(Arin's POV)
The hallway leading to the Central Library felt foreign today.
Usually, when walking down this grand stone corridor, I was just a ghost. Merely an invisible, mana-less Class C student, or street gravel kicked aside by the shiny boots of the nobles.
But today, the air around me felt dense. Oppressive.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
My footsteps echoed, triggering a strange chain reaction. The boisterous chatter of gathering students instantly died completely the moment I passed.
"That is him..." the whisper sounded faint, yet sharp in my ears. "Arin... who destroyed Team Leric this morning?" "Did you see Leric's face? His nose is severely bent. I heard he cried in the infirmary when forced to drink bitter medicine."
I kept walking straight, my gaze locked ahead, though the corners of my eyes caught a tangible shift in social hierarchy.
Class A students who usually walked in the middle of the corridor with chins held high now moved aside, pressing themselves against the wall. There were no more looks of disgust. Their eyes now radiated a mixture of fear and confusion, as if seeing a monster disguised in human skin. Someone who had just broken their absolute logic that "Nobles always win against Trash."
On the other hand, Class C and B students looked at me with an almost fanatical sparkle of admiration. Some nodded respectfully, while others pumped a fist into the air as a sign of silent solidarity.
"Did he really break Leric's sword with his bare hands?" "No, Fool. He kicked him until he flew to Brook's feet. They say Leric vomited blood on the instructor's shoes."
The gossip had mutated into a wild urban legend, but I had no intention of correcting it. In this academy, fear and respect were the most valuable currencies. At the very least, today there would be no more intentionally bumping shoulders or legs tripping my steps.
I arrived in front of the Central Library's double doors. The doorman, who usually asked for my identity card with a sour, suspicious face, this time immediately opened the door wide even before my hand could reach into my pocket.
"Please enter, Master Arin," he said politely while bowing deeply.
I merely gave a brief nod, then stepped inside.
As soon as the thick door closed behind me, the hustle and bustle and those piercing stares vanished instantly. The Third Floor Library that afternoon was drowned in an almost religious silence. The twilight sun penetrated the stained glass, refracting reddish-orange light onto the old oak tables, creating an atmosphere where time seemed to stop turning.
Finally. Tranquility.
Here, I was not the "Duel Winner" or "The Rampaging Cripple". Here, I was merely a researcher chased by a deadline.
I headed to my favorite table in a hidden corner. The cheers of victory in my head had evaporated, replaced by fast-spinning imaginary gears. Spread out before me was blank parchment. I dipped my quill into thick black ink.
It was time to get back to work. Victory in the arena was just an appetizer. The real victory lay on this paper.
Mechanical Centrifuge.
I bit the end of the pen, squinting my eyes, imagining the structure of the machine in three dimensions. Theoretically, the concept was simple: spin a tube filled with fermentation liquid to separate the pure antibiotic plasma from the Slime mucus residue. Centrifugal force would throw heavy particles to the tube walls, leaving "liquid gold" in the center.
The problem was Vibration.
"Two thousand revolutions per minute," I muttered. My index finger danced over the paper, drawing a firm main shaft line. "Without stabilizing magic... vibrations that fast will destroy the glass tube in seconds. This machine will explode, sending sharp glass shards into the operator's face."
In this world, Artificers solved that problem by embedding a Rune of Silence or Stabilizer on the machine shaft. An elegant solution, but expensive. And worse, it made me dependent on mages. I could not let my production line stall just because the mage had a headache or ran out of mana.
I needed a physical solution. Purely mechanical.
My hand moved nimbly again, crossing out the old rigid shaft. Instead, I drew a revolutionary new component. Two concentric iron rings, one outside, one inside, and between them, a line of precise small steel balls.
Ball Bearings.
"Controlled friction," I whispered. An intellectual satisfaction spread as the sketch formed perfectly. "These balls will absorb shaft vibrations. Grease will eliminate friction heat. With this, the machine can spin as fast as a storm without shifting a single millimeter."
I put the pen down. The sketch was perfect. However, my smile slowly faded as reality hit.
Who could make something this complex?
City guild blacksmiths only knew how to forge swords, hoes, and horseshoes. Asking them to make microscopic steel balls precise to the micron was akin to ordering a Golem to sew silk thread. They would laugh at me, or worse, report me to the Church for designing a "Soulless Machine".
I needed a madman. Someone whose fingers could dance over metal with precision equivalent to neurosurgery.
I rolled the parchment into a protective tube and stood up to leave. There was only one person who might know where to find a madman like that.
