“Hey, easy there, don’t shake like a leaf,” she said with a gentle, almost grandmotherly smile. “I don’t read thoughts. That’s dirty, thankless work. But after eighty years of magical practice I’ve gotten damn good at reading intentions and emotions. So unclench—you’re not my enemy.” She gave him a sly wink.
“Wait… how old are you, then?” Dmitry blurted before he could stop himself.
“You cheeky little—” Belle pretended to be scandalized, though her eyes danced with amusement. “Though I suppose I can forgive a visitor from overseas. I’m one hundred and twenty. Didn’t you know mages live a lot longer than regular people? Power preserves, you see.”
“How would I know?” Dmitry spread his hands. “There’s no magic at all where I come from. Anyone who calls themselves a mage is either a circus trickster or a straight-up con artist fleecing gullible people out of their money.”
Now it was Belle’s turn to be stunned. She actually leaned back and studied him like some exotic beetle that had just crawled onto her desk.
“No magic whatsoever? Then how do you people solve problems?” Her eyebrows shot up in genuine bewilderment. “How do you cure plagues? How do you throw bridges across chasms? Almost everything here rests on power. How do you even manage?”
“Well… we have science. Technology. My spine, for instance—they rebuilt it with tools and calculations. Pure steel and skilled hands. Zero magic.”
Belle stared past him for a long moment, lost in thought. Then she spoke slowly, almost reverently: “Incredible. If your healers managed to get you back on your feet after a catastrophe like that without a single drop of magical energy… I genuinely admire them. Oh, how I would love to sit down and talk with one! They must have studied the human body down to the smallest bone to pull off a miracle like that with bare hands and cleverness.”
“That’s exactly right,” Dmitry said, suddenly feeling a surge of pride for his own people. “And epidemics are rare for us now. We learned to prevent them with things called ‘vaccines’.”
“With what now? Va-cci-nes?” Belle repeated the unfamiliar word carefully.
Bruno, who had been standing quietly off to the side the whole time, finally couldn’t hold back. “You two can gossip later. Our guest is certainly one-of-a-kind, but we actually came here for help, not to give lectures on another world.”
“Oh, right!” Belle snapped back to business. “Listen closely, Dmitry. I can take the pain away—but it won’t be permanent. That metal inside you is slowly eating away at the bone. You’re not getting any younger, and eventually the damage will become dangerous. The only way to truly make peace between the plate and your body is with a dwarf. A genuine master of metal magic. Only then can the problem be solved for good.”
Dmitry frowned. Dwarves? Things were getting more interesting by the minute.
“There’s only one Under-mountain Kingdom in the Mire Frontier,” Belle went on. “I’ll send them a letter. Your case is unusual even by their standards—there’s a decent chance they’ll take an interest.”
“And when can we expect an answer?” Bruno asked.
“Not before spring. You know how it is—the road is long and anything but easy. Until then, Master Dmitry—no heavy lifting whatsoever. You’ll need several sessions to keep the pain from coming back. I’m willing to do it for free… if you agree to keep answering my questions.”
“I’ve got a better deal,” Dmitry said with a small grin. “Inside my ‘house on wheels’—the Ark—there’s an enormous archive of knowledge from my world. If you’re interested, you can talk to it. Trust me, after that you’ll look at our world with completely different eyes.”
Belle’s eyes lit up with genuine excitement. “And where is this Ark of yours right now?”
“Parked near Rotten Hill, waiting for its owner.”
“Done!” She clapped her hands decisively. “I’ll tag along with the expedition that’s heading out to seal the breach in the fens. I’ll definitely drop by for a visit. But for now—business! Bruno, out of my office and stop interfering. And you, young man—lie face-down on the sofa. Time to sort out that back of yours.”
The door closed softly behind Bruno. Without hesitation Dmitry dropped onto the sofa stomach-first. He couldn’t see what Belle was doing—he heard no incantations, no chime of amulets—but the instant her palms touched his lower back, the world flipped upside down.
The sensation was close to euphoria. The constant torment that had gnawed at his spine day and night, the background ache so familiar it had become part of his bones, the thing that forced him to grit his teeth every morning—all of it vanished in one clean sweep.
