A cold night wind whistled between the shattered stone walls of the abandoned city outskirts. On the pavement, a young man knelt, breathing heavily. His fingers, coated in the remnants of fading magical sparks, frantically clawed at the stones—he was desperately trying to complete a defensive ward, but time had run out.
A figure clad in ordinary attire stepped forward.
A flash.
One stroke slit the mage's throat clean through.
The attacker lifted the severed head by its hair, staring into the glassy, terror-stricken eyes. A smile played on his lips, but across a colossal distance, an invisible mental bridge stretched from his mind. The command that echoed in the recipient's head was quiet and completely emotionless:
"You're up, Edriac."
At that very same moment, thousands of kilometers away from the blood-soaked pavement, in luxurious chambers bathed in soft golden light, King Edriac reclined lazily on a mountain of silk pillows. Expensive wine flowed like water around him, and several half-naked favorites vied for his attention, showering him with compliments and pressing ripe berries to his lips. The king smiled smugly, basking in his leisure.
Suddenly, his gaze went glassy. Edriac’s face instantly paled, and his body locked into an unnatural stiffness. A spasm shot down his spine as the voice echoed in his head.
One of the girls, pouting capriciously, tugged at the king’s silk sleeve. "Your Majesty, where have your thoughts drifted off to? You promised tonight..."
"Wait. Shut up," Edriac cut her off harshly, without turning his head.
The girl recoiled in fear, noticing the vein throbbing violently at the ruler's temple. A deathly silence fell over the room.
As soon as the mental link finally snapped, Edriac bolted to his feet, tossing the remaining favorites aside. He strode quickly toward the massive doors and slammed them open before the guards, who froze in a bow.
"Listen to my command!" the king ordered in an icy tone that sent shivers down the guards' spines. "Ready the transport, quickly. We leave for Dornheim immediately."
Meanwhile, in Dornheim's square, the upgraded smelting converter roared to life once more, but this time there was no panic. The workers stood in orderly lines, ready to receive the molten metal. Darwin personally controlled the shutters, while Iron closely monitored the sensor readings, clutching the defective third thermal core in his palm.
Click. The engineer rammed the damaged catalyst into the compartment. Lumon immediately flagged a warning about critically low durability. This core was a fragile ticking time bomb, and no miracle occurred—it lasted exactly one full cycle. The moment the final stream of liquid alloy poured into the mold, a dull, dry snap echoed inside the machine. A small cloud of gray ash billowed from the exhaust. The third core crumbled to dust.
The remaining fourth and fifth cores, compressed without any rush and possessing perfect geometry, performed flawlessly.
The fourth core handled seven consecutive cycles at maximum output. The fifth core endured another eight heavy, grueling runs. One after another, titanic, massive blocks of composite alloy cooled in the square, shimmering with the deep blue of "Ocean" and the mirrored sparks of "Prism." The tower's foundation was now fully secured.
I scanned the even rows of finished blocks, then turned toward the supply wagons. My gaze hit the bottom of the last wooden crate. Empty.
A heavy dread knotted in my gut. I counted the completed metal blocks on my fingers, running a quick mental calculation. The math struck like a physical blow. Yes, we had secured the basement and foundation. But to raise the tower to its calculated height and fully clad it in armor against external attacks, this amount of alloy wouldn't even cover half. We needed at least twice as much.
"Noah!" I barked, noticing him leaning heavily against the fence in exhaustion. "Break time's over. I need more black ore."
Noah slowly turned his head toward me. He gave a bitter, heavy shake of his head.
"We aren't going back down there," he cut in quietly but firmly. "And it's not because my boys are dropping from exhaustion. For the past three days, we’ve hollowed out every accessible depth. There simply isn’t any black ore left."
No ore? At the exact critical moment when the technology had finally started working at full capacity?!
"I don't care about the word 'none,'" I said. "If it's not in the old horizons, then blast new drifts. Go deeper, blow through dead walls, look for associated seams in adjacent sectors. But find it."