The Forest Factory Temporary Security Office was just a sturdy wooden shack on the outskirts of the Northern Sector, built to oversee our medical logistics.
When I entered, Instructor Karim was sitting behind a desk covered in reports. His face was tired, dark circles under his eyes bearing witness to a lack of sleep due to boring bureaucracy. However, upon seeing me, his back straightened. His knightly instincts were still sharp.
"Arin," he greeted with a heavy voice, glancing at the old wall clock. "You are right on time. I heard you made a commotion again this morning. Breaking Leric's hand in public? You really do not like living quietly, huh?"
"He asked for it, Instructor. I merely served the customer," I answered casually while placing the parchment tube on his desk. "But forget Leric. That is the past. This is the future."
"Do not tell me there is another problem," complained Karim while massaging his forehead. "Firewood stock is secure, the Shadow Guild is not interfering, wild monsters have been driven away. I was just about to enjoy a quiet afternoon tea."
"Not a security problem. This is a technical problem," I cut in. "I need a metal craftsman."
Karim raised an eyebrow. "Blacksmith? Go to the Forge District. There are hundreds of people there who can make you a pot or a sword. Why report to me?"
"Not an ordinary blacksmith. I need a Mechanic. Someone who can make this."
I opened the scroll, showing the complex drawing of Ball Bearings and gear transmission system.
Karim stared at the drawing. His forehead furrowed deeply, his head tilted left and right, trying to digest the engineering drawing that was alien to him.
"What... is this?" he asked confusedly, pointing at the small balls in the drawing. "This is not a weapon. This looks like... an exploded wall clock?"
"This is the heart of our factory, Instructor. Without this, we are still squeezing medicine with gauze like primitive people. But I need precision. These steel balls must be perfectly round. Smooth without flaws. Ordinary blacksmiths cannot do it."
Karim fell silent. He looked at the drawing, then looked at me. Slowly, he sighed a long breath, as if discarding a heavy burden from his chest. He opened a drawer, took out a cigar, cut the tip, but did not light it. He just twirled it in his fingers.
"There is one person," he mumbled reluctantly. "But you will not find him in the guild phone book. He is a ghost."
"What is his name?"
"Stain," answered Karim. "A Dwarf. Formerly a Forge Master in the Guild, but expelled ten years ago due to... philosophical differences."
"What kind of philosophy?"
"Dwarves worship metal as something alive. They forge with prayers and mana. But Stain... he is obsessed with Mechanics. He believes machine precision is more sacred than prayers. He started making steam engines or things considered 'dead' and insulting the God of Forging."
My eyes lit up. An atheist Dwarf who worshipped machines? That sounded like a professional match made in heaven for me.
"Where can I find him?"
Karim's face turned sour. He looked out the window, toward the darkening sky.
"He hides in a place where guild laws do not apply. In a place where all sins and illicit goods gather into one."
Karim stared at me sharply.
"Undercity. The Capital's Underground Black Market."
That night, we stood in front of a luxurious bakery in the Noble District. The aroma of warm baguettes and sweet tarts wafted from the ventilation. Glass windows displayed beautiful cakes priced at a commoner's monthly salary.
"This way?" I asked skeptically, pulling my disguise cloak tighter.
Karim, who had now swapped his instructor uniform for a dull hooded civilian cloak, nodded stiffly. He looked very uncomfortable, his hand constantly feeling the sword hilt hidden beneath the cloak.
"The Capital's Black Market is not like the black market on your northern border, Arin," whispered Karim. "Here, crime is wrapped in silk and sugar. More dangerous because it looks beautiful."
We sneaked into a side alley. Karim knocked on a warehouse door with a rhythmic pattern. The door opened, guarded by two large men in neat suits looking more like butlers than thugs. They nodded to Karim without asking or perhaps recognizing the former knight's killer aura.
We descended a long spiral stone staircase. The further down we went, the air smelling of yeast and sugar slowly changed.
It became damp. Heavy. And smelled of forbidden desires.
Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs and passing the final iron gate, the sight before me made me hold my breath.
I had worked in the Northern black market. There, the place was muddy, smelled of blood, and was full of despair. People sold rotten monster organs for a piece of dry bread. Crime for the sake of survival.
But this... this was another world.
The floor was shiny black marble, perhaps looted from ancient ruins. The lighting was not smoky torches, but purple magic crystals giving a dreamy and decadent nuance.
There were no starving skinny people. There were only figures in luxurious cloaks, wearing Venetian party masks or silk veils. I saw stalls displaying exotic slaves with gold chains. Bottles of narcotics glowing temptingly. Murder weapons engraved with jewels.
