his throne, addressing the peldak major sitting at his side. “What about him? Will he live?”
The major rubs his bearded chin thoughtfully, his ears twitching. The young man is 250 years old, 7’3 tall, and seems decently built with plenty of scars. “He’ll definitely live… but he’ll be hurting.”
The young man steps down range of the cannon, about 70 feet away, and draws an X over his chest with a finger, “right here!” Where he’s standing, there’s a concerning amount of red-stained snow. Some spatters are as much as 40 feet removed from the deep red center.
The cannoneer cups a hand to his face, “what’s your plan?”
The young man holds his arms out and crosses his hands, fingers over fingers, thumb over thumb, and a diamond shaped gap in the middle. “It’s gonna hit right here,” he swipes his arms down, “and then I’m gonna redirect it into the ground!”
The audience cheers at the bravado, but the major turns to his drinking companion, “nevermind, he’s dead as hell.”
“Haha!”
The cannoneer grabs a hefty iron ball, then playfully tosses it up and down with one hand. Once he’s gotten a feel for the weight, he shoves it into the barrel of the thick, black metal cannon. He lines the barrel perfectly on target with the X, then lights a match and holds it over the fuse. He yells “three!” The crowd joins in, “two! One!” He lights the fuse, and the front of the cannon explodes into thick white smoke, jerking back from the recoil as the two wooden posts dig into the snow and the ground beneath.
The cannonball impacts the young man’s hands, instantly shatters his fingers and the bones in his arms, then continues to rip straight through his chest, leaving a prominent hole between his pecs. Sternum obliterated, both of his hearts destroyed, he’s dead before he can hit the ground. It’s only thanks to the strong muscles of the peldaks that he wasn’t turned into a red mist.
“Ooooh!” The crowd flinches, but cheers and well over half of them take a drink.
The major shakes his head.
Medics run out to grab the young man’s corpse and bring him into the medical tent so they can revive him with arcane peldak medicine. It takes his body mass and reforms it into new bones and organs to replace what he lost. Since the medicine cannot create body mass, he’ll become noticeably thinner as much of his muscles will be taken to replace the damaged hole in his chest.
“Ho-ho!” The prince laughs, “can none of you stand up to modern firearms? Just imagine the future, when weaponry develops further. Even the tendori could outmatch the might of your legions!”
The major cracks a smile, “if we were dumb enough to stand in the open and let you shoot us in a real battle, then sure. You might have a chance.”
“Me next!” Another young peldak calls out. He marches forward and hops into place before the blood can even freeze. He’s at least 375 years old, though a bit short for a peldak, only standing at 6’9.
“Him?” The prince cocks his head.
The major narrows his brow. “Let’s see.”
The cannoneer calls out, “your plan?”
The young man slowly swings his right leg around and holds it out to the side. Perfect balance on display; he doesn’t sway even a millimeter, despite the cold wind. “Right where my shin is!”
“You’re gonna kick it?”
“I’m pretty confident in my legs.”
The major sighs and shakes his head.
The cannoneer lines up the shot, the young man kicking the air in preparation, then the cannoneer grabs the match. The crowd chants, “three! Two! One!”
An explosion of smoke and fire, the cannonball flies out of the barrel and the young man lands his kick perfectly. Only for the iron ball to go straight through his shin, crunching bones and tearing off everything below the kneecap. The man’s body keeps turning in a manner similar to how yanking a tablecloth fast enough won’t disturb tableware, and it takes nearly a second for the pain and realization to hit his mind. “A-AGH!” He grits his teeth and hops on his left foot until he loses his composure and falls to his back. “That..! AGH! That didn’t go how I thought!”
The crowd cheers again, drinking and eating, and the medics rush over. Two women grab under his arms to help him hobble to the medical tent while three more medics run around to find his foot and the shattered splinters of bone. The peldaks have a certain type of medical gel that can reattach limbs. So long as he’s not missing too many bone fragments, he won’t need to be killed and revived to regrow his leg.
The prince turns to his companion with a smile, “you seem disappointed. Is it even possible for one of you to survive a hit from a cannon?”
“Of course it is. I could do it, but the problem is these kids are too weak.”
The prince’s eyes light up, “oh? You could survive?” He gestures to the field of red snow, “then by all means, why don’t you show them how it’s done?”
“Hm?” The major raises his eyebrows, then smiles, “very well.” The major stands and walks down from the raised wooden platform. Putting two fingers in his mouth, he whistles sharply, perking the ears of everyone in attendance, and causing them to stand at attention. “Enough of this farce! 50 of you tried, and 50 of you failed. Time for a real peldak to show that such ‘technological advancements’ are no match for refined peldak muscle.”
The crowd explodes in cheers, stomps, and whistles. There’s no point in betting on the outcome, victory for the major is assured. 3,080 years old, the major has cut down five times as many foes across his many years in the military. Standing at 6’11, the major stops by the cannon to calmly removes his coat and undershirt, revealing a bare chest and back that’s crisscrossed by a network of scars. Many of those scars are older than the country they’re garrisoning, and while some cultures consider scars on the back to be cowardly, the peldaks know he got them from throwing himself into the thick of battle, surrounded by dozens of opponents at once, yet still emerging as the victor. Because the peldak revival medicine heals scar tissue, everyone knows that the major has never once died.
He walks over to the red snow and turns to face the cannon.
The cannoneer smiles, “hey boss, remember that time you put me on latrine duty for three years?”
The major’s smile is wider, “I’m gonna remember putting you on latrine duty for three centuries if you miss.”
The crowd loses it and can’t stop laughing.
The major crosses a finger over his chiseled abs, then taps just above his belly button. He hunches forward slightly, his right leg back, and his arms forward. He’s ready to catch.
The cannoneer aims, then lights the match. The chant of the crowd shakes the mountains, “three! Two! One!”
Fire, smoke, and a 50-pound iron ball blasts out of the cannon with a thunderous roar.
The major can see the ball coming and flexes his muscles tight in anticipation.
The ball impacts his hardened stomach, squishing the muscles and pressing against the organs underneath, he feels the impact resonate in his spine, “hngh!” His feet dig back into the snow and ground as the force shoves him back a foot. His arms wrap around the back of the ball as he hunches forward to brace himself. His body remains intact, though a glob of spit and bile is forced up his esophagus and out his mouth. Less than a second after the impact, the major sighs in relief.
With a weary face, the major holds it up the cannonball, spinning it on his finger. “See? Easy.”
A deep purple bruise is already forming on his stomach, and all the peldaks lose their minds, rushing in and screaming praise at their commander. They pile around him and even throw the elf up onto their shoulders.
The prince purses his lips and leans back on his throne. “So peldaks get stronger as they age?” His voice is strained upon realizing that technology hasn’t quite bridged the difference yet. “Is there any limit to such power?”
To the prince, the only thing that’s clear is that Great Tendor could never rebel against the Peldak Protectorate within his lifetime.