The iron spring cannon's muzzle glinted coldly in the dawn, the buzzing of gears piercing through the river's thin mist.
Kaler wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand, his oil-stained right hand daring not to loosen its grip on the cannon's lever.
In his pupils, the bustling iron armor on the pier was reflected, the reflections on its surface dancing across the ship's hull.
The whooshing of air stirred by flames, the crisp clash of weapons, the hoarse shouts of battle...
On this autumn morning, these sounds were so abrupt in the tranquil fishing harbor.
Among them, the hurried thumping footsteps landing on the pier grew ever closer.
Arrows flitted back and forth through the air, and seven or eight Mountain Knights bearing wounded were racing across the pier.
"Kaler—" Old Laver shouted toward Kaler.
Kaler gave him a thumbs-up, indicating readiness.
