"In this world, you call it magic," Lute said, adjusting his sights for the final shot. "In mine, we just call it ballistics."
With a final, singular crack, the battle was decided. Not by the strongest wizard, but by the nerd who brought a gun to a wand fight. As the smoke cleared, Snow bumped her shoulder against his, a playful smirk on her face. Lute sighed, looking at his girls and then at his rifle. The world of magic was changing, one bullet at a time. "In this world, you call it magic," Lute
The Orcs roared, a cacophony of iron and ego. Their shaman began a chant, the air shimmering with the heat of an impending firestorm. To any other village, this would be the end. "Open fire," Lute said. As the smoke cleared, Snow bumped her shoulder
The shaman’s eyes widened as his spell dissipated; his concentration broken not by a counter-spell, but by a 7.62mm round that grazed his staff. He looked up to see Lute descending the ridge, his silhouette framed by the smoke of gunpowder. The Orcs roared, a cacophony of iron and ego
"Hold," Lute commanded, his voice steady. He wasn't just a soldier; he was a leader of a specialized unit—his "Army Harem"—though he often found the name more embarrassing than the girls did. To them, he was the man who had given them the power to protect their homes without needing a drop of noble blood or rare magical talent.
Beside him, Snow, the white-wolf girl, checked the magazine of her submachine gun. Her ears twitched at the sound of the approaching Orc vanguard. "They’re within range, Lute," she whispered, her eyes sharp with a focus that combined her natural predatory instincts with the modern tactical training Lute had drilled into her.