The moon was especially round tonight.
As the girls gradually headed home, Luke lay quietly beneath the clear moonlight, enjoying the stillness of the moment.
The night air had turned a little cool, and as he stared into the dark sky, a thoughtful look appeared on his face.
Today's holiday had already been pretty enjoyable, but he still felt like something had been missing.
If he had to put it into words, the flavor of it all had not been strong enough.
Luke kept thinking about it, when suddenly something flashed through his mind.
In that instant, he realized exactly what had been missing.
The next day.
After breakfast, Luke climbed into a carriage and set off.
About half an hour later, the carriage came to a stop outside the printing works.
Very quickly, Navis received word inside that Luke had arrived.
Before she even reached him, two figures had already rushed to his side.
"Your Highness!!!"
"I was wondering why my left eye kept twitching all morning—turns out it was because you were coming!"
Maylee and Korsen, the brother and sister pair, crowded around Luke with shamelessly flattering smiles, as noisy and irritating as two buzzing bees.
Luke glanced at them.
The siblings instantly understood. They decisively shut their mouths and retreated to a spot five steps away, following in silence.
You could say they had absolutely no backbone whatsoever.
"Good morning, Your Highness!"
Soon, a petite figure came running out, her long, slightly curled hair bouncing, her cute face lit up with an adorable smile.
The corners of Luke's mouth lifted. "Good morning, Navis."
The Navis standing in front of him no longer looked as fragile as she had in the beginning.
Wearing that white coat so mismatched with her petite frame gave her a certain contrast, but also made her carry a hint of capable businesswoman energy.
Navis looked at Luke with a sweet smile. "The moon pies you sent me were really good. Thank you."
"As long as you liked them." Luke smiled, then asked, "How's the improvement to the printing press going?"
Navis immediately replied, "I already have a direction in mind. If nothing goes wrong, the third-generation improved version should be ready within half a month."
Luke reached out and rubbed her head. "Good work. I didn't come to talk about that today. Get ready and come with me to the Research Institute."
So far, he felt like spotting her had been the best call he had ever made.
It was the kind of discovery that felt like finding buried treasure, the sort that would make you wake up laughing from a dream.
Whenever he assigned her a task, he did not even need to follow up on it. Navis just handled it on her own and kept moving forward.
And now the printing press was already heading toward a third generation.
The goal was one machine printing eight thousand newspapers an hour—a leap in efficiency that could only be called a complete transformation.
Navis nodded while happily enjoying the head pat. "Mm-hm."
The moment they heard that, Maylee and Korsen, trailing behind, started edging closer again, clearly itching to say something.
"Your Highness..."
"Ahem."
The two of them hesitated, wanting to speak but not daring to say what was on their minds.
Luke glanced at them. "You two can come too."
"At once!"
The two of them immediately lit up with joy.
Not long after, Navis came back out after changing clothes. The white coat was gone, replaced by a pink-and-white dress with a distinctly girlish charm, making her look fresh and lovely.
They rode for about another half hour before arriving at the gates of the Research Institute.
The moment they got off the carriage, a gentle voice greeted them.
"Your Highness, it has been some time."
Luke looked up and saw Wenward standing there in his Research Institute uniform, smiling at him.
"Long time no see, Director."
Luke greeted him at once.
"Uncle."
Navis stepped forward with a smile.
Wenward smiled back at her and nodded, his eyes holding a trace of warmth.
The more time he spent with this younger relative of his, the more regretful he felt.
He really had missed a piece of gold.
What stung the most was that this gold had been right under his nose the whole time, and he had never noticed.
Now that gold had been discovered first by His Highness.
It honestly made him a little jealous.
The talent Navis displayed in research was so extraordinary that she already seemed to be surpassing even him.
It really was impossible not to admire His Highness's eye for talent.
Wenward had gradually begun passing down everything he knew to her, and the speed at which Navis absorbed that knowledge could no longer be described as merely fast.
It was more like she understood everything the moment it was explained, mastered it as soon as she studied it.
By now, Wenward was already training her as the future director of the Research Institute, and the more he looked at her, the more satisfied he became.
"Uncle..."
Maylee and Korsen also stepped forward and greeted him somewhat timidly.
Wenward glanced at them and gave a nod in return.
As for those two siblings, well... they were just barely worth shaping. In the future, they would probably qualify to assist Navis.
After the greetings were over, Wenward looked at Luke and asked, "What brings Your Highness here today?"
Luke got straight to the point. "I'd like to borrow access to the Research Institute archives."
Wenward nodded. "Then come with me, Your Highness."
With Wenward leading the way, they quickly arrived at the archive room.
Wenward took out a key and opened the door as he explained, "Your Highness may browse whatever you wish. Generally speaking, everything in here is recorded in the catalogs, though it would be best not to take anything outside."
"Understood."
