The pale autumn sun fell over the overgrown courtyard of the castle, casting long, dancing shadows on the uneven stone floor where Roland had improvised a small open-air laboratory. It was a rudimentary and improvised structure — a few solid wood tables gathered from the dining hall, a collection of crudely forged iron tools, a leather bellows, and a pile of low-quality raw ore brought from the North Slope Mine. To anyone else, it looked like a peasant's pile of trash. But to Roland, the transmigrated engineer Cheng Yan, that was the true beating heart of his nascent kingdom.
Standing before the improvised crucible, Anna extended her small hand. Her fragile figure, clad in a simple, loose gray dress, radiated a silent and fierce intensity. Her expression was completely focused and purely logical, a striking and fascinating contrast to the mystical and inherently chaotic nature of her power.
A pale red flame flickered over the palm of her hand, as if it had a life of its own. It didn't roar wildly like a bonfire; instead, it hummed with a sharp, concentrated hiss, slowly melting a piece of impure raw iron suspended in the crucible. Roland watched, absolutely mesmerized, as the opaque metal began to glow a dark cherry-red, then a blinding white, before finally softening and pooling like hot wax.
Beside him, Arthur and William watched intently, each processing the impossible sight through their own perspective. Thanks to his newly awakened telekinesis, Arthur could feel more than just the ambient heat. He could feel the violent, localized kinetic agitation of the air molecules around Anna's hand. It was an intense, hyper-focused heat that seemed to gleefully defy the established laws of thermodynamics. Yet, miraculously, it didn't burn the autumn air around them, nor the girl's skin. It was perfectly contained, directed by the pure, unyielding will of the witch.
Roland, however, forced himself to look away from the miraculous witch for a moment, fixing his dark eyes once again on the two strangers. The initial shock of accepting the whole prophecy story had already settled in mechanical engineer Cheng Yan's mind, but his methodical and insatiable curiosity still burned. He examined their clothes for the hundredth time. The stitching of Arthur's hoodie and the uniform fabric of William's shirt were anomalies too glaring to be ignored.
— "Did you sleep well these past few days?" — asked Roland suddenly, breaking the focused silence of the laboratory with an almost casual tone.
Arthur adjusted his hoodie, offering a polite and perfectly measured smile.
— "Very well, Your Highness. The hospitality of Graycastle is excellent. The palace beds are a much-welcomed comfort after the long trials of our journey."
Roland let out a thoughtful murmur, but the look he cast at the duo quickly became sharp and calculating.
— "I am pleased to hear that. Your answers at our first banquet also left me very satisfied at the time. But, going over the conversation, I noticed a curious detail... You are very skillful with words, Arthur. So skillful that you guided the entire conversation to the prophetic books and the secret of cement, and wonderfully dodged answering one of the things I asked you: the origin of those clothes."
Before Arthur could open his mouth to formulate an answer, Roland turned abruptly, locking his scrutiny on the stronger young man who watched everything in silence.
— "You didn't say a single word during the entire banquet, William," — Roland pointed out, his voice firm and direct. — "Perhaps you can give me a clear answer, without a scholar's flourishes. How did you acquire these garments with such advanced industrial production? And where did that artifact that spins incessantly on your friend's wrist come from?"
William's mind stopped for a millisecond before a click of pure astonishment echoed in his head. The feeling of déjà vu hit him hard, and a flashback from the previous night in the guest room invaded his thoughts with absolute clarity.
The memory took shape: Arthur was leaning against the stone wall of the room, staring at the ceiling with that calculating look, and had said in the tone of someone predicting the future: — "Knowing Roland's mind, Will, he won't forget the logical anomalies. Sooner or later, he will question us about the clothes. And since you stayed completely quiet during the entire banquet, he will target you, thinking you are less trained in lies or that you'll be caught off guard. I deliberately left the question about the clothes unanswered, just to force him to question you directly in the future."
William remembered asking what he should say. And Arthur's answer was simple: — "Don't lie. Just refuse to answer, claiming secrecy. His skeptical mind will swallow that much better than a poorly crafted magical story."
