The rhythmic, industrial cacophony of construction had become the new beating heart of Border Town. It was a sound that never truly ceased — the scraping of shovels, the rhythmic thud of wooden tamping tools, and the shouts of the foremen echoed from the North Slope to the riverbank. After more than two weeks of arduous and intense labor, a significant milestone had been reached: nearly 100 meters of the wall had already been erected. It was an imposing, gray backbone of stone and cement, cutting through the mud and connecting the edge of the mountain to the Redwater River.
William walked parallel to the structure, his boots crunching on the gravel. He stopped for a moment to run his hand along the surface of the wall. It was cold and slightly rough, but incredibly solid. He watched with a designer's eye as Karl van Bate supervised a team of workers pouring a fresh batch of "liquid stone." This mixture of finely crushed limestone, clay, and gypsum, burned in Anna's high-temperature kilns, was transforming before his eyes, from a gray sludge into a barrier capable of withstanding the impact of an enraged bull.
As he walked, William felt a familiar, restless hum in his muscles — the flow of mana vibrating in his veins like a low-voltage current. It was a constant, persistent temptation to simply blink, test his Teleportation skill, and see if he could cross the 100 meters in a single jump. He wanted to see how his "system" would react to the exertion.
However, Arthur's words echoed in his mind with irritating, clinical clarity. Arthur, with his usual annoying prudence, had pulled him aside for a chat the night before and given him a stern, almost threatening warning: Do not use magic within the city limits. Not even for a second.
The reason was simple, logical, and absolutely chilling: Nightingale.
William knew, thanks to his encyclopedic knowledge of the original story, that the elite witch of the Witch Cooperation Association might already be infiltrated within the castle walls. She could be right next to him at that very moment, watching everything through the distorted, monochromatic lenses of the Mist World. He felt a veritable swarm of butterflies in his stomach just thinking that his favorite character — the one for whom he harbored a huge, almost obsessive crush, due to her unwavering loyalty and dark, mysterious beauty — could be just a few meters away, invisible and lethal.
If she saw a man using magic — something that, in this world, was supposedly exclusive to women "corrupted" by the demonic bite — the group's strategic advantage would disappear. Their safety would be compromised before Roland even finished his first steam engine. He took a deep breath and forced the mana back down, focusing instead on the physical world.
To distract his restless mind, William headed to the makeshift training ground near the castle barracks. There, he found Iron Axe, the captain of the guard. The man was a pillar of imposing stature, his skin tanned by the sun of the Sand Nation, and his eyes hard as iron, imbued with discipline. Since Roland had assigned William to help modernize the future militia, he decided it was time to stop being a "tourist" and start being a drill sergeant. He entered the field, assuming what he considered his "protagonist" posture — straight back, chin held high, looking every bit the noble warrior.
— "Iron Axe, brute force and a sharp axe are good for a tavern brawl, but they won't save this town from a demonic horde," — William stated, his voice echoing across the courtyard.
The Sand Nation inhabitant stopped his drills and looked at William with a silent, calculating gaze. He didn't say anything, but his posture demanded proof.
William didn't hesitate. He began to coordinate an exhaustive series of high-intensity exercises that the men of Graycastle had never seen before. He introduced jumping jacks, burpees, and deep squats, emphasizing the importance of "functional fitness" over mere muscle mass gain. He also began teaching basic military discipline and formation techniques — how to move as a unit, how to hold a formation under pressure. Iron Axe observed every movement with military rigidity, his eyebrows twitching slightly at the exotic nature of the exercises, but he couldn't deny their efficiency. He watched William demonstrate a series of movements with a physique clearly more "refined" than that of a common laborer.
As the sun began to set on the horizon, the militia was exhausted, but there was a new gleam of respect in Iron Axe's eyes.
At night, dinner in the castle was the only moment of relative peace, though the tension was always present, simmering beneath the surface. The group — Roland, Arthur, William, and Anna — gathered around the large oak table. Following Roland's decree, everyone was properly dressed as nobles. The soft glow of the candles reflected off their fine wools and silks, creating the illusion of a common aristocratic gathering.
Anna, however, was far from a common noble. She remained reserved, her mind clearly elsewhere. She barely touched her food, focusing instead on a series of technical drawings Roland had prepared. They were discussing the chemical nuances of iron refining and how to obtain a more consistent "pig iron" for future projects.
William, driven by his naturally provocative nature and his deep desire to eventually form the "ultimate harem," couldn't contain himself. He leaned toward Anna, a charming smile playing on his lips, completely ignoring the disapproving look Arthur shot him from across the table.
— "You know, Anna," — William began, lowering his voice to a smooth, charismatic tone, — "every time I walk past that wall and see how solid it is, I can't help but think it's almost as impressive as the sparkle in your eyes when you talk about science. It's a rare combination: beauty and a mind capable of melting steel."
He flashed his best "hero" smile, the one he had practiced in front of the mirror in his own world. — "With my training and your determination, we could be the most powerful duo in this entire kingdom. How about we pay a little more attention to each other and a little less to Roland's tedious chemical formulas? Surely, there is more to life than just cement and iron."
The table fell silent. Arthur sighed and looked at the ceiling, while Roland simply massaged his temples, already exhausted by the administrative headaches of the day.
Anna stopped eating mid-bite. Slowly, she turned her head and fixed her deep blue eyes on William. Her gaze wasn't one of anger; it was something far more devastating: it was clinical and cuttingly cold.
— "His Highness's formulas are the reason I am in this room and not hanging from a noose in the town square," — she replied, her voice direct and frank, devoid of any trace of flirtation. — "Your words remain what I call 'empty words.' They increase neither the temperature of my fire nor the structural integrity of the cement. They are a waste of breath. I suggest you spend that energy on your training, Mr. William, for the demonic beasts will not be defeated by compliments or smiles."
Arthur let out another muffled, contained laugh from behind his wine goblet. William simply shrugged, unfazed, and kept the smile on his face. — "Hey, you can't blame a guy for trying to appreciate the good things in the castle," — he muttered, returning to his stew.
Roland shook his head, a slight smile playing on his lips despite his exhaustion. He was getting used to this strange dynamic — the witch's pragmatism, the scholar's caution, and the warrior's unwavering optimism (or delusion). William knew the path to winning hearts in this world would be long and arduous, but with the first winter frost approaching and the shadows of the beasts lengthening, he was ready for the challenge. Whether Nightingale was watching or not, the revolution was advancing, one brick and one
rejection at a time.