Luke responded, then pushed the door open and walked in.
Navis and the other three waited outside.
The room beyond the door was pitch dark. Luke took out a match and lit the torches on the wall, and the interior quickly brightened.
The place looked like a library, lined with row after row of books.
The materials stored in the Research Institute archives were the core records of inventions and research developed over many years, and outsiders were generally not permitted to enter.
But words like "unauthorized entry forbidden" were basically meaningless in Demacia where Luke was concerned.
If he wanted to go somewhere, there was usually no place he could not go.
Once the room was lit, Luke began searching through the shelves.
There were books on gear-related engineering, methods for crafting finer weapons and equipment, and even records concerning petricite.
He also saw entries on the communicator and the printing press.
But none of that was what interested him right now. He followed the labels and descriptions and searched for a while, but still did not find exactly what he wanted.
That only made him more certain that the idea he had last night was correct.
At that moment, he picked up a book on match manufacturing and began flipping through it quietly.
At Demacia's current level of industry, the most direct method they had for producing fire was the match, followed by a type of ember-holder.
The book recorded the process for making matches, starting from cutting wood and ending with the use of a special powder called cyan compound.
If Luke was not mistaken, this so-called cyan compound was essentially white phosphorus.
After all, the match he had just used was also ignited by friction generating heat.
The difference, though, was that according to the explanation in the book, the gas released by this cyan compound when ignited contained only a trace amount of toxin. Even inhaling too much of it would not be life-threatening.
At present, Demacia's research into matches had gone no farther than the use of this cyan compound.
And that was exactly what Luke had come here for.
As far as he knew, Demacia had poured an enormous amount of effort into the question of how to make better weapons and armor. Just judging from the archive room alone, about a third of the material was related to those subjects.
And it had paid off.
Demacia's smithing was highly developed by now, and the quality of the weapons and armor they produced ranked among the best in all of Runeterra.
But when it came to the study of explosives, Demacia was practically still at square one.
Calling it zero would not even be an exaggeration.
And explosives were something with enormous room for development.
Luke had actually started thinking about this as early as Edessa.
Back when the beast tide had reached the city walls, the soldiers had used oil they had prepared in advance, setting it on fire to block the advancing horde.
At the time, the flames had burned fiercely, but the actual damage inflicted on the beast tide had been quite limited.
If it had been explosives instead, the result might not have been the same.
There was no need to elaborate on the usefulness of explosives.
His experience in Wraith Cave had also let Luke appreciate just how fun firearms could be.
Lucian's twin pistols might have been relic weapons, but even ordinary firearms would be enormously useful if they could be made.
And at this very moment, on the other side of Valoran, Piltover and Zaun were probably already far ahead in research on that front.
In technology overall, that tiny patch of land was already miles ahead of Demacia.
If it had been possible, Luke would actually have preferred to just copy the answers directly.
But Demacia and Piltover were separated by nearly the entirety of Valoran. Leaving aside the question of how hard it would be to get there, even if he did, there was no way they would happily hand over their homework for him to copy.
Even Noxus, the "big brother" sitting right next door to Piltover, had not managed to copy much of anything from that tiny city.
So relying on others was inferior to relying on himself.
Luke's Artisan secondary profession had now reached level eight. He was not absurd enough to build a nuclear bomb from scratch, but for something as deeply rooted as the classic explosive compounds, he still had a fair amount of understanding.
In other words, there was already a completed answer sheet in his head.
After a general look through the archives, Luke left the room and headed straight for Wenward's office.
Navis and the other three followed behind.
When they reached the office, Luke did not bother knocking and simply pushed the door open.
Seeing him walk in, Wenward smiled. "Did Your Highness find what you were looking for?"
"More or less." Luke nodded. "I've had some new ideas recently. Does the Director have time?"
The moment he heard that, Wenward became interested. "Of course. Please, go ahead."
Wenward held this prince in very high regard.
Their previous exchanges had already confirmed for him that this young prince possessed remarkably broad knowledge.
Even a casual sentence or two from him could offer substantial inspiration.
So now, Wenward was deeply curious about these new ideas of his.
Luke said, "Has the Director ever done any research into explosive powder?"
"Explosive powder?"
Wenward repeated the term, roughly working out the meaning, then asked in confusion, "Does Your Highness mean matches?"
Luke shook his head and explained, "Explosive powder is a substance that, under suitable external energy, can burn rapidly and in a controlled way on its own while producing a large quantity of high-temperature gas."
As he spoke, he took out a match and struck it against the side of the matchbox.
With a sharp hiss, the match flared to life, the small flame flickering for a few breaths before slowly dying out.
"A match can be understood as rapid burning. But the explosive powder I'm describing produces a measurable amount of physical force in the process of burning rapidly."
Wenward and Navis both showed thoughtful expressions as they listened.
