The maintenance cabin was, ironically, a graveyard of good intentions: rusted shovels, broken hoes, and piles of rotting timber filled the small wooden structure.

  Arthur kicked aside a bucket with a hole in it and scanned the workbench.

  “Come on,” he muttered, coughing as dust filled the air. “There has to be one.”

  His eyes landed on a heavy iron pipe wrench hanging on the back wall. It was massive, clearly designed for the mining era of the estate’s glory days.

  He grabbed it. It was heavy—far too heavy for his arms to comfortably wield.

  If I had a system like a normal transmigrator, I wouldn’t be dragging this right now, Arthur thought to himself. He grimaced as he hauled the wrench back to the fountain, the metal scraping loudly against the stone path.

  Elara was still there. She hadn’t moved; she stood under her parasol, watching him with a mix of skepticism and curiosity, as if waiting for a play to finish so she could critique the actors.

  Arthur ignored her. He had a hypothesis to prove.

  He knelt by the seized valve at the base of the fountain. Rust had welded it shut, turning the threads into a solid block of orange corrosion. He fit the jaws of the wrench around the nut and pulled.

  Nothing happened.

  He pulled harder, gritting his teeth as a vein bulged at his temple. His frail body shook with the effort, but the valve didn’t budge a millimeter.

  From the corner of his eye he saw Elara smirk.

  “Do you require assistance, Cousin?” she called, her voice dripping with sweet poison. “I could summon a servant. Or… use a bit of that ‘inefficient’ magic to blast it open?”

  Arthur stopped pulling. He stood, breathing heavily, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He didn’t get angry. He looked at the wrench, then at a long, discarded hollow fence post lying in the weeds nearby.

  “No, thank you, Cousin,” Arthur replied calmly. “Physics will suffice for now.”

  He grabbed the hollow post and slid it over the handle of the wrench, effectively doubling its length.

  Elara tilted her head, confused. “What are you doing with that pipe?”

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  “Multiplying my torque,” Arthur muttered.

  This time he didn’t pull with his arms. He shifted his footing and leaned his full weight into the end of the pipe. Simple mechanics. The lever groaned, metal protesting like a clearing throat.

  Elara took a step back, startled by the noise. Arthur gave one final, heavy shove.

  CLANG. The valve spun freely.

  For a second there was silence. Then a deep, subterranean rumble shook the ground beneath their feet, like a sleeping beast waking.

  Air shot up from the nozzle, followed by a massive splatter of mud.

  “Eww!” Elara squealed, jumping back as the sludge threatened to ruin the hem of her pristine dress.

  Arthur didn’t flinch. He watched with wide, intense eyes.

  WHOOOSH. A jet of water shot into the air.

  Elara’s mouth fell open. She looked at the water, then at Arthur. “You… you actually did it. Without mana.”

  Arthur didn’t answer. He wasn’t smiling. He walked closer to the fountain, ignoring the spray soaking his shirt, and stared critically at the water jet. It rose about eight feet into the air.

  Elara blinked. “What? It’s working. Look at it.”

  “No. It’s wrong,” Arthur said coldly.

  He glanced toward the Ironwall peaks and did a quick mental calculation based on elevation in his head. “That jet is only about half as high as it should be.”

  “I don’t understand,” Elara said, stepping closer, her annoyance replaced by confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  Arthur looked down at the valve he had forced open. Now that the rust was broken, he could see the metal underneath.

  Faint black scorch marks marred the surface. The metal hadn’t just rusted—it had been melted and re-fused. Worse, the piping showed a clear redirection: someone had installed a bypass years ago, diverting the water pressure to an unknown destination.

  Arthur realized the territory’s problems ran deeper than he’d anticipated. Without hesitation he gripped his makeshift lever again and pushed in the opposite direction, forcing the valve shut and returning the fountain to silence.

  Elara, who had been watching him intently, threw her hands up in frustration. “You just opened that thing! Why are you closing it again? This is stupid!”

  She scoffed, turned on her heel, and marched away, refusing to look back at the 'madman' in the mud.

  Arthur waited until she was gone.

  He checked one last time that the valve was tightly sealed. He couldn’t leave it open; he was once again flying blind, exploring unknown territory without enough information.

  He sat on the edge of the fountain, clothes wet and hands shaking from exertion.

  “Scorch marks,” he whispered. “It must be some kind of magic. I don’t think they have welding equipment in this era.”

  He tapped his pocket, eager to update the blueprint sketches in his notebook.

  Arthur massaged his temples and let out a weary breath. “This is getting more complicated by the minute.”

  He used his cane to push himself up, cast one last calculating look at the silent fountain, and turned to leave the ruined garden.

  (To be continued …)