The Capital.
He limped to his desk and collapsed into his chair.
It wasn’t just a local feud. It wasn’t a jealous neighbor. It was the Emperor’s Circle. The most powerful people on the continent wanted him dead.
“I’m a civil engineer,” Arthur whispered to the empty room, running a hand through his hair. “I build bridges. I fix dams. But in the end, I don’t have a degree in fighting wars.”
He looked out the window. The moon hung high and full, casting a pale blue light over the ruined estate. His eyes lost themselves in the darkness of the sky.
For a moment the silence of the room felt suffocating. Isolation hit him like a punch in the gut. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back. He saw Elena’s face, her gentle smile as she handed him his coffee. He saw his parents on graduation day, beaming with pride.
I died once already, he thought, a lump forming in his throat. I lost everything. My name. My face. My life.
He opened his eyes, and the sorrow hardened into something cold and sharp.
I will not lose this one too. Even if I have to claw my way up from the depths of darkness, I’m coming back for you, Elena.
“Sigh. Enough wallowing. I have to organize my plans going forward. Today marks the beginning of the fight for my survival,” he murmured.
He reached for his notebook under the mattress and dipped his quill in the inkwell. His hands were steady as his heart calmed. He flipped to a fresh page.
Threat Assessment
Adversary: Imperial Faction
Method: Grade 4 Alchemical Assassination
Current defense: 6 rusted guards; 10 Lunalar knights (temporary)
Probability of survival (current status): < 5%
He stared at the number. It was a statistical death sentence.
“Unacceptable parameters,” Arthur muttered, his engineer’s brain taking over. “If the probability is non-zero, it’s an engineering problem.”
He began to write; the scratching of the quill was the only sound in the room.
Action Plan:
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Secure the perimeter: The estate is porous. Needs walls, sensors, traps.
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Economic engine: We cannot fight a war on an empty budget. Fix the iron trade.
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The Black Box: If I don’t get to use magic, I need to build something that hits harder than magic.
He circled the last point. Gunpowder? Steam pressure? Hydraulic cannons?
“One step at a time,” he whispered. “First, we learn about and try to fix the cash flow.”
He closed the book, hid it under the bed as always, and blew out the candle.
Arthur Vance lay in the dark, staring at the canopy of his bed. He didn’t sleep for a long time. When he finally did, he didn’t dream of dying. He dreamed of blueprints.
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The morning sun hit Arthur’s face. He groaned and shielded his eyes with a pillow. His leg was stiff, a reminder of yesterday’s exertion, but his mind was crystal clear. The panic from last night had evaporated, leaving behind a cold, hard resolve.
“Sigh. Time to get to work,” he murmured, tossing the covers aside.
He went through his morning routine as usual. He skipped the 'Oliver Mask' in the mirror today. There was no time for acting cute.
He hid his small notebook inside his vest and grabbed his cane. Breakfast was akin to a silent funeral. The tension from last night’s revelation still hung heavy over the table. Arthur didn’t pay attention to any of it; his mind was already three steps ahead.
He quickly finished his meal and stood, moving with a haste that intrigued the bored Elara across the table. Where is the cripple running off to? She wondered.
Arthur had a hypothesis to test.
If the Ashborn trade ledgers were correct, the estate used to have a massive water-pressure system for the mines and western-district farms that produced about sixty percent of the crops.
If the main pressure system is connected to the garden fountain, I can use the fountain as a pressure gauge. And if I manage to fix the fountain, I can diagnose the entire underground network without digging up the whole mountain. He thought.
“First, the library,” Arthur muttered, marching down the hallway. “Grab the blueprints. Then, the central garden.”
He made his way to the library, Layla trailing silently behind. Old Marcus was engrossed in a book as always.
“Good morning, Old Marcus,” Arthur said, waving at the old guard.
“Brat,” Marcus grunted without looking up. “I told you to stop coming here already.”
“Don’t be that cold, Old Marcus. It will make you age faster,” Arthur quipped, sliding a fresh apple on the counter. “I’m sure you’d be kind enough to show me the fountain blueprints.”
The old guard paused. He eyed the apple, then looked at Arthur with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. He chuckled and snatched the fruit. “You are a strange kid, Oliver. Fine. Follow me. Section D, bottom shelf.”
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After getting what he needed, Arthur made his way toward the garden.
It was a mess, to say the least. A mix of weeds and dying white flowers—a perfect reflection of the family’s state: once grand, now close to ruin.
Arthur didn’t care about the aesthetics. He went straight to the dry, moss-covered fountain in the centre.
“Alright,” he said, crouching and tapping the rusted iron pipe with his cane. Clang. Clang. “Let’s see if you still have a heartbeat.”
He didn’t notice the girl in the white dress standing ten feet away, watching him with a mix of confusion and annoyance.
(To be continued …)