I Have a Military Shop Tab in Fantasy World
Chapter 130: SAW Part 1

Chapter 130: SAW Part 1

The peace of the previous night lingered only a few hours into dawn.

By the time the sun had risen past the mist, the clearing had already changed. Blankets were folded, fire pits cold. The warmth of yesterday had been replaced by the crisp edge of anticipation.

Inigo stood before the recruits with a canvas tarp spread out behind him.

Most of them were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes, adjusting belts and armor, whispering guesses about what the day might bring.

"I see you’ve recovered," Inigo said flatly, folding his arms. "Good. Because today’s no picnic."

He stepped aside and yanked the tarp away.

Beneath it lay a weapon none of them had seen before.

It was larger than the rifles they trained with, bristling with a long barrel, bipod legs folded underneath, and a boxy feed port. Matte black and built like it could bite.

The air grew still.

"What... is that?" Brenna asked, her voice quiet but steady.

Inigo didn’t answer immediately. He reached down, lifted the weapon with both hands, and set it atop a waist-high crate.

"M249 Squad Automatic Weapon," he said. "Belt-fed. Gas-operated. Capable of sustained fire. Fires the same rounds as your rifles—but faster. Louder. Angrier."

He stepped back and let the silence settle again.

"This is the first one. You only get one for now. So we’re assigning it to someone who can handle the responsibility."

The recruits looked around at one another, some hopeful, others wary.

Inigo scanned their faces slowly, then pointed.

"Meryl."

Everyone blinked.

Even Meryl.

"Me?"

"You’ve got steady hands. Good instincts. You don’t flinch under pressure, and you don’t waste ammo. You’ve proven reliable under fire and calm under chaos."

He paused. "And most importantly, I trust you to know when not to use it."

Meryl stepped forward slowly. Her arms tensed as she approached the crate, looking at the weapon like it might bite.

Inigo gave her a short nod. "Go on."

She reached down and gripped the handles. It was heavy—heavier than anything she’d fired before—but not unmanageable. It settled against her vest like a stubborn animal waiting to be broken in.

"How does it feed?" she asked.

Inigo motioned to a wooden box beside the crate. "Linked belts. Each belt holds a hundred rounds. You’ll fire in controlled bursts unless I say otherwise. Your job is suppression—keep heads down, stop flanks, and control the tempo."

He turned to the others. "The rest of you? You support her. She is not a hero. She is a node in the team. If she gets hit, you don’t leave her behind—you protect the gun and the gunner."

He began pacing.

"Today’s drills are centered around the M249. Room clearing. Open-field suppression. Defensive holds. We’ll run through it all. Brenna, Hal, Feron—you’ll rotate as assistant gunners, helping with reloads and spotting targets."

He clapped once.

"Form up."

They moved quickly now, no hesitation. The group was beginning to understand rhythm—what Inigo called "combat flow." Even Lio, who still joked too much, was sharper on his feet.

The first exercise began with a mock defense line: crates stacked like cover, logs forming an improvised barricade. At one end, Meryl and Feron set up with the SAW. The others formed two flanking fire teams.

"Scenario," Lyra called out from her perch near the hill. "Bandits breaching your perimeter. Ten targets. Moving fast. Hit them before they overrun your position."

Inigo raised a hand, then dropped it.

"Begin!"

Paper silhouettes sprang up on poles, sliding along ropes through the treeline.

"Contact!" Meryl shouted.

The SAW roared.

It was not like the others.

The bark of the M4s and carbines was sharp, punchy—like hammers on iron. But the M249 was something else. A deep, rolling thunder, a brrrrt of controlled devastation that echoed across the clearing.

Three silhouettes dropped instantly.

Feron slapped in another belt. "Reloading!"

Meryl kept the weapon braced, pivoting slightly, keeping her bursts tight and deliberate. "Target right—moving fast!"

Sark and Hal fired in sync, catching it before it vanished behind the logs.

Brenna, on the far left, called out positions. "Two more—east line! Low crawl!"

Meryl adjusted and fired again.

This time, she overshot.

"Too high!" Inigo barked.

She adjusted her grip. "Reacquiring—firing!"

Two more targets fell.

By the end of the drill, only one silhouette remained—caught on its line, swinging aimlessly.

"Cease!" Lyra called.

The clearing quieted. Smoke drifted lazily from the SAW’s barrel. Meryl’s cheeks were flushed, her hair damp with sweat, but her eyes were sharp.

"Well done," Inigo said. "Faster reloads next time. Feron, that second belt jammed. You didn’t check the feed line."

Feron winced. "Yes, Instructor."

He nodded once. "That’s why we drill."

They ran the exercise again—this time with Hal as the assistant gunner and Brenna coordinating from the rear.

The targets came faster. Some were paired to simulate charging attackers. One had a paint pouch strapped to its chest that exploded red when hit, signaling a "confirmed kill."

Meryl’s aim was improving with every run. She learned to fire in short bursts, to manage recoil with a subtle lean forward, to let the barrel do the work instead of muscling it. She even began calling her own reloads.

"Belt out! Reloading!"

And Hal—calmer than Feron—had the second belt in before Inigo could even step in.

After three rounds, Inigo signaled a pause.

"Reset," he said.

While Lyra replaced targets, the recruits gathered under the shaded edge of the clearing. Meryl drank deeply from a flask, arms aching.

Lyra approached her, eyes curious. "What’s it feel like?"

Meryl shrugged. "Like... holding lightning. Except you have to point it somewhere or it bites back."

That drew a chuckle from Sark.

"You looked like a war goddess out there," he said. "Remind me never to make you angry."

Meryl gave him a tired but proud grin. "Just don’t forget the belts next time."

Inigo returned with two more weapon crates, smaller this time. He placed them down and opened them both.

"One holds replacement barrels. The other holds spare belts and feed trays. This machine gun will overheat fast if misused. So later this week—we practice barrel changes mid-combat."

He gave Meryl a look. "You’re learning. But this isn’t just about gunning things down. The real value of a SAW is control—denying space. Cutting off advance. Breaking momentum."

He scanned the others. "That’s why she can’t do it alone. You flank. You draw fire. You help her reposition. That’s what this afternoon’s drill is for—mobile fire support."

Lyra stepped forward. "We’ve marked a course in the woods. Tight paths, elevation shifts, ambush zones. You’ll advance with the SAW team while clearing hostiles and repositioning after each burst."

"In pairs," Inigo added. "Rotation every contact."

The recruits exchanged glances—half-excited, half-dreading the next test.

But none of them backed down.

Meryl slung the SAW over her shoulder again.

"Let’s see how it runs in the woods," she said.

Inigo nodded approvingly.

"Gear up. You’ve got thunder in your hands now."