The silence that followed Roland's roar was not a peaceful one; it was a vacuum of sound, a jagged hole ripped into the fabric of the crowd's bloodlust. For a heartbeat, thousands of people held their breath, caught between the habit of obedience and the sudden, stinging disappointment of a stolen spectacle. Arthur watched Roland—or rather, the soul of Cheng Yan now inhabiting that royal shell—with an intensity that bordered on the microscopic. The Prince was deathly pale, his hand still trembling in the air, while Barov, the administrative director, looked as though he were on the verge of a cardiac event, his face a frantic shade of crimson.
— "Your Highness... what is the meaning of this? The Church... the decree... Longsong Stronghold will hear of this!" Barov's words were a panicked blur, his breath hitching as he clutched at Roland's silk sleeve.
— "Take her to the dungeon. Now," Roland ordered. He ignored his advisor entirely, his voice gaining a sudden, metallic firmness. It was the pragmatism of a man who dealt with blueprints and stress loads, finally beginning to override the shell-shock of a transmigrated soul.
As the guards moved in, under the watchful, predator-like eye of Chief Knight Carter Lannis, the blue screen in Arthur's peripheral vision flickered with a triumphant resonance.
[MISSION ACCOMPLISHED: THE TURNING POINT]
Reward: Initial Magic Flow Unlocked.
Status: Synchronizing energy... 100%.
It didn't feel like a simple notification. A sudden, invigorating surge of energy erupted from the base of Arthur's spine, racing through his nervous system like liquid lightning. It wasn't the agonizing, bone-melting heat that witches described during their "Awakening"; this was something different—engineered, fluid, and perfectly contained. It felt as though a new sensory organ had just opened up, allowing him to feel the subtle vibrations of the world around him.
He looked at William. His friend was opening and closing his hands, a look of pure, adrenaline-fueled surprise on his face. The air around William's knuckles seemed to shimmer for a split second, a testament to his high Strength and Speed attributes finally finding a power source.
— "You feel that, Art?" William whispered, his voice low and vibrating with excitement. He adjusted his stance, his eyes now fixed on Carter Lannis, who was guarding the rear of the escort with the lethal grace of a hunting hound. — "The game just went from 2D to 4D."
— "I feel it," Arthur replied, his mind already calculating the next ten minutes. — "But we can't just linger in the mud. Carter has already marked us. Our clothes, our posture, the way we aren't cowering like the rest of these peasants—it's an anomaly. If we don't seize the initiative and introduce ourselves now, we'll be hunted as spies for the other Wimbledon siblings before sunset."
They began to follow the royal escort at a distance, moving with a synchronized confidence that clashed violently with the atmosphere of Border Town. Arthur knew the script: Roland would soon lock himself in his study to grapple with his fragmented memories before visiting the dungeons to see if magic was a physical reality. It was the perfect window for a controlled intervention—a "first contact" between the survivors of the 21st century.
When they reached the gates of the castle—a crude, grey structure that felt more like a prison than a palace—they were barred by two guards with rusted halberds. Carter Lannis turned slowly, his hand resting with practiced ease on the hilt of his longsword. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving, swept over Arthur and William with the suspicion of a professional killer.
— "Who are you? You are not from the Border Town rosters. Speak, or the dungeon will have more than one guest today," Carter's voice was a flat, dangerous warning.
— "Travelers, Commander," Arthur said, stepping forward into the light. He kept his hands visible and relaxed, his voice projecting a calm, scholarly authority. — "Scholars from distant lands who heard a rumor—a whisper that the Fourth Prince of Graycastle seeks minds capable of turning clay into gold... or, more practically, turning limestone and clay into the cement that will hold back the winter."
The word "cement" hit the air like a thunderbolt. Roland, who was walking several meters ahead, stopped dead in his tracks. He turned slowly, his eyes wide as they focused on the two "outsiders." William, seizing the silence, added with a provocative, roguish smile:
— "And we also heard that His Highness has a peculiar, highly rational taste for interrupting executions. We like the way he thinks."
Before Carter could bark an order for their arrest, Roland's voice echoed through the courtyard. — "Let them in, Carter. If they know the word for that mixture, I want to hear how they learned it."
Roland walked toward them, his boots clicking on the uneven stone. He ignored Barov's whispered protests about security. His eyes, which had been glazed with the fog of a thousand-year-old history, suddenly sharpened as they locked onto Arthur and William's black t-shirts. To Barov or Carter, it was just a strange, impeccably cut fabric. But to Cheng Yan, the mechanical engineer from a world of factories and mass production, it was a reality shock that nearly made his knees buckle.
— "Those clothes..." Roland murmured, his voice cracking for a fraction of a second. He stared at the watch on Arthur's wrist—the brushed steel, the sapphire glass, an object of industrial precision that was fundamentally impossible in this era of hand-cranked gears and sand-timers. — "Where did you say you come from?"
— "From a place where logic and science are the foundations of civilization, Your Highness," Arthur replied, his 14 Intelligence allowing him to read every micro-expression of shock and longing on the Prince's face. — "We have come to assist in the transition you are about to initiate. We know what you are trying to build."
Roland took a deep breath, his knuckles turning white as he pressed his temples. The mental strain of merging the old Roland's memories with Cheng Yan's engineering mind was taking a visible toll.
