The silence that followed Nightingale's "disappearance" was heavy, filled only by the mournful whistle of the autumn wind rattling the office windows. The candlelight flickered, casting long, jittery shadows across the blueprints spread over the mahogany desk. Arthur, maintaining his usual imperturbable expression, smoothed out a fresh parchment scroll he had brought with him. William, still instinctively massaging the faint red mark on his neck where the silver dagger had rested moments before, leaned in to observe, his breath finally returning to a normal rhythm.
— "Your Highness, now that the dust has settled and our 'visitor' has chosen her vantage point, we need to focus on the only thing that will truly keep us alive: firepower," Arthur began. He pointed to a series of detailed technical drawings. — "These are the sketches for the flintlock muskets. They are a significant leap over the crude 'fire sticks' used in some parts of the world. With Anna's ability to melt and shape iron with microscopic precision, we can bypass centuries of metallurgical trial and error."
Roland leaned over the desk, his engineer's eyes instantly gleaming with recognition. He didn't see just lines and ink; he saw the mechanical harmony of the trigger mechanisms, the frizzen, and the ignition chamber.
— "The design is undeniably solid, Arthur," Roland said, tracing the curve of the barrel. — "But as an engineer, I see the bottleneck. The machining of these barrels is the real challenge. Even with Anna's fire, manual drilling and boring to ensure a consistent internal diameter requires time and machinery we simply do not have. If the barrel wall is too thin or uneven, the gas pressure from the black powder will turn the weapon into a pipe bomb in the soldier's hands."
— "Exactly," Arthur nodded, his tone pragmatic and devoid of false optimism. — "Considering the weeks remaining before the demonic miasma descends from the Impassable Mountain Range, and the massive workload Karl already has on the wall, my calculation is pessimistic. Even with Anna working at full capacity, it will likely only be possible to manufacture four truly functional, reliable firearms before the start of the Months of Demons. We aren't building an army yet; we're building a squad of elites."
Roland sighed, leaning back in his heavy chair and massaging his temples. The weight of that technological scarcity bothered him—he wanted a line of a hundred riflemen, not four. But beneath the logistical stress, a deeper disquiet was gnawing at him. He looked fixedly at Arthur, and then at William, who was absent-mindedly flipping a small ceramic coin.
— "Barov came to see me earlier today," Roland said, his voice dropping into a speculative, dangerous tone. — "He reviewed every commercial and historical record in the castle archives. In none of the four kingdoms of Graycastle—not even in the Holy City of Hermes or the trade logs of Clearwater Port—is there any mention of 'cement.' No alchemist, no matter how old or eccentric, knows this formula. It's as if it was plucked from the stars."
The Prince crossed his arms, his gaze boring into them as if trying to see through their very skin. — "Where are you really from? And don't give me that 'ancient books' line again. No one appears out of thin air with this level of specific technical and strategic knowledge without leaving a single trace. You aren't just 'scholars' from a distant land."
Arthur exchanged a quick, meaningful look with William. He had known this moment was inevitable. Roland—or rather, Cheng Yan—was far too intelligent to be kept in the dark forever. Arthur had already formulated a defense that would protect their real-world identities while cementing their alliance with the Prince.
— "Your Highness, just as you have secrets that you prefer to keep hidden within these walls—secrets that involve a previous life and a very different way of thinking—we have ours as well," Arthur replied with a frigid, calculated calm. — "We have no intention of revealing our specific lineage or our personal histories. Let's just say that the three of us are in exactly the same situation: we are foreigners trying to survive on a board that we didn't set up ourselves."
Roland froze. The water glass he was holding stopped halfway to his mouth. Arthur's allusion to his own condition as a transmigrated soul was subtle to anyone else, but to Cheng Yan, it was a thunderclap.
— "However," Arthur continued, pressing his advantage, "to satisfy your curiosity and ensure our alliance remains firm, I will tell you this: we are from South America. And the reason we know so much—including the reasons behind your sudden 'change of habits' and your sudden interest in steam power—is that thanks to the System, we have acquired certain... essential information."
The impact was immediate. The moment Arthur mentioned "South America" and the "System," Roland's eyes widened to the size of saucers. As an engineer from Earth who was well-versed in the subcultures of web novels and "isekai" tropes, the pieces finally clicked into place. He wasn't the only one who had crossed the veil. He understood that these two were "players" or "transmigrators" just like him. The term "System" explained why they seemed to read the future like an open book.
Arthur watched Roland process this, feeling a sense of satisfaction. He had worded the sentence so that Roland would believe the "System" had revealed Cheng Yan's secret identity to them. It was a masterful stroke of manipulation; Arthur hadn't lied—since their knowledge did come from the "system" of the original story—but he had led Roland to a conclusion that established a bridge of shared origin and informative superiority. Furthermore, Arthur knew Nightingale was still listening, and the word "System" would sound to her like a secret society or a mysterious guild, rather than a cosmic video game mechanic.
Roland nodded slowly, a tacit understanding gleaming in his eyes. The tension in his shoulders dissipated. — "I see... South America. That explains a lot. I suppose we're all a long way from home then."
Suddenly, Nightingale's voice echoed from the shadows near the window. It was devoid of its previous murderous edge, but it was laden with a profound, genuine confusion.
— "You speak of things I have never heard of... places that do not exist on any map of the known world, and of this 'system' as if it were a god," her voice floated through the room, ethereal and haunting. — "But what bothers me most is your arrogance regarding our sanctuary. Why do you insist on saying that the Holy Mountain is just a myth? How can you claim that with such conviction? My sisters and I have dedicated our lives, our blood, and our hope to this search for a long time. It is all we have."
William, who had been uncharacteristically silent, took a slow step toward the window. His usual mischievous smirk had vanished, replaced by a brutal, somber seriousness that he rarely allowed anyone to see. He knew the spoilers; he knew the tragedy that awaited the Association in the frozen wastes.
— "It's simple, Nightingale," William replied, looking directly at the empty space where her voice emanated. — "We say it because that 'place'—that paradise where witches can live in peace without fear of the Church—does not exist. There is no hidden valley waiting for you on the other side of the mountain range. There is only a desert of eternal ice, howling winds, and death. It is a trap of your own making, born from desperation."
He paused, his voice softening but remaining firm. — "If your 'sisters' from the Association insist on chasing this ghost, they won't find a refuge. They will find a mass grave. They will die in the cold, killed by the elements before they even find the first stone of their supposed heaven. We aren't being arrogant, Nightingale. We're being honest. If you want a Holy Mountain, you're going to have to build it right here, with us."
The silence returned, but this time it was different. It wasn't the silence of suspicion, but the heavy, ringing silence that follows a hard truth. Somewhere in the mist, Nightingale didn't reply, but the faint sound of a sharp intake of breath told them that the seeds of doubt—and perhaps, a new kind of hope—had been planted.