William blinked, returning to the reality of the courtyard illuminated by the autumn sun. He couldn't help but marvel internally at his friend's sociopathic foresight. Adjusting his posture to project an unshakable calm, he met the Prince's demanding gaze.
— "I will be completely frank with you, Your Highness," — William replied, his voice calm, stripped of nervousness and sounding surprisingly mature. — "That is a secret that, unfortunately, we cannot reveal right now. Not about the clothes, nor about the artifact."
Roland raised an eyebrow, waiting for the rest of the justification, but William just smiled confidently.
— "However, I give you my word," — William continued. — "In a not-so-distant future, when the foundations of Border Town are solid and we have advanced a few steps, we will tell you exactly how we got these garments and what that artifact is. No half-truths."
Roland narrowed his eyes for a brief moment, evaluating the micro-expression on the young man's face. William's response had been incredibly fast, with no stuttering, no looking away, and no attempt to invent a wild story. To Cheng Yan's logical and exhausted mind, accustomed to the fawning intrigues of the Graycastle court, a direct and frank refusal seemed much more honest than any elaborate explanation.
The tension in Roland's shoulders vanished, and he finally nodded in agreement.
— "Very well. I accept your word," — said Roland, seeming genuinely satisfied with the clarity of the answer. He returned his attention to the intense glow of the crucible. — "Keep your secrets for now."
At that exact moment, Anna abruptly stopped her magic. The pale red flame instantly dissipated in the air, leaving the pool of molten iron to hiss and spit furiously as it began to cool in its clay crucible. Sweat shined on her pale forehead, and a few ash-stained strands of hair clung to her cheeks, but her deep blue eyes remained direct, clear, and wonderfully frank. She didn't look like a blushing, submissive harem heroine from a cheap novel; she looked exactly like a dedicated worker who had just finished an exhausting twelve-hour shift at a blast furnace.
William, taking advantage of the pause in the conversation with Roland and deeply moved by his charismatic — and somewhat provocative — nature, approached the witch with confident, arrogant steps. He adjusted his shirt collar, flashing what he genuinely believed to be an irresistible, victorious smile.
— "You know, Anna, your control is truly impressive," — said William, leaning slightly forward, trying to use the charm he believed was the innate right of any true protagonist. — "With that firepower and my physical protection, we could easily be the most powerful duo in the entire kingdom. This castle is damp, gray, and depressing. How about we leave all this mud behind and explore the world once these local problems are over? A beautiful girl with your talent deserves a much larger stage than a freezing little mining town."
Anna didn't blink. She looked at him with a logical, piercing coldness that would make an experienced, bloodied knight tremble in his boots. She didn't blush; she didn't seem shy or flustered. She looked at him as if he were a particularly repulsive, noisy insect that had just crawled out from under a rock.
— "The outside world wants to see me dead on the gallows," — she said, her voice completely flat and unwavering, devoid of any romantic illusion. — "The Church calls me a demon destined for the pyre, and the nobles see me as disposable trash. The Prince saved my life from the noose. He gave me freedom, a warm bed, food, and a purpose in life that doesn't involve hiding in the mud." — She tilted her head slightly. — "I thank you, Mr. William, for the compliments, but I see no reason to choose the supposed 'protection' of someone who wastes his energy on empty words and smells of strange perfumes."
Arthur let out a short, sharp, and genuinely amused laugh at the monumental, devastating rejection his friend had just suffered. — "Stop bothering her, Will. She values studies and efficient results over flowery prose and heroic tropes. Save your breath for your future combat training with Iron Axe. I heard the hunter isn't too fond of your 'charm' either."
William coughed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, his protagonist aura seriously shaken. — "Right. Well. You can't blame a guy for trying to cheer up the group."
***
The next three days passed in a whirlwind of frantic, exhausting activities. The peaceful, scholarly atmosphere of the garden was quickly replaced by the deafening noise of the gears of desperate preparation.
