The sun had barely crested the jagged horizon of Border Town when the first metallic echoes of tools striking rock began to reverberate from the northern slope. The morning air was biting, a harbinger of the harsh winter approaching in a few months. Roland's plan to erect a massive defensive barrier in record time was no longer a theoretical sketch on a piece of parchment; it was a living, pulsing machine, the fruit of human labor. The excavations for the foundations advanced in a firm, muddy line, aiming to bridge the gap between the steep mountain cliffs and the churning gray waters of the Redwater River.
In the castle courtyard, William was immersed in his own kind of work. He had finished an intense sequence of squats and explosive jumping jacks, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cold morning air formed thick clouds of vapor with every ragged exhale, but he ignored the thermal discomfort. He wasn't just exercising his muscles; he was focusing on his internal "pulse"—on how the mana flow reacted to physical exhaustion. He could feel it now, a subtle hum in his veins that intensified as his body reached its limits.
After finishing his last set, he stood up, cracked his neck with a satisfying pop, and tapped the empty air in front of him. With a soft chime that only he could hear, a translucent blue interface appeared before his eyes.
[User: William]
Magic Power: 3 [Teleportation]
His gaze swept quickly over his attributes, noting the small incremental gains from his training, but inevitably stopped at the [SHOP] icon. It remained stubborn, gray, and lackluster, locked behind a series of cryptic requirements.
"What is the deal with this system?" William thought, a flash of frustration on his face. "We've already changed history. We saved Anna, and Arthur basically handed Roland the entire economic plan for the next five years. What else do I need to do to open this shop? Kill a demon with a spoon?"
He leaned against a stone wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He wondered if, once operational, the shop would allow him to cross the barrier between worlds in a more literal sense. The idea of swapping rustic, tasteless medieval porridge for a greasy fast-food combo or a cold soda felt like a distant, agonizing dream. He missed the little things—the hum of electricity, the comfort of noise-canceling headphones, the glow of a smartphone.
But above all, his mind turned to utility. If he could have access to modern technology, he wouldn't just be a "consultant from the future"; he would be a god of logistics. Flares to use in the darkness, high-intensity LED flashlights to pierce the gloom of the Impassable Mountains, or perhaps even tactical gear—Kevlar vests and ceramic plates that could complement his teleportation. If he could bring modern tactical advantages to support Roland's developing science, Border Town wouldn't just be protected—it would be a fortress the Church couldn't touch even in their worst nightmares.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirt collar, William stepped away from the wall and looked toward the makeshift laboratory in the castle gardens. He knew that while the conscripted workers worked themselves to the bone digging the foundations, the true industrial "magic" was happening there, amidst the smoke and smell of sulfur. Roland and Anna were immersed in the arduous chemical process of "turning stones into hope."
The cement manufacturing process was meticulous and chaotic. In one corner of the laboratory, piles of limestone were exhaustively crushed into a fine powder by a group of sturdy workers. This powder was then mixed with precise proportions of clay and iron ore, resulting in a thick, malleable paste. It looked like just gray mud, but to someone who knew the future, it was the DNA of civilization. After high-temperature firing in specialized kilns and a final mixing with gypsum to control the curing time, the cement would be ready to be poured into the deep trenches Karl van Bate was already preparing.
William decided to head over and check on the progress. Upon arriving, he found Anna focused in front of a small test kiln. Her vibrant red hair was tied back in a practical bun, and her face was smudged with soot, but she maintained a silent, unshakable dignity. She extended her hand toward the kiln, her palm radiating a pale green glow. She controlled the flame's temperature with a precision that defied any thermometer that might exist in that era. She wasn't just burning the mixture; she was sintering it, ensuring the chemical bonds formed exactly as Roland's blueprints demanded.
— "Still turning stone into dust, Anna?" asked William, approaching with a casual, rehearsed smile. He leaned against a heavy wooden pillar, trying to appear as indifferent to the heat as possible.
Anna didn't take her eyes off the fire. Her expression was one of absolute logical seriousness—Anna's gaze was no longer that of a prisoner. But rather that of a determined and disciplined student.
— "His Highness says the consistency of the paste depends entirely on the uniformity of the heat," she replied, her voice steady despite the sweat trickling down her neck. "If the temperature fluctuates, even slightly, during the firing, the clinker will not grind correctly and the cement will lack the structural integrity needed to hold back the demonic beasts."
— "You take this very seriously," commented William, observing the hypnotic glow of the red flames reflected in the witch's deep blue eyes. — "You know, in the 'old books' I read, there were giant machines—colossal rotating cylinders—that do exactly what you're doing now with just one hand. They process tons of this material every hour. But you... you do it even better, in a lovely and charming way."
— "It is not about being lovely, nor about being charming," Anna finally replied. She slowly closed her hand, and the fire vanished instantly, leaving the kiln to hiss as the heat began to dissipate. She turned to look at him with her usual, disarming frankness. — "It is about being useful, Mr. William. I was told my existence was a sin, that we are subordinates of the evil one. But His Highness gave me a purpose I would never find anywhere else. He gave me a way to build instead of just survive. If these stones can save the people of this Town from being torn apart this winter, I will burn them until nothing remains of me but dust."
William let out a short, dry laugh, realizing that his attempt at easygoing charm had once again crashed against the iron wall of Anna's pragmatism. To her, the work wasn't an obligation; it was a form of gratitude. She didn't want to be "protected" or "wooed"; she wanted to be an essential part of the gear that kept everyone alive.
He thought about trying another of his witty pick-up lines, perhaps something about how "her fire was hotter than the kiln," but her aura of absolute focus made him hesitate. In the original story, Roland was the only one who truly understood her, and William realized he was still a long way from catching up to him.
For now, the construction work—of both the physical wall and his own place in this world—was the only thing that really mattered. The Months of the Demons were a ticking clock, and as the gray cement paste began to harden in the test molds, William knew they were finally building something that could actually withstand the tide.