The pungent smell of perfume tried to cover the stench of blood and cold sweat, creating a sickeningly sweet aroma.
"Disgusting," I mumbled.
"Shut your mouth and keep walking," hissed Karim. "In the North, people are evil because of hunger. Here, they are evil because of boredom. That makes them far more unpredictable."
We parted the crowd of masked nobles who were bargaining for the price of an Elf slave. I looked down, feeling more disgusted in this luxurious place than when dissecting carcasses in the mud. At least the mud was honest. Here, rot hid behind beautiful golden masks.
Karim pulled me away from the main area, entering a dark side hallway. Music and laughter were slowly replaced by other sounds.
CLANG... CLANG... HISS...
Metal being forged. High-pressure steam hissing. And the sound of ticking clocks. Hundreds of ticking clocks.
We stopped in front of a thick rusted iron door. There was no handle, only a rotating wheel like a submarine vault door. Karim turned the wheel—left three times, right twice—then hit the center of the door hard.
CLANG!
The door opened heavily inward. A blast of hot steam instantly slapped our faces, carrying the sharp smell of oil, gunpowder, and copper.
"Do not touch anything," warned Karim.
The room was the definition of beautiful chaos.
A vast workshop filled with brass pipes running across the ceiling like metal pythons. Gears of various sizes spun on the walls, some connected and some spinning on their own pointlessly.
And that sound... TICK-TOCK-TICK-TOCK.
Hundreds of wall clocks and pocket watches hung on every inch of empty wall. Not a single one showed the same time. Their ticks were not synchronized, creating a rhythmic cacophony that could drive a sane person crazy in an hour.
In the middle of the room, behind a workbench illuminated by a bright spotlight, a small figure appeared busy bending over.
A Dwarf. But not a fairy tale Dwarf with a large hammer. His beard was cut short, dirty with grease. He wore multi-lensed goggles on his right eye, holding a micro-screwdriver and precision tweezers.
"Who allowed you to enter?" His voice was hoarse, like the friction of gears lacking oil. He did not turn, focused on attaching a spring to a mechanical bird in his hand.
"Stain," called Karim stiffly. "I brought a client."
"I do not accept sword orders," answered Stain curtly, still busy with his tweezers. "Go to the blacksmiths upstairs. They like hitting hot iron like savage primitive people."
"Not a sword," I chimed in, stepping closer.
Stain snorted. "Then what? Armor? Axe? All the same. Dead metal for dead people."
"Mechanism," I corrected.
I took out the protective tube, pulled out the Centrifuge sketch, and flattened it on his messy workbench, right next to the mechanical bird he was dissecting.
"I need someone who can make this."
Stain glanced briefly, perhaps intending to shoo me away. But his eyes stopped.
The magnifying lens in his goggles rotated, focusing on the details of the Ball Bearing in the drawing. His hand holding the tweezers froze. The mechanical bird was placed down slowly.
With hands dirty from black oil, he pulled the paper closer. His short but nimble fingers traced the lines of the machine shaft diagram.
He mumbled softly in a rough ancient Dwarven language.
"Rotation ratio one to twenty... Centrifugal balance..." Stain brought his face closer to the paper, his breathing quickening. "A ball bearing system to dampen microscopic vibrations? You are not using a Stabilizer Rune?"
Stain looked up. He took off his goggles, revealing a pair of red and tired eyes, now burning with the fire of wild obsession.
That look... I knew it. It was the look of a genius madman.
"Kid..." hissed Stain, his voice trembling holding back enthusiasm. "Do you know this thing insults the God of Forging? You are trying to replace the role of magic with... small iron balls?"
He looked at me from head to toe, then grinned widely, displaying gold-plated teeth.
"I like it. This is... dirty. This is mechanical. And this is beautiful."
He jammed his screwdriver into the wooden table enthusiastically. "What is your name?"
I smiled thinly. "Arin. And I need that thing functioning in three days."
Stain laughed. A dry and rough laugh, like a machine just turned on after years of being dead.
"Three days? To make ball bearings with zero tolerance? You are crazy, Arin."
He swept all the trash on his desk to the floor with one arm motion, clearing space for my sketch.
"We start now. Knight, you can leave or be a statue in the corner. But do not dare touch my clocks. Touch a little, I cut off your finger."
I turned to Karim who looked relieved not having to negotiate toughly with this madman.
My revolution machine would soon be born. Not from elegant magic, but from oil, sweat, and madness in the deepest belly of the earth.