Arthur spent his time isolated in the dusty archives, meticulously cataloging the town's scarce resources. Using his telekinesis to silently flip through heavy ledgers and sort rusted copper coins without touching them, the sad realization of the truly precarious logistical situation hit him. The granaries were half empty, the wheat contaminated by rot. The militia's weapons were rusted iron pitchforks and dull swords. The population was lethargic, paralyzed by fear and historical precedents.
Meanwhile, William was forced to confront the harsh physical reality of his new life. He spent agonizing hours in the courtyard training his physique, wielding a heavy broadsword until his hands bled. He tried to synchronize his breathing with the strange magical charge that now flowed violently through his veins — a "gift" from the System that felt like liquid lead pooling in his muscles, demanding to be used.
Border Town was, in every sense, a place of mud, freezing winds, and despair. But Roland's presence was beginning to act as a chemical catalyst, slowly changing the town's destiny.
***
When night finally fell on the fourth day, covering the castle in a blanket of cold darkness, Arthur and William locked themselves in the guest room. The heavy oak door was bolted from the inside with a dry clack, ensuring absolute privacy. It was time to test the most valuable and mysterious tool the System had granted them: the Inventory.
Arthur stood near the bed, his gaze focused on a translucent blue screen that only he could see through the freezing air of the room.
— "Alright, Will. Bring that wooden chair," — instructed Arthur, pointing to the heavy, rustic piece of furniture in the corner of the room.
William lifted the heavy chair with absurd ease and placed it in front of Arthur. — "Go ahead, Mr. Doraemon wizard. Work your magic."
Arthur reached out and touched the worn wood, sending the mental command to store it. A red notification flashed in his peripheral vision, blocking the action.
[FAILED: The object exceeds the mass and volume limit of the Inventory.]
— "No go," — muttered Arthur, withdrawing his hand, his neutral expression barely hiding his logical disappointment. — "It seems we can't carry furniture, siege weapons, or giant chests. The dimensional space has strict physical restrictions for large objects."
— "What a rip-off," — complained William, crossing his arms and then scratching his head. — "What kind of isekai System doesn't let you store an entire arsenal in your back pocket? Try with something smaller. Grab that basket with the apples leftover from our marvelously disgusting banquet from the day before yesterday."
William grabbed a small wicker basket containing four irregular apples and placed it on the bed. Arthur touched the handle of the basket. In a silent blink of an eye, the object and the fruits simply disappeared into thin air, replaced by an empty space.
— "It worked," — Arthur stated, but soon his expression darkened into an analytical frown as he read the data from the blue screen hovering in front of him. — "Wait... this is a severe logistical problem."
— "What is it? Did it vanish the apples? Does the system charge a food tax?"
— "No, they're here. But the System doesn't recognize 'a basket of apples' as a single item. The mechanics work by absolute units." — Arthur materialized the interface so William could see. — "The basket occupied one storage space. And each of the four apples occupied an individual space. This little trick consumed five occupancy slots all at once."
— "Five slots? Because of four apples and a piece of wicker??" — William frowned, starting to do the mental math. — "And what's the total slot limit of this piece of crap?"
Arthur sighed, a short and pragmatic sound. — "Ten. The maximum limit of our inventory is only ten singular objects."
— "Ten units and it doesn't stack identical items?" — William let out an ironic laugh, throwing himself onto the edge of the bed. — "Congratulations to us. We got the most nerfed inventory in the history of literary fiction. This isn't even good for smuggling a decent set of armor for the militia! What are we going to do with a ten-unit inventory?"
— "We will do things much more dangerous than transporting armor, Will," — countered Arthur, a cold and tactical gleam appearing in his eyes as he retrieved the apples one by one, silently materializing them onto the rustic blankets. — "We don't need to carry tons of iron or barrels of gunpowder. We need to carry intercepted blueprints, stolen keys, vials with pure chemical components, poisons, or... little things that simply shouldn't be where they are."
Arthur spun the last apple in his hand before taking a bite.
— "It's an infiltration and precision tool, not a cargo truck. With ten well-used slots at the right time, we can bring down any arrogant lord on this continent from the inside, without them even knowing what hit them. Carrying gunpowder explosives in the future, no one will be able to stop us; this will be one of our aces in the hole."