The rhythmic, industrial cacophony of construction had become the new heartbeat of Border Town. It was a sound that never truly stopped—the scraping of shovels, the rhythmic thud of wooden tamping tools, and the shouting of foremen echoed from the North Slope down to the riverbank. After more than two weeks of back-breaking, intense labor, a significant milestone had been reached: nearly 100 meters of the wall had already been erected. It was a grey, imposing spine of stone and cement, cutting through the mud and connecting the mountain's edge toward the Redwater River.
William walked parallel to the structure, his boots crunching on the gravel. He stopped for a moment to run a hand over 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 crew of workers pouring a fresh batch of "liquid stone." This mixture of finely crushed limestone, clay, and gypsum, fired in Anna's high-temperature kilns, was transforming before his eyes from a grey sludge into a barrier that could withstand the impact of a charging 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, nagging temptation to simply blink, to test his Teleportation skill and see if he could clear the 100-meter stretch 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 sat him down the night before and delivered a stern, borderline-threatening warning: Do not use magic within the town limits. Not even for a second.
The reason was simple, logical, and absolutely chilling: Nightingale.
William knew, from his encyclopedic knowledge of the original story, that the elite witch from the Witch Cooperation Association could already be infiltrated within the castle walls. She could be standing right next to him at this very moment, observing everything through the distorted, monochrome lens of the Mist World. He felt a literal swarm of butterflies in his stomach just thinking that his favorite character—the one he harbored a massive, borderline obsessive crush on due to her unwavering loyalty and dark, mysterious beauty—could be just a few feet away, invisible and lethal.
If she saw a man using magic—something that, in this world, was supposed to be exclusive to women "corrupted" by the demonic bite—the strategic advantage of their group would vanish. Their safety would be compromised before Roland could even finish his first steam engine. He took a deep breath and forced the mana back down, focusing instead on the physical world.
To distract his racing mind, William headed toward the makeshift training grounds near the castle barracks. There, he found Iron Axe, the captain of the guard. The man was a pillar of imposing stature, his skin bronzed by the sun of the Sandworld and his eyes hard with iron discipline. Since Roland had designated William to help modernize the future militia, he decided it was time to stop being a "tourist" and start being a drill sergeant. He stepped onto the field, assuming what he considered his "protagonist" stance—back straight, chin up, 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 carrying across the yard.
The Sandworlder stopped his drills and looked at William with a silent, calculating gaze. He didn't speak, but his posture demanded proof.
William didn't hesitate. He began coordinating an exhaustive, high-intensity series of exercises that the men of Graycastle had never seen. He introduced jumping jacks, burpees, and deep squats, emphasizing the importance of "functional fitness" over mere bulk. He also began teaching basic military discipline and formation techniques—how to move as a single unit, how to maintain a line 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 the efficiency. He watched as William demonstrated a series of movements with a physique that was clearly more "refined" than that of a common laborer.
By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, the militia was exhausted, but there was a new glint of respect in Iron Axe's eyes.
At night, dinner at the castle was the only moment of relative peace, though the tension was always simmering beneath the surface. The group—Roland, Arthur, William, and Anna—gathered around the large oak table. Following Roland's decree, they were all properly dressed as nobles. The soft glow of the candles reflected off their fine wool and silk, creating an illusion of a normal aristocratic gathering.
Anna, however, was far from a normal noblewoman. She remained reserved, her mind clearly elsewhere. She barely touched her food, instead focusing on a series of technical drawings Roland had laid out. They were discussing the chemical nuances of iron refinement and how to achieve a more consistent "pig iron" for the upcoming projects.
William, driven by his naturally provocative nature and his deep-seated desire to eventually form the "ultimate harem," couldn't help himself. He leaned toward Anna, a charming smirk playing on his lips, completely ignoring the sharp look of disapproval Arthur shot him from across the table.
— "You know, Anna," William began, his voice dropping 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 spark in your eyes when you talk about science. It's a rare combination—beauty and a mind that can melt steel."
He flashed his best "hero" smile, the one he had practiced in the mirror back in his own world. — "With my training and your fire, we could be the most powerful duo in this entire kingdom. What do you say we pay a little more attention to each other and a little less to Roland's boring chemical formulas? Surely, there's more to life than just cement and iron."
The table went silent. Arthur sighed and looked at the ceiling, while Roland simply rubbed his temples, already exhausted by the day's administrative headaches.
Anna stopped her eating mid-bite. She slowly turned her head and fixed her deep blue eyes on William. Her gaze wasn't angry; it was something far more devastating: it was clinical and cuttingly cold.
— "His Highness's formulas are the reason I am standing in this room and not swinging from a gallows in the town square," she replied, her voice direct and blunt, lacking even a hint of flirtatious warmth. — "Your words continue to be what I call 'empty words.' They increase neither the temperature of my green fire nor the structural integrity of the cement. They are an inefficient use of breath. I suggest you spend that energy on your training, William, as the demonic beasts will not be defeated by compliments or smiles."
Arthur let out a muffled, choked-back laugh behind his wine glass. William simply shrugged, unfazed, and kept his smile firmly in place. — "Hey, can't blame a guy for trying to appreciate the finer things in the castle," he muttered, returning to his stew.
Roland shook his head, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips despite his fatigue. He was getting used to this strange dynamic—the pragmatism of the witch, the caution of the scholar, and the undying optimism (or delusion) of the warrior. William knew that the path to winning over the hearts of this world would be a long and difficult one, but with the first frost of winter approaching and the shadows of the beasts growing longer, he was ready for the challenge. Whether Nightingale was watching or not, the revolution was moving forward, one brick and one rejection at a time.