When Joheim Burgenston was a boy in Wissenland he studied at an academy learning to build machines that would one day help the empire. He remembered a day when a group of dwarven engineers were brought to show the class the wonders of Zhufbar, a far-off mountain hold where the dwarves constructed the most masterful machines in all the old world. The dwarves explained to the class for young manlings a concept called replaceable parts. When a machine becomes so complicated that it requires many different pieces to work, the dwarves explained, the parts must be made to be easily replaced in case they break lest the whole of the machine ceases to function from the smallest of parts breaking. Thus, every machine is designed so that every piece can be easily removed and replaced when it breaks.
Joheim awoke in a camp hospital somewhere in the south of Averland two days after the conclusion of the battle in Black Fire Pass. His leg was gone just a little above the knee and in its place was a stump covered in red-tinted bandages. Joheim stared dazed, sitting upright on the cot at where his leg used to be. He felt like he could still feel his toes curling, his ankle rolling, and his knee bending as if his leg had a spirit that lingered beneath the stump. His arms were sore, and his face was burnt, but he had survived the day.
Joheim looked about the tent seeing the state of the other sleeping wounded. He saw a knight wearing the distinctive armor of the chapter of the Blazing Sun, his obsidian black helmet was crumpled around his head, making it impossible to remove. Joheim could hear his labored breathing as it rattled through his once resplendent helmet. Another soldier, a Reiklander, lay still with his shallow breathing barely betraying his life. His bright red sleeves had been tied closed as both his arms were missing from his torso. A man who looked to be from the mountains of Hochland sat staring into the dirt with an arrow through his right eye. The offending bolt pierced his eye and ran down through his cheek at an odd angle that left his face looking scrunched up as if he had eaten an apple that was too sour. Joheim didn't make any move to converse with them. He simply stared at the disfigured soldiers that were once proud paragons of the imperial army.
After a time, a surgeon in a blood-stained leather apron entered the tent followed closely by a gaggle of Shallayan priests and nurses. The medic approached Joheim first and delivered to him a monotone speech on his condition.
"Good morning. I regret to inform you that your leg was removed after it was found to be wholly unsalvageable. You have fought well for the good of the empire and your sacrifice is noteworthy. For serving the emperor so well you have been allowed an honorable release from your duties as a cannoneer for the 7th Nuln Great-Cannon Regiment. Thank you."
Before Joheim could respond the surgeon moved to the next bed and repeated the speech with slight adjustment for condition. He stared at where his leg had been, then looked back at the surgeon. A Shallayan priestess approached his bedside with a serene demeanor.
"You may rest for a while longer, but after that you must leave. We have many more wounded who need the beds. You have done well for the empire. Shallaya protects."
"Leave? Am I to return to the 7th?" Joheim asked absent-mindedly.
"No. You are to leave this army, we have not the resources to carry on with wounded souls. Go home and work hard, you may still help our efforts in some way." The elegant figure responded.
A fog settled in over Joheim's mind as he stared into nothing on the edge of his cot. He stood shakily and placed a branch under his armpit before walking silently out of the recovery tent. The machine had done its work, it had protected the empire and mankind, but in doing so it broke many pieces. So, the pieces are removed and replaced, fresh recruits from all corners of the empire forged into cogs for a singular purpose. Joheim gathered his meager possessions and hobbled off towards a cart back to Wissenland. The machine cranked on as it silently spun up to do its duty once more. Parts were removed and tossed aside, and fresh ones were inserted. Swords were sharpened, shields wrapped and reinforced, cannons were cleaned, and horses were watered only for the steel to snap, the board to splinter, the round to miss, and the charge to be blunted. Crops in the field fed men who died the very same day, trees in the forest took root to be cut down for arrows that missed their mark, and the cattle in the field grew to be slaughtered for boots that came off in the mud. What was it leading to, Joheim thought. What goal did the empire have but to survive one more day. What did it mean for the empire to survive if every day the men who made up the heart of the empire died to preserve it? An army would save a town for the cost of a thousand men only to turn around and find another in smoking ruin. Joheim climbed into the cart and the machine cranked on quietly behind him as if he had never been a part of it at all. Joheim looked at the camp from the outside for the first time, once a part of the scurrying and bustle of its daily machinations. It was strange, he couldn't remember what he was doing all those days of business, but he vaguely felt it had been something important. No matter now, he thought, it doesn't concern me any longer.
The journey to Wissenland was not long, as the camp that they had broken had been settled in Averland, a nearby state. Joheim was lost in silent contemplation the whole time. Upon his return to Wissenland he went to the estate that was his home in his boyhood. He remembered his days at the gunnery school fondly and hoped to return to that place of childhood innocence. He found his estate empty upon his return, his hopes dashed. It had been left in his name while he was away with the army. So it was that Joheim sat secluded in his ancestral estate, possessed by a mad spirit as he tried to capture the essence of his thoughts. Finally, after a few months of contemplation, Joheim sat down and penned the first page of a manuscript entitled: The Application of Warfare and The Empire. The contents of which would change the course of history forever.