Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

Bullets formed into lines, pouring down like a torrential rain.

Kyle stiffly turned his head, and when he saw those towering figures, the lingering fear and confusion on his face suddenly faded away, replaced by a relieved smile.

The Banshees had arrived.

They were clad in heavy armor, each of their six arms brimming with weapons. The Gatlings in their hands spun madly, and with every rotation, bullets flew out, merging into a storm of fire.

The clash of metal against metal, the scrape of steel on the ground, the explosive force of gunpowder, the whistling of bullets through the air—all blended together into a sacred hymn of steel.

Even here on the battlefield, even facing terrifying monsters, Kyle could not help but lose himself for a moment.

It was as if the seawater surged up again, and before his eyes were murlocs and the Arm Monster, howling as they charged forward, memories of the past overlapping with the present.

And those towering figures in heavy armor were like gods walking among mortals, just as they had in the past, appearing by their side once more.

The roar of gunfire had never sounded so reassuring.

The eyes of the Holy Guard gradually filled with fanaticism. They recited the holy texts under their breath, cheering the arrival of their reinforcements.

“We are the Castel Banshees, come under the will of the Earl.” Ash’s cold voice rang out in all directions.

“From now on, we shall take over this battlefield.”

She did not wait for the Prince to respond. This was a proclamation, not a negotiation.

The formation of the Banshees shifted swiftly. Each of them dashed off in different directions, surrounding the monstrous foe before them.

The Compassionate Mother slammed down her arm without hesitation. Yet those attacks, which had left the Holy Guard scrambling for their lives, seemed like slow-motion in front of the Banshees, who dodged them with ease.

Their heavy armor rang with deep, resonant clashes of steel, proof of its crushing weight—yet on the Banshees it seemed to vanish, not hindering their movements in the slightest.

Their coordination was nearly flawless. Though they exchanged no words, they moved as if sharing a single mind: attack, cover, retreat, counterstrike. It was not like a battle against a towering monstrosity, but rather a graceful dance.

The soldiers of the Harbor Guard had been terrified to the core by the Compassionate Mother. Seeing the steel giants—the Banshees—appear, they thought their deaths imminent. Yet after hearing Ash’s declaration, they slowly realized these warriors had come to aid them.

The soldiers knew nothing of the supernatural. To them, these were divine emissaries, and so they knelt on the ground, praying in fear or in frenzy.

In their panic, they forgot much—some recited praises to the Banshees, some to Castel, and some even muttered prayers to “the Earl.”

The Prince stood among the soldiers, listening to their prayers offered to Hughes, his face darkening like iron.

Galahad stood off to the side, his eyes flashing. He had fought on countless battlefields, and he knew well how terrifyingly strong the Banshees were. They had only just arrived, yet in an instant seized the initiative.

It seemed like they were merely dodging the Compassionate Mother’s attacks, but before anyone realized it, the monstrous creature had been lured away from both the Holy Guard and the Harbor Guard. Such seamless coordination was beyond Galahad’s imagination.

And this was only their battle instinct. As for their weapons—

Galahad swallowed hard.

Those thick steel firearms were covered in pipes, connecting finally to the metal cylinders strapped to their backs.

Galahad knew what they were. The Mechanical Sanctum had once been close to the Royal Family, and even the Joanne Family had produced a Mechanical Priest.

He recognized it immediately—the Banshees wielded the Steam Rifles of the Mechanical Sanctum.

But weren’t these supposed to be sacred relics of those greasy gear-heads? The knowledge of forging such powerful weapons had long been lost. Only a handful remained in the world, most enshrined in their sanctums. Not even to be used—merely gazing upon one required elaborate rituals to please the Machine Spirit.

Yet here in Ash’s hands alone were three of them. Wasn’t each of these so heavy that several men were needed to lift them, with only a Mechanical Priest barely able to wield one?

Galahad forced himself to look away, straining to keep his composure. At least that much, as outrageous as it was, lay within the boundaries of what he understood.

But what were those endlessly spinning barrels?

He was no fool. He knew it was some kind of firearm. But weren’t firearms supposed to be shoot—reload—shoot?

Even a bolt-action musket fit within his comprehension, simply merging the powder and projectile loading. But the weapons in the Banshees’ hands—

Dada-dada-dada-dada.

Even with the superhuman hearing of an Extraordinary, Galahad had to strain to distinguish the gaps between shots.

It was no exaggeration to say that the firepower of these dozen Banshees far surpassed the entirety of the Harbor Guard combined.

How many Banshees were there? How many of these repeating machine guns did they possess? How many soldiers did the Harbor Guard even have?

All of Galahad’s decades of experience crumbled before Castel, as worthless as wastepaper. None of his knowledge or common sense applied on this miraculous island.

It was more terrifying than a Heretical God. Even the mere scraps of truth casually revealed here drove Galahad to the brink of madness.

Incomprehensible, unspeakable—the only thing clear was their overwhelming power.

Suddenly, this knight who gripped his longsword recalled the beginning of it all, when he had ordered men to steal a booklet said to be the holy text of the Holy Guard.

He had treasured it like a divine gift, only to open it and find the first line incomprehensible—

Knowledge is Power.

“Knowledge… Power.”

The clang of his longsword falling to the ground was swallowed by the storm of bullets.

On the other side.

Ash lifted her head, gazing through her visor at the Compassionate Mother, who continued to wail and lash out. She frowned.

Even while dodging the attacks, she asked within the Mind Link:

『How many bullets do we have left?』

The Banshees immediately responded in a noisy chorus.

『This is less than one-third used.』

『Wait, you used that much already? I just came with full ammo crates on my back!』

『Do you even see our rate of fire? I’ve been holding three Gatlings nonstop, already swapped out a round of barrels!』

『Wow, at this pace, won’t we run out of bullets soon?』

『Relax. Lady Ash already made arrangements. Didn’t you notice she’s been directing us to move southeast?』

『Southeast… Ah, I see, Lady Ash!』

Ash nodded. No further explanation was needed. The southeast—

was the sea.