I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World-Chapter 122: I Need Men Part 2

At first, the volunteers were skeptical.

Most of them were farmhands, city guards, second sons, and washed-up adventurers who hadn’t made it past Bronze Rank. They didn’t come for glory—they came because something had changed. Inigo had faced a Shade and won. Word spread fast. Now twenty men and women stood in formation, their boots digging into damp grass, waiting for whatever madness the Rift-Walker had in store.

They didn’t wait long.

Inigo arrived at dawn, hauling three large crates on a flat wooden cart he and Lyra had modified with salvaged wheels. Lyra walked beside him with a parchment board in hand—drawn up to look like a military checklist. The illusion of structure mattered, even if most of it was still ad hoc.

Without a word, Inigo dropped the first crate with a thud. He popped the latches and kicked the lid open.

Inside, twenty M1911 pistols, all cleaned, oiled, and chambered in .45 ACP. Sleek, compact, deadly.

He pulled one out, held it up for all to see. "This is an M1911. Semi-automatic handgun. It’s your last line of defense and your first lesson."

He motioned to the wooden targets standing at fifteen meters. "This weapon doesn’t forgive bad aim. Squeeze the trigger—one bullet. That’s all you get if you freeze. You miss, and the enemy won’t."

Inigo raised the pistol, braced his arms, and fired. The sharp crack echoed across the clearing. A splinter burst from the wooden dummy’s chest.

Bang. Bang.

Three shots, three hits. The last one went through the dummy’s ’eye.’

"By the end of the day, I expect each of you to land two out of three on center mass. Grab one."

They approached slowly. Even the bravest among them—Sark, a former city guard—hesitated. But curiosity overrode fear. Soon, twenty pistols were in twenty pairs of trembling hands.

Over the next few hours, Inigo drilled them.

Safety on. Safety off. Chamber check. Eject magazine. Tap-rack-bang.

He repeated each motion until the muscles obeyed instinctively. Lyra helped too—correcting posture, pointing out slack wrists and poor sight alignment. She wasn’t a soldier, but she had absorbed more than she realized while watching Inigo over the past weeks.

One by one, they fired live rounds.

The results were dismal at first. Most missed. One nearly shot his foot. Another panicked at the recoil and dropped the gun.

Inigo didn’t yell. He didn’t mock.

He simply reloaded the mag, reset the stance, and had them try again.

By the end of the first day, ten could consistently land shots inside the torso ring.

By the end of the second day, eighteen could.

And by the third, all twenty hit center mass from fifteen meters with nerves of steel.

Inigo was impressed. But he didn’t say it.

Instead, he opened the second crate.

"This," he said, lifting one of the carbines, "is an M4. Chambered in 5.56. You can flip to semi-auto or full-auto. You’ll start on semi."

He passed them around, showing how to extend the collapsible stock, adjust the red-dot optics, and check for barrel obstructions. This wasn’t just gear—this was doctrine.

"Your rifle is your lifeline," he continued. "You clean it. You sleep with it. You don’t drop it. Ever."

Day four was spent on basic drills.

Shouldering the weapon. Breathing through recoil. Short bursts. Controlled fire. Reload under stress.

Inigo split them into pairs—cover and fire teams. When one moved, the other laid down suppressive fire on wooden targets. It wasn’t perfect, but the muscle memory started to take root.

On day five, he introduced team movements.

Bounding overwatch. Pincer flanks. High-low breaches on marked wooden shacks they built themselves. Smoke grenades filled the air. They learned to advance under visual concealment and clear "enemy positions" made of hay bales and straw figures.

That afternoon, Thorne arrived. He stood at the edge of the field, watching as two teams executed a textbook leapfrog movement—each covering the other while moving across uneven terrain. Volunteers shouted callsigns, laid suppressive fire, and simulated clearing corners.

"They’re actually doing it," the Guildmaster said, almost in awe. "Gods..."

Inigo approached him, dirt and sweat smeared on his shirt, carbine slung over his chest.

"Still think I was wasting your men?"

Thorne chuckled. "You’re not building an adventurer team. You’re building a small army."

"I don’t want to fight alone the next time a demon arrives. And these people—they want to fight back. All they needed was the right tools."

Thorne nodded, thoughtful. "What happens when they’re ready?"

"We scale up. I train platoon leaders. We form a regiment. And we start integrating defense cells into every border town. This kingdom needs firepower, not just steel and magic."

That evening, Inigo and Lyra laid out five long rifles on the makeshift bench.

"M24 sniper systems," Inigo told the five he’d handpicked. "You’re the best shooters so far. This is your next challenge."

He spent hours explaining scope adjustments, windage, zeroing range. How to calculate bullet drop over distance. He showed them how to build a stable firing position from nothing—prone with a rucksack, braced against a tree, or even over a collapsed shield.

They each got ten rounds. That was it.

The first two missed wildly. But then the third, from a quiet, focused woman named Meryl, struck dead center at 500 meters.

Inigo smiled. "You’re a natural."

The others followed. Three out of five scored headshots by nightfall.

By the sixth day, drills became routines. Reload races. Jam clearances under pressure. Dismantling and reassembling weapons by feel alone.

Lyra set up a whiteboard to track each trainee’s stats—accuracy, speed, reliability.

Morale soared. So did results.

On the seventh day, Inigo let them rest.

Not for their sake—but for preparation.

Inigo sat under the fading light, cleaning his own rifle as the trainees laughed around a small fire. For the first time, they looked less like villagers and more like soldiers.

He exhaled slowly.

"Tomorrow," he whispered, "they learn what it truly means to survive under fire. I’ll see to it."

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