Modern Weapons Cheat in Fantasy World
Chapter 153: Across the Table
Chapter: Across the Table
The first real argument about the Dominion happened three days later.
It did not happen inside the command center while alarms rang and drone operators shouted coordinates across the room. It did not happen in the briefing room with everyone standing stiffly in front of a clean map. It certainly did not happen in the western forest, where tension was easier to understand because every shadow could hide teeth, arrows, or watching eyes.
It happened around a conference table inside Atlas Headquarters, where half a dozen officers, analysts, and field leaders stared at the same map and realized that information had become more dangerous than ignorance.
Marcus stood near the projector with his arms folded while the latest intelligence summary rotated across the screen behind him. The western forest, once little more than a green stain on Atlas maps, had changed completely over the past three weeks. Names now filled the blank spaces.
Black Fang.
Stone River.
Long Branch.
The Capital.
Known roads.
Probable roads.
Observed patrol routes.
Supply movements.
Population estimates.
Possible industrial sites.
Drone imagery had turned mystery into structure. Survivor testimony had turned rumor into pattern. Kareth’s reluctant answers had added names and meaning to things Atlas had only seen from the air. What had once looked like scattered camps now looked like a working system with leadership, logistics, production, food supply, and military control.
That should have made Marcus feel better.
It did not.
Every answer only created two new problems.
Tomas leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. He had been quiet for most of the briefing, which usually meant he was either thinking or trying not to say something blunt in front of the analysts.
At last, he spoke.
"So let’s say we rescue another twenty prisoners."
Marcus turned toward him. "All right."
"And after that, another twenty."
"Yes."
"And then another."
No one interrupted.
Everyone already understood where he was going.
Tomas pointed toward the projected map. "There are thousands of people under Dominion control."
The room stayed silent.
Nobody argued because the evidence had grown too heavy to ignore. The rescued prisoners had confirmed it. Kareth had confirmed it in his own guarded way. Drone surveillance supported it through sheer scale. The Dominion was not operating a few isolated labor camps hidden in the forest. The camps were not the problem by themselves.
They were part of a larger machine.
Stone River had fields.
Long Branch had logging teams.
Black Fang had ore processing.
The Capital had administration, warriors, and leadership strong enough to bind the surrounding settlements together.
Elaina, seated near the center of the table, looked from Tomas to Marcus. "You’re asking whether rescue operations can actually solve the problem."
Tomas nodded. "Because eventually they adapt. They already started."
Marcus did not deny it.
He clicked to the next slide.
The screen changed to a set of aerial images taken over the last several days. Additional walls around one worksite. New watch platforms near a road. Increased wolf patrols along the outer trails. Guard formations walking closer to prisoner groups. Convoys that once moved with loose escorts now moved with shields, outriders, and scouts.
The Dominion had reacted exactly the way any competent military organization would react after losing prisoners.
They learned.
They adjusted.
They improved.
Marcus folded his arms tighter. "They are adapting."
Rolf raised a hand from the far end of the table. "I would like to officially state that I preferred fighting bandits."
A few people ignored him.
A few others looked as if they agreed.
Bandits robbed people. Monsters attacked because they were hungry or territorial. Both could be understood in simple terms. The Dominion was different. It held territory, moved resources, managed labor, guarded roads, and made decisions with patience. It was not merely a threat in the forest.
It was a society.
And societies were harder to fight than monsters.
Marcus switched slides again.
A field of crops appeared on the screen, cut into blocks around Stone River. The next image showed timber stacked outside Long Branch, with teams hauling logs along a cleared road. Another showed smoke rising from ore furnaces near Black Fang, where workers moved between pits, carts, and low industrial sheds.
Elaina studied the images for several seconds before saying what everyone was thinking.
"Their economy depends on labor."
Marcus nodded slowly. "Yes."
"And the labor comes from outside the forest."
"Yes."
Silence settled over the table again.
This time, it felt heavier.
If Atlas stopped the flow of prisoners, the Dominion would eventually feel it. Not at once, perhaps. Not in a week. But sooner or later, fewer workers meant fewer logs, less ore, less food moved, fewer walls built, fewer weapons repaired, and fewer roads maintained.
Economic pressure.
Resource shortages.
Production delays.
Population strain.
Atlas had entered the forest to rescue kidnapped civilians.
Without meaning to, they had begun touching the foundation of another civilization.
One of the analysts cleared his throat. "Commander."
Marcus looked toward him. "Go ahead."
The young man hesitated as if the thought tasted unpleasant. "If labor shortages become severe enough, they may begin targeting larger settlements."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
No one needed him to explain.
The Dominion captured isolated caravans because isolated caravans were safe. They were small enough to overpower, far enough from help, and easy to hide afterward. But if those targets stopped supplying enough labor, the Dominion might widen its hunting grounds.
Merchant towns.
Border villages.
Agricultural estates.
Small cities.
Rolf’s humor faded. "That would turn this from raids into war."
"It may already be heading there," Tomas said.
Marcus looked back at the map. "We are assuming they respond with escalation."
Elaina raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t that likely?"