The pain didn’t just fade; it evaporated, leaving behind a ringing, stunned emptiness in his mind. A violent shiver raced from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Goosebumps rolled across his skin in waves; every hair on his body stood on end. Dmitry froze, afraid even to breathe, terrified that this fragile bubble of perfect peace would burst.
“There we go—for now,” Belle said calmly. “We’ll repeat in a week or two. That should hold the spell long enough.”
Dmitry could still feel the lingering warmth of her magic pulsing under his skin.
“But remember,” her tone turned stern, all traces of playfulness gone, “the pain is gone, but the metal and the damage are still there. So help me—if you even think about lifting anything heavy, your legs could give out mid-step. And the worst part? You won’t even feel it coming. You’ll simply drop and never get up again.”
Dmitry lay with his face buried in the cushion, unable to believe what had just happened. In a matter of minutes this woman had accomplished what earthly medicine had spent years and mountains of pills failing to do. He felt light, almost weightless.
“I’m ready to kiss your hands for the rest of my life,” he mumbled into the pillow. “You’re a miracle worker.”
“Technically a mage,” Belle corrected him, and he could hear the sly smile return to her voice. “And don’t forget our deal, young man. If you weren’t bluffing and your Ark really does have something worth seeing, I’ll personally craft you a permanent pain-warding amulet. Believe me—that’s worth more than its weight in gold.”
After a warm goodbye to Belle, Dmitry stepped out into the corridor. His gait had completely changed: the cautious, guarded stiffness he’d used to protect every vertebra was gone. Now he walked freely, barely feeling the weight of his own body.
Bruno, leaning against one of the glowing columns, took one look at him and gave a knowing smirk. He didn’t bother asking questions—Dmitry’s blissful, almost trance-like expression said everything. They left the Guild building in silence, climbed into the carriage, and Claude—still as laconic as ever—set the horses toward the moneylender’s house.
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For a while they rode quietly, accompanied only by the clop of hooves and the soft patter of rain. But the old trader’s instinct eventually won out in Bruno.
Chapter 19: Rare Prey
“Who else knows about your… origins?” Bruno finally asked, watching Dmitry closely from under his thick brows.
Dmitry lazily opened his eyes. Without pain the world felt strangely welcoming, but his brain was still running threat assessments on autopilot. “Cohen and Karl. Maybe Hans suspects—he’s sharp. Is that a problem?”
Bruno let out a heavy sigh and drummed his fingers on his knee. “In a way, Master Dmitry, you are exceptionally rare prey. Judging by the things you’ve already shown me, you’re carrying an entire mountain of unique artifacts. In our world, some people might decide that acquiring them would be an excellent idea—even if it means stepping over your corpse.”
He paused to let the weight of that sink in. “I’m quite sure you’ll have to use that weapon of yours more than once before the hotheads realize just how dangerous you really are. Do you even have a way to protect your… what did you call it? The Ark?”
Dmitry gave a cold little smile. He thought of twenty-six tons of armored steel, German engineering, and the “surprises” he’d rigged for uninvited guests.
“Trust me, Master Bruno—the Ark is perfectly safe,” he answered with icy calm. “It can take a lot more punishment than you’d think. When you see it yourself, you’ll understand. Those aren’t just walls. That’s steel no swamp creature can bite through—and no ordinary sword is going to cut it.”
“That’s reassuring,” Bruno said with a wry smile, though his eyes remained serious. “Still—my advice: don’t advertise that you’re from another world any more than necessary. Extra ears mean extra trouble.”
Dmitry nodded in understanding. So far his time in this world had been surprisingly smooth. And it was precisely that smoothness that triggered a nagging, itching sense of impending disaster deep in his gut. As someone who had always relied on logic and calculation, he knew: calm is always the prelude to a storm.
Every day, every hour spent outside the steel walls of his sanctuary only sharpened that inner alarm. Everything was going too well… too neatly. He had to be ready. But ready for what? Dmitry didn’t know. He had already seen so much here that defied explanation, so many things that broke his old survival templates. How do you prepare for a threat when you don’t even understand the rules?
One thing was certain: he needed to get back to the Ark. There, behind armored plating, surrounded by familiar instruments and the smell of diesel, he would feel like the one in control again.