Noah stared at me in silence for a few seconds. Then, he let out a heavy sigh, adjusted his collar, and muttered dully to his men, "You heard the devil. Get off your asses. Grab your pickaxes and timbers, we're going back underground."
Noah and the sturdiest miners silently moved out toward the dark maw of the mine.
Once he had led his people back into the dark depths, Marek strode up to me with wide steps.
"Well, Iron, the foundation level and basement are done," Marek said, rubbing the back of his neck with a broad grin. "High time we get started on the residential quarters around the tower. Hand over the sector layouts, the barracks blueprints, or whatever else you've engineered for us. My boys are ready to build."
I reached into the side pocket of my chair and pulled out a tightly rolled piece of parchment. Slipping off the leather strap, I handed the scroll to him.
Marek caught it and unrolled it before him... and instantly froze. He flipped the sheet over in his hands, turned it upside down, held it up to the light, and then stared at me.
"Uh... Iron, did you scramble the blueprints in the rush? There's nothing on here."
I couldn't help but chuckle softly at his bewilderment.
"I didn't scramble anything. This is your new assignment. Build Dornheim's houses using your own imagination. I've already calculated and laid down the groundwork for safety, the general layout of the quarters, and the structural integrity of the walls. But how your inner comforts look—that's for you to decide. Simply put, make these homes exactly how you want to see them."
He processed my words for a few seconds, looking back and forth between the parchment and me. Then, his face broke into a massive grin, and a competitive spark ignited in his eyes.
"Ha! Creative freedom, then?" Marek carefully rolled the scroll back up. "Alright, you're on! Trust me, my boys are going to build something that'll make you jealous stuck in your workshop."
He turned around and practically sprinted back to the campfire, waving the blank sheet of paper.
I watched him go and slowly rolled my chair toward the medical infirmary.
"I never would have guessed that Lumon could be so stupid." I felt the interface vibrate with resentment.
"Don't get mad at the truth," I shot back.
A little earlier...
Locked inside the workshop after realizing my legs were starting to come back to life, I had literally bombarded Lumon with questions in a wild frenzy, hoping to extract a perfect medical protocol.
"Lumon, when can I start applying physical stress to my limbs? How do I properly relearn to walk without damaging the tissue? What ointments should I use to accelerate the recovery of atrophied muscles? What kind of diet should I maintain? And how do I care for regenerating magic circuits?"
[Error. Error.]
"Hey, give me an answer!"
[Error.]
I had nearly smashed my fist against the workbench in frustration back then.
"Are you serious?!" I had screamed at my own system internally. "Calculating the perfect atomic-level melting probability for foreign crystalline lattices like Ocean and Prism is a walk in the park for you! Designing a hydraulic press out of literal scrap takes you seconds! But you can't tell me what kind of ointment to rub into my knees?!"
That was exactly when I remembered we had Albert in camp.
I nudged the infirmary door open. The wheels of my chair creaked softly against the wooden floor. Inside, the air smelled of dried chamomile, rubbing alcohol, and bitter medicinal salves.
Dr. Albert sat at his desk, sorting through bundles of various healing roots. He looked tired but serene.
"It's been a while since we've had a real talk, Doc," I said quietly, rolling closer.
Albert startled slightly, raising his head. Recognizing me, he let out a sigh of relief and set the herbs aside.
"Iron!" The doctor smiled softly and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily. "Too true, it feels like an eternity. I'm glad to see you're at least among the living. What brings you by?"
I leaned forward and carefully rolled up my trouser legs, exposing my pale, thin limbs.
"Not long ago, I managed to move my right foot. I ran some quick numbers and found out that the neural motor functions of my lower extremities have recovered by 74.7%, while the damaged magic circuits have normalized by 51.8%. The regeneration is progressing very well."
I leaned further forward, resting my hands on my knees.
"But examine them anyway, Albert. Feel the muscles. Tell me as a doctor: should I start trying to stand up bit by bit right now, pushing through the pain and weakness? Try putting weight on my feet, train them? Or is my body still too weak, and I should approach this with caution—wait it out, use specialized ointments and rubs so I don't destroy what just managed to rebuild itself? What's my next step?"
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