"Maybe," Marcus said.
Several people turned toward him.
He pointed to the largest image on the screen.
The Capital.
Specifically, the Great Hall near its center.
"Everything we have observed suggests centralized leadership. Kareth confirmed that chiefs answer to Durok. The camps adjust after orders move from the capital. Messenger routes increased after each rescue operation. That means they are not acting only on impulse."
Tomas understood at once. "So if revenge was their only goal..."
"They probably would have struck back already."
The room considered that.
The Dominion had wolves.
Scouts.
Trackers.
Knowledge of terrain that Atlas still lacked.
If revenge alone drove them, they had already missed several chances to attack patrols, ambush roads, or harass forward teams.
Instead, they observed.
Prepared.
Adjusted.
That behavior felt too familiar.
It looked disturbingly like Atlas.
Far beneath the main base, Kareth was having his own uncomfortable realization.
The Dominion guard sat alone in his room, staring at the photograph Marcus had left behind earlier that morning. Not by accident. Marcus did very little by accident these days. The picture had been placed on the table where Kareth could reach it, beside a cup of water and a sheet of paper marked with simple words both of them had been trying to learn.
The photograph showed Atlas Base from above.
Buildings.
Roads.
Vehicles.
Aircraft.
Training grounds.
Storage yards.
People.
Kareth had spent nearly an hour studying it, and he still did not understand most of what he saw. The flying machines remained impossible to him. The metal roads made little sense. The buildings looked too large, too orderly, too permanent for a force that had seemingly appeared from nowhere. The black circles of landing pads, the rectangular hangars, the long vehicles parked in rows, all of it felt like a map of another world.
Yet one thing was clear.
Population.
Atlas was not a small band of raiders.
It was not a passing mercenary company hiding behind strange weapons.
The sky people’s settlement was enormous.
Possibly larger than Black Fang.
Possibly larger than several clans combined.
That troubled him more than the machines.
Machines were terrifying, but numbers were honest.
Strength had always come from numbers.
The door opened.
Kareth looked up at once.
Marcus entered carrying two trays of food.
The guard’s expression shifted into suspicion, as usual.
Marcus was beginning to think suspicion was not a mood for Kareth. It was his natural resting state.
He placed one tray on the table, then sat across from him.
No notebook.
No lesson board.
No interrogation.
Just food.
Kareth looked at the tray.
Marcus pointed. "Food."
The guard nodded slowly. "Food."
Progress.
They ate in silence for several minutes. Kareth moved carefully, watching Marcus between bites as if expecting the meal to turn into a trick. Marcus let the silence remain. He had learned that pressing too hard only made Kareth close off. The guard answered more when he believed he had chosen to speak.
Eventually, Kareth pointed upward.
Then he moved one hand in a rough spinning motion.
"Heli...cop...ter."
The pronunciation was terrible, but understandable.
Marcus nodded. "Helicopter."
Kareth repeated it again under his breath, breaking the word into pieces.
Then he pointed at Marcus.
After that, he pointed toward the photograph of Atlas Base.
Then he spread both hands.
A question.
Marcus understood the meaning even without shared grammar.
How many of you are there?
Unfortunately, he did not yet have the words to answer clearly. Numbers remained difficult beyond small counts, and abstract explanations were nearly impossible.
Instead, Marcus pointed at the photograph.
"Atlas."
Kareth looked down at the image.
He nodded after a moment.
Then he pointed west, toward the unseen forest beyond the base.
"Dominion."
Marcus froze slightly.
That was new.
Very new.
He repeated the word with care. "Dominion."
Kareth tapped his own chest. "Dominion."
Not clan.
Not village.
Not camp.
Dominion.
The word itself carried weight.
It meant more than a settlement. More than a tribe. More than a group of warriors under one chief.
A state.
Perhaps even a nation.
Marcus pointed toward himself. "Atlas."
Then he pointed toward Kareth. "Dominion."
The guard nodded once, apparently satisfied that the difference had been understood.
For several minutes, neither man spoke. The room remained quiet except for the sound of utensils against trays and the muted hum of Atlas Headquarters above them.
Then Kareth pointed at Marcus’s sidearm.
"Weapon."
Marcus followed his gaze and nodded. "Weapon."
Kareth pointed toward the confiscated spear leaning near the far wall under guard watch. "Weapon."
"Yes. Weapon."
Shared concepts.
Shared dangers.
Shared understanding.
Then Kareth surprised him.
He looked at Marcus, then pointed toward the photograph of Atlas Base and the unseen direction of the forest.
"War?"
The room seemed to become smaller.
Marcus did not answer immediately.
Kareth repeated the word, more certain this time.
"War?"
Marcus looked at the photograph between them.
Atlas.
Dominion.
Two systems facing one another with prisoners, drones, wolves, aircraft, fear, and too little language between them.
He wished the answer were simple.
It was not.
Back in the conference room, the answer remained just as uncertain.
The afternoon briefing shifted from current intelligence to future scenarios. Best case. Worst case. Most likely case. Each option appeared clean on the board, but none of them felt clean once people began discussing what they meant.
