The vast field was filled with over a thousand men and boys, each holding drawing tools and a blank canvas.
The sight was peculiar, and the women and children watching from the outskirts couldn't suppress their laughter. It was a rare and almost humorous scene to witness their fathers, brothers, and uncles—men who had been hardened by years of labor—now crouched in the grass with charcoal sticks, trying to sketch something.
"Your Majesty, is this really necessary?" a man with a scruffy beard asked, lifting his head from his sketch.
Hearing the man's words, Ragon smiled as he spoke,
"Others aren't complaining, so if I were you, I would follow the crowd."
The women and children, peering from a safe distance, whispered among themselves. "I never thought I'd see my husband like this," one woman chuckled. Another added, "I didn't even know my brother could hold a piece of charcoal without breaking it."
Ragon stood in the middle of the field, as he was facing the crowd on a small bench to the men and boys gathered around him. He had a large wooden easel before him, and while he began sketching his design in silence, he spoke to the crowd to guide them.
"Imagine this in your mind," Ragon instructed, his voice steady but commanding. "The weapon we're creating is something that can tip the scales in any battle. You don't need to see what I'm doing; you just need to listen and bring it to life on your parchment."
The men adjusted their seating positions, gripping their charcoal pieces tightly as they prepared to follow his instructions.
"Start with a long, straight rectangle—about the length of your forearm. This will be the barrel," Ragon began, drawing his own confident lines on the parchment. "It should be smooth and hollow, allowing projectiles to fire with speed and precision. Keep the proportions balanced."
Some of the younger men exchanged nervous glances but began sketching.
"Next," Ragon continued, "underneath the barrel, draw a curved shape—it's the trigger guard. Within that, imagine a small lever. This is the trigger, the part that controls the release of energy or force. Make sure the trigger's placement feels natural, just where your index finger would rest if you were holding it."
The sounds of charcoal scratching filled the air as the men worked. Ragon kept his tone even, not rushing them.
"Now for the grip, or the handle," he said, sketching on his parchment without looking back. "It should be an extension beneath the barrel—ergonomic, thick enough to be held tightly but not so bulky that it feels awkward. Remember, this is where you'll channel control over the weapon."
One of the boys raised his hand hesitantly. "Your Majesty, should the handle be curved or straight?"
"Good question," Ragon replied without turning. "A slight curve will make it easier to hold. Think about how your fingers curl naturally when gripping something firm."
The boy nodded and returned to his sketch.
"Lastly," Ragon said, adding the final details to his own drawing, "add a triangular shape at the back of the weapon. This is the stock, which stabilizes the weapon when fired. It should look sturdy, not overly decorative. Keep it functional."
The group worked intently, beads of sweat forming on their brows. The women and children from the village gathered nearby, peeking curiously at the strange sight. Seeing their husbands, brothers, and uncles sitting cross-legged in the field with artistic tools in hand was an unusual scene, drawing murmurs and giggles from the spectators.
Ragon gave them another moment to finish before speaking. "Now, put down your tools. Stand, and bring your work forward one by one."
The crowd shifted uneasily, some men reluctant to show their attempts. Ragon turned around, his silver hair catching the sunlight, and gestured for the first man to step forward.
The first sketch was far from what he'd envisioned—a clunky mess of lines. "Hmm," Ragon said, tilting his head as he inspected it. "An interesting attempt, but this won't be very practical. Keep trying." He handed the parchment back, smiling encouragingly.
The next few sketches weren't much better. However, as the tenth man stepped forward, Ragon's expression shifted.
"Now this," he said, holding up the sketch, "is promising."
Gradually, Ragon sifted through the pile, sorting out ten designs that closely resembled his mental image. He held them up to show the crowd. "These ten men have successfully passed the test. From this day forward, you will be known as the 'Craftsmen of Light.'"
The chosen men stood proudly, their chests puffed out as the crowd cheered.
They all didn't realize that the image Andrew wanted them to draw was a gun. In Olympia, one thing they had was technology. It was the realm of the gods, so they never lacked anything, even in various creations. It felt like Olympia was a hundred thousand years more developed than Earth.
Ragon was planning to craft a gun that had not yet been created in this time. But they had no idea how far his thoughts extended. They all stared at the drawing, unable to understand its meaning. Only Ragon did.
"So, next would be the blacksmith," Ragon smiled, having finished the drawing; he just needed to craft it.
***********
Ragon had finished appointing the various roles to each and every member present, so they were ready for the next cause of action.
"We now have the shadow team, the main force, the blacksmith, the decoy team, the craftsmen of light, the trap teams, and the sabotage team," Ragon smiled as he called them out.
Ragon had successfully named all the men present as they were divided into various teams, and these would be the ones responsible for building the kingdom he had visualized. Now the best course of action was to plan and train them for the orc ambush.