Maylee and Korsen, meanwhile, were still trying to digest Luke's words.
Seeing the four of them lost in thought, Luke did not interrupt their train of thought.
It was not enough for only him to understand explosives. If they were going to start real research, then Wenward—the director of the Research Institute and the person in Demacia closest to true science—had to understand as well.
Given the way Demacians approached the world, they naturally had little chance of coming across such a thing on their own.
After all, how had these compounds first been discovered in the first place?
Alchemy in pursuit of immortality.
People obsessed with living forever had thrown every imaginable substance into furnaces, and one day the whole thing blew up.
And there it was.
But the word Demacia had absolutely nothing to do with that sort of thing.
The fact that they had discovered something as flammable as cyan compound while hammering iron all day, and then gone on to invent matches from it, was already impressive enough.
At present, across all of Runeterra, only Piltover, the City of Progress, seemed to be making rapid leaps in technology.
And Demacia, cut off on the far side of the continent, had no way of reaching that level yet.
After thinking for a while, Wenward finally spoke.
"I think I roughly understand what Your Highness means. Simply put, explosive powder is an easily combustible and explosive material, correct?"
"Exactly."
Luke nodded.
Wenward still looked puzzled. "How does Your Highness know all this? Of course, if you would rather not say, you don't have to."
The truth was, he had wanted to ask this question for some time already.
The things Luke knew all sounded more advanced, as if they already belonged to a fully developed system with specialized terminology.
From Wenward's perspective, if someone had not researched such things for quite a while, they could never speak about them this way.
That included the communicator, the theory of sound waves, the printing press, bicycles, and now explosive powder.
These were all technologies beyond Demacia's current level, yet they had been described by a prince who, until recently, had supposedly lived in a remote border town.
Wenward was not doubting Luke. He was simply curious about the fresh and unfamiliar knowledge that kept appearing from him every so often.
After all, the person in front of him was a prince of Demacia. The more he knew, the better it was for Demacia itself.
Faced with the question, Luke smiled and answered, "I once met a man from Piltover. A few years ago, an old Piltover scholar stayed in the town for a while. He was reclusive and rarely dealt with other people.
"At the time, I was trying to earn a little extra money, so I did odd jobs for him for a while. He had lived alone for so long that he seemed eager to have someone to talk to, and I ended up becoming his only conversation partner.
"He told me a lot about Piltover. After he left, I found some books he had left behind, and I learned many things from them.
"Unfortunately, those books were later destroyed in a fire.
"And before I became a prince, that knowledge did not really help me much."
In truth, Luke had prepared that explanation long ago.
After all, he had too many secrets on him. He needed some kind of story.
"A passing old man," "a beggar on the road," "a mysterious elderly scholar"—all of them were fresh and useful scapegoats.
And in this particular matter, there was no better one than Piltover on the other side of the continent.
If anyone asked, the answer was simple: advanced concepts from Piltover.
There was no need to worry about whether anyone would investigate. Even if they did, they would not find anything.
Seeing the loneliness and sadness that briefly passed through Luke's eyes as he spoke, the others all fell silent.
The knowledge this prince possessed now was astonishing enough, but it also brought to mind one of Demacia's sorrows.
There was a phrase often used for it: the ceiling placed on the underclass.
Even now, the undocumented people living at the very bottom of Demacian society still survived only by the money they earned from day labor.
They lacked warm clothing and often went hungry.
These undocumented people were those with criminal records, no official identity, or sensitive origins like illegal entry from elsewhere.
Such people usually spent their entire lives trapped in that state, unable even to qualify to become soldiers.
Because even joining the military required investigating a family line three generations back.
And before she was later honored as queen, Melli herself had been one of those undocumented people.
For someone born into that kind of poverty, simply having the chance to encounter a scholar from Piltover was already a stroke of immense fortune.
None of the people present felt any suspicion about Luke's explanation.
Because only something like that could account for the breadth of knowledge he possessed.
Wenward naturally knew of Piltover.
Unlike most Demacians who dreamed of becoming knights, Wenward and his forebears had always pursued science.
So he had long felt great admiration for that place known as the City of Progress.
That trade city, located near the meeting point of Valoran and Shurima, had only truly risen to prominence in recent decades.
And in those short decades, its technological development had advanced at a pace that could only be called explosive.
Many Demacians had also heard descriptions of the city from travelers who had returned from abroad.
But unlike ordinary Demacians, who felt only casual interest, Wenward longed for Piltover's technology intensely.
Unfortunately, with Noxus sitting between them, someone of his status had no way of going there.
Once he thought through all of that, the admiration in Wenward's eyes toward Luke deepened.
That this prince could glean so much from a handful of books spoke to extraordinary talent.
From the way he had once discussed the principles of sound, Wenward had already known Luke possessed tremendous learning.
And now this idea of explosive powder was just as refreshing.
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