Best case, the Dominion accepted contact, released prisoners, and agreed to stop raiding caravans.
Worst case, the Dominion treated Atlas interference as a direct threat and mobilized every clan under Durok’s control.
Most likely case sat somewhere between those two and looked worse with every adjustment.
The Dominion possessed numbers, terrain knowledge, local supply networks, and cultural unity under a strong leader.
Atlas possessed air superiority, modern weapons, reconnaissance, mobility, and discipline.
Neither side understood the other.
Historically, that combination rarely ended well.
Elaina finally asked the question no one had wanted to put into plain words.
"If negotiations become possible, what exactly are we negotiating?"
No one answered at once.
Some issues allowed compromise.
Trade routes could be adjusted.
Borders could be marked.
Resources could be shared.
Prison labor was different.
Marcus looked at the map for a long moment before speaking.
"The prisoners go free."
His voice was quiet, but no one mistook it for uncertainty.
Tomas nodded. "So either they agree..."
"Or they don’t," Elaina finished.
The unsaid part remained on the table.
If they did not agree, Atlas would have to decide how far it was willing to go.
Before anyone could speak again, the command center doors opened.
One of the drone operators hurried inside, holding a tablet against his chest.
"Commander."
Marcus turned. "What happened?"
The operator looked uncomfortable. "We’ve got movement at the capital."
Everyone focused at once.
The main display changed.
The aerial feed showed the Dominion capital from above. The Great Hall stood at the center like a dark wooden spine surrounded by packed earth, smoke vents, clustered buildings, and gathering roads. Several large figures emerged from the hall. One stood taller than the rest.
Durok.
Even from the drone’s height, his size was obvious.
He walked toward the center of the settlement, and people began gathering around him.
Marcus frowned. "What are we looking at?"
The operator zoomed in.
Banners had appeared near the central square.
Messengers stood near the edges of the crowd.
Warriors formed in organized groups, not loose clusters.
Women, workers, and older figures stood farther back.
More kept arriving.
The room became quiet because everyone recognized the shape of the event even if they could not hear the words.
An address.
An announcement.
Possibly a declaration.
Ryan, who had been silent near the rear wall, muttered, "I hate watching a speech we can’t hear."
"So do I," Marcus said.
They watched Durok raise one arm.
The crowd stilled.
Then he began to speak.
No audio came through the drone feed. Only image. Only movement. Only the sight of a leader addressing hundreds while banners shifted in the wind behind him.
It was enough to make the room uneasy.
Kareth heard about it several hours later.
Not from the Dominion.
From Marcus.
The commander entered carrying a printed photograph taken by the Reaper. It showed Durok standing before the capital, one arm lifted, with hundreds gathered below him.
Kareth saw it and stood so quickly his chair scraped against the floor.
As much as his restraints allowed, anyway.
"Durok."
Marcus nodded. "Durok."
Kareth stared at the image for a long moment. His expression became difficult to read. There was loyalty there, yes, but also concern. Perhaps even fear.
He slowly sat back down.
Marcus placed the photograph between them and pointed at it.
Then he spread his hands.
Question.
Kareth studied the image carefully. His eyes moved over the crowd, the banners, the warriors, the messengers, and finally the figure of Durok.
He pointed toward the crowd.
Then toward Durok.
Then he made a speaking motion.
"Speech," Marcus said.
Kareth shook his head once, searching for the right word.
He pointed again. Durok. Crowd. Warriors. West.
Then he spoke a word Atlas had not heard from him before.
"Prepare."
Marcus went still.
Kareth repeated it.
"Prepare."
The guard pointed toward Durok again, then toward the crowd, then toward the west.
Toward Atlas.
Marcus looked down at the photograph.
He repeated the word with care.
"Prepare."
Kareth nodded once.
Neither man spoke afterward.
They did not understand everything.
Not even close.
But they understood enough.
That night, Marcus stood alone outside the command center and looked west toward the unseen forests beyond the horizon.
Atlas was preparing.
The Dominion was preparing.
Neither side had chosen war yet.
That was the problem.
History did not need two sides to choose war with clear minds. Sometimes fear chose it for them. Sometimes pride did. Sometimes distance, bad timing, and a single misunderstood act pushed two civilizations past the point where either could stop without losing face.
Behind Marcus, Atlas Base continued working beneath floodlights and generator hum. Mechanics checked aircraft. Patrols changed shifts. Drone crews watched the western forest. Analysts sorted images, routes, and estimates into reports that would be outdated by morning.
Somewhere beyond the darkness, Durok was likely doing the same in his own way.
Preparing.
Planning.
Waiting.
Marcus looked toward the stars.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he found himself hoping for something that felt harder than victory.
Understanding.
Because victory at least had a shape. It could be measured in territory taken, enemies defeated, prisoners freed, and objectives completed.
Understanding was harder.
It required language.
Patience.
Trust.
And time.
Atlas and the Dominion had too little of all four.
Marcus lowered his gaze toward the dark line of the west.
If understanding failed, both sides were running out of room for mistakes.