Early dusk had fallen over Nordcross. The already gray city began dissolving into bluish gloom. Street lamps flickered to life one by one; windows glowed with dim, uneven patches of light. The temperature had dropped noticeably: the damp autumn air turned sharp, and in places thin, brittle ice had started to crust over puddles, crunching plaintively under hooves.
Dmitry and Bruno entered the moneylender’s house; the heavy oak door thudded shut behind them, cutting off the darkness and the biting cold of the streets. Claude, without a word, headed to the stables to stable the carriage and tend the tired horses.
Dinner in the shadow of intrigue
“We’ll eat and go straight to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be rough,” Bruno said wearily, shrugging off his heavy cloak.
Dmitry, feeling his back muscles finally unclench in the warm house, gave a skeptical snort. “You seriously think Hoof can organize a full wedding by morning? This isn’t just setting a table.”
“Oh, Master Dmitry,” Bruno turned, and the lamplight caught a glint in his eyes. “When Oliver truly wants something, he makes it happen. It may not be city-wide fireworks and feasting, but every required ceremony will be done to the highest standard. That’s only half the trouble. Money can buy a sandcastle in an hour if the servants are motivated.”
Bruno briskly pulled cold pots from the cupboard and set them on the table. Dmitry automatically helped, laying out plates and cutlery.
“The real problem is something else,” the moneylender continued. “The aristocracy. You can bet many of them will be violently opposed to this match.”
Old laws and new enemies
“But you said yourself they’re all in his pocket,” Dmitry froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “That they’re bought and paid for?”
“No—I said Oliver paid them a great deal,” Bruno corrected, ladling stew. “And they would very much like him to keep paying. There’s a big difference between taking gold from a ‘moneybag’ and letting that moneybag actually enter their closed circle through marriage to a baron.”
Bruno sat down and dropped his voice. “I’m almost certain that agents of the other barons are already drafting complaints to the Viceroy. The old song: ‘vile merchant deceived a naive orphan and took advantage of his desperation.’ The Viceroy will have to respond to avoid unrest among the nobles.”
“And then what?” Dmitry frowned. “He just cancels the marriage?”
“More likely he’ll invent a condition,” Bruno said thoughtfully, tearing a piece of bread. “Some kind of trial or task to publicly prove the marriage isn’t a sham and that the baron is of sound mind. It’s all echoes of ancient laws. They were created back when careless noble sons tried to drag pretty beggars into noble families, or when wealthy commoners tried to buy a title through the bedroom.”
Dmitry chewed slowly, thinking. The political machinery of Nordcross was far more intricate than he’d realized.
“So tomorrow could turn from a celebration into a legal trap,” he said, stirring his spoon absently. “What kind of trial? What should we brace for?”
Bruno broke off another piece of bread, meticulously wiping up the last of the sauce, then gave Dmitry a long, heavy look.
“Usually in cases like this they order the ‘trial of poverty.’ An old custom as ancient as the city itself. The idea is brutally simple: the newlyweds are sent to live in a hovel for a set period—normally a month or three. No servants, no silk, no fine food.”
The moneylender gave a crooked smile, clearly remembering someone else’s story from his long career.
“Of course, relatives always try to cheat—slipping food baskets through the back door, sending ‘accidental’ helpers. But the law is strict: if the marriage was made in bad faith for profit alone, then during that time one of them usually ‘comes to their senses.’ Either the pampered lady can’t stand the cold and soot, or the proud aristocrat realizes that golden dowry isn’t worth sharing a bed with a merchant’s daughter in a shack.”
Dmitry listened, already running mental logistics. Life in a hovel? For someone used to full autonomy in the Ark, it wasn’t a death sentence. But for Amalia, raised in velvet…
“And what happens if one of them breaks?” he asked.
“Then the marriage is declared invalid,” Bruno said flatly. “The deal is voided. The merchant loses any hope of a title, and the other spouse loses everything received as earnest. In our case Cohen goes back to being a penniless vagrant, and Oliver becomes the laughingstock of the city.”
