After he transmigrates into a useless noble whose territory is so barren even bandits turn their noses up at it, Allen Valentine has only one thing to rely on: a rusty Red Alert construction yard.
While others painstakingly cultivate battle aura, he has AK-47s for his conscripts.
While others summon meteors, he has the focused death ray of a Prism Tank.
When dragons blot out the sky, he quietly sets up Tesla coils.
An orc centurion charges in with a roar, only to be wiped out by crossfire in a minute. Not one of them gets within ten meters.
An elven ranger sneaks in to scout and takes home a sniper round with more than three times the range of their own weapons.
An ancient red dragon dives down, gets paralyzed by Tesla's electricity, and flees in humiliation. From then on, flying magical beasts across the continent give that territory a wide berth.
His enemies always think he's an easy target. Every time they taunt him, they do it with venom, and every time, the face-slapping comes fast and hard.
When an army of fifty thousand orcs, accompanied by behemoths and a shaman corps, lays siege to the city, everyone thinks the “Musket Demon of the Frontier” is about to fall.
Then the iron curtain of the war fortress rises, and the rumble of steel treads crushes the pride of the entire old world.
Only then do they finally understand:
From the very beginning, this man has been quietly crushing everything.
Guys who've never played Red Alert