— "Carter, take them to the upper guest quarters. Do not lose sight of them, but treat them as... honored scholars," Roland ordered. He turned his back abruptly, walking hurriedly toward his private chambers. He needed silence. He needed to process the fact that he might not be the only ghost from Earth in this muddy, medieval hellhole.
Arthur and William were escorted through the castle by a visibly tense Carter Lannis. The interior was cold, the stone walls bare and weeping with dampness—a perfect reflection of the decadence of Border Town. Once the heavy oak door of their room was barred from the outside, William let out a long, explosive sigh and slumped into a crude wooden chair.
— "He saw the shirt, Art. The look on his face... he looked like he'd seen a ghost," William whispered, his eyes gleaming. — "So, what's the move? Do we just wait for him to come knocking?"
— "We wait," Arthur said, standing by the narrow window and watching the moon rise over the North Slope. — "The original timeline says he spends tonight reviewing his memories. Tomorrow, he faces the economic collapse of the town and visits the dungeons. We need to be ready to intercept him when his skepticism meets his desperation."
The next morning, the castle echoed with the rhythmic sound of hurried footsteps. Arthur and William were led down to the parlor, where Roland was already sitting at a long table, buried under a mountain of dusty scrolls and crude maps. Barov sat across from him, his face a mask of bureaucratic misery.
The air was heavy with the smell of stale bread and the weight of the superstitions Barov was currently dumping onto the table. Roland was holding a small ceramic coin—the "mountain and eye" emblem of the Witch Cooperation Association. He looked up as the door creaked open.
The morning light streamed through the narrow windows, illuminating the sharp, modern lines of the two young men. Roland, who had been trying to reconcile Barov's stories of "demonic corruption" with his own scientific training, froze with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. His engineer's eyes focused with predatory intensity on their attire. To Barov, it was just exotic cloth; to Cheng Yan, it was a relic of a lost world.
— "You..." Roland began, his voice rasping. He quickly composed himself. — "Barov, these are the scholars I told you about."
Barov wiped sweat from his upper lip, casting a look of pure venom at the newcomers. — "Your Highness, we are discussing the safety of the realm and the threat of the Church. I do not believe foreigners in such... suspicious... attire should be privy to these matters. Especially with the Association causing such unrest."
Arthur stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. — "We have heard enough about the 'Holy Mountain' to know it's a distraction, Minister. What you call the cradle of evil, we call a misinterpretation of biology. And what the Church calls sin, we call untapped kinetic potential."
Roland dropped the ceramic coin onto the table. The metallic clink echoed in the stone room. — "You speak as if you've studied the phenomena yourself. Barov here tells me witches degenerate into the devil's servants."
— "With all due respect to the Minister," William intervened, crossing his arms—a gesture that made the modern cotton fabric of his sleeves pull tight against his muscles, making Roland's eyes twitch — "that 'degeneration' is just a body attempting to process a massive surge of mana without a proper ground or training. It's an exothermic reaction, not a theological crisis."
Roland stood up abruptly, his confusion finally burning away into a sharp, scientific determination. He needed proof. He needed to see if the laws of physics he knew still applied to this world. — "Barov, stay here and finalize the ore reports. Carter, bring your steel. We're going down."
The path to the dungeons was cold, the air growing heavier and damper with every step. Arthur felt the Magic Flow in his chest begin to hum, a subtle vibration that intensified as they neared the heavy iron bars of the last cell. There, sitting in the shadows, was the young girl with orange-red hair. She looked smaller here, more fragile, but her eyes remained steady.
— "What is your name?" Roland asked.
The girl stood up slowly, her eyes meeting Roland's, then Arthur's, then William's. She saw no hatred in them—only a terrifying, analytical curiosity. — "Anna."
Good. The dialogue is holding to the core, Arthur thought, his mind racing.
After Anna demonstrated her magic at Roland's command—a brilliant, emerald fire that burned without consuming—the Prince murmured to himself, — "It is not the fire of hell... it's just your own power." He stepped forward and draped his heavy fur cloak over her shoulders, a gesture of humanity that felt like a revolution in itself.
— "Exactly, Your Highness," Arthur said, stepping closer to the bars while Carter kept his hand on his sword. — "With this localized heat source and the limestone from the North Slope, we can produce high-quality cement. Border Town won't just survive the Months of Demons; it will become an industrial fortress."
Roland turned to Arthur, finally dropping the royal facade of the Fourth Prince and speaking as one engineer to another. — "You know the chemical composition of cement. You know about the Mines. How?"
— "Let's just say we've read the right 'ancient books,' Roland," Arthur replied with a knowing, half-smile. — "But if you want to save her from the Church, you'll need more than just science. You'll need a distraction. A fake execution. Find a death-row prisoner whose crimes are real, and let the crowd have their 'witch' in the square. Keep Anna in the shadows, and she will build your kingdom for you."
Roland nodded slowly, the logic of the proposal resonating perfectly with his newfound pragmatism. He looked at the orange-haired girl and then at the two strangers who seemed to know his very thoughts.
— "Carter, arrange what they've suggested. We need a body for the gallows," Roland ordered. He then turned his full attention back to Arthur and William, his eyes narrowing. — "And once we've secured her safety... you're going to explain exactly how a textile factory managed to print a logo on a shirt without a single stitch of manual embroidery."
William let out a short, sharp laugh, feeling the "protagonist" energy surging through him. — "It's a long story, Your Highness. But by the time we're done, the embroidery will be the least of your surprises. We're going to talk about gunpowder, steam, and the day the age of knights finally ends."