“Well, suppose there’s already a hovel—the castle on Rotten Hill,” Dmitry mused, already recalculating the new logistical puzzle in his head. “Do you think Amalia could last even a single day there?”
“I don’t know,” old Bruno shook his head, staring thoughtfully into his bowl. “They clearly suit each other. There’s even that real spark between them—the kind money can’t buy. But I’d wager a hundred to one they’ll be ordered to winter in that castle. And the worst part—no official help from Hoof. Hunger doesn’t care about romance; it doesn’t deliver pies. The moment the Viceroy issues the ruling, sending an open supply caravan becomes impossible…”
Bruno dropped into a near-whisper, thinking aloud. “Which means it has to be done earlier. But how to organize everything by morning? Where to find people and wagons without drawing the Viceroy’s spies?”
Suddenly the front door banged open with a heavy thud. Claude stood in the doorway, holding a man by the scruff of the neck like a misbehaving cat. It was the same guard who had watched the entrance to Hugo’s tent earlier that day. Now the man’s toes barely scraped the floor as he dangled helplessly in the giant’s iron grip.
“Was skulking by the door,” Claude rumbled, giving the man a shake that made his teeth click.
“I’ve got a message from Hugo!” the man squeaked. The intimidating fighter Dmitry had seen at the harbor now looked utterly pathetic.
“Let him go, Claude. This is business,” Bruno ordered.
The big man’s hand opened. The messenger from the “fen walkers” collapsed in a heap, frantically straightening his collar and trying to claw back some dignity.
Dmitry and Bruno exchanged glances. The arrival of Hugo’s people right as they were discussing covert supply runs couldn’t have been better timed. If anyone knew how to slip a caravan past checkpoints and watching eyes, it was smugglers who had spent their whole lives in these parts.
“Well? What does Hugo say?” Dmitry leaned forward. “Did he accept Baron Prast’s terms?”
The messenger, still casting wary looks at the motionless Claude behind him, took a shaky breath and spoke.
“Hugo agrees to Baron Prast’s condition,” he exhaled, eyes flicking nervously. “But we need to leave the city as fast as possible. The Magistrate is issuing an arrest order for ‘undesirable persons’ tonight. That means us. The moment we heard, we started packing. There’s no place left for us in Nordcross.”
Impotent anger edged his voice—the rage of someone being driven from their own home. “We’re pulling out by midnight. Hugo sent me to ask: can we head for Rotten Hill right now?”
[STATUS: ANOMALY DETECTED] [SECTOR: UNKNOWN WORLD] [SUBJECT: DMITRY ANTONOV]
?? THE STEEL ARK
Hard Survival [Tech Uplift Isekai] ??
He prepared for the end of his world. He ended up saving another.
Dmitry Antonov is not a hero. He is an engineer with a titanium spine, a paranoid mind, and a bank account drained to zero. He spent eight years and thirty million dollars building the "Ark"—a 26-ton expeditionary monster based on a MAN KAT1 military truck. Autonomous. Indestructible. Capable of turning dead wood into diesel fuel. ????
He thought he was ready for anything: sandstorms, financial collapse, isolation.
But when a catastrophic anomaly transports him and his machine to a dying world under two alien moons, Dmitry realizes his manuals are useless. There is no GPS. There is no internet. There is only a poisonous swamp, a crumbling castle ruled by a desperate young Baron, and a magical winter that kills without mercy. ????
In a world where steel rots and magic is fading, Dmitry brings the most terrifying power of all: Engineering. ????
?? INCOMING FEEDBACK:
"These chapters aren't even low quality, these are pretty good!"
— Verified Reader
?? ENGINEERING PRECISION IN EVERY CHAPTER
Authentic tech realism — physics, chemistry, machinery upgrades, grim consequences. Hard survival meets fading magic in a poisoned world.
What to expect:
- ? Hard Sci-Fi vs. Dark Fantasy: Modern technology meets a dying magic system. ???
- ? Competence Porn: A protagonist who solves problems with physics, chemistry, and heavy machinery, not just fireballs. ????
- ? Kingdom Building: Restoring a ruined castle using modern tech. ?????
- ? The Truck: The "Ark" is a character in itself. Upgradable, mobile base. ????
- ? No Harem. Just pure survival. ????