After only a few days with Avicebron, Arthur finally solved the manpower problem that had haunted him since planting season. The golems handled construction and mining year-round, while the people farmed without interruption and only joined the constructs during the idle winter months. It was the first time Arthur felt like the settlement wasn't constantly teetering on the edge of collapse.
He had expected Avicebron to be difficult, eccentric geniuses usually were, but the man turned out surprisingly cooperative. Quiet, yes. Detached, absolutely. He rarely spoke unless it was necessary and cared more for his research than daily affairs, but Arthur found that easier to manage than open defiance. The real shock was how well he worked with Hohenheim. The two traded theories and experiments constantly, often using Arthur's golden blood as their favorite sample material. Arthur was beginning to wonder if he should start bottling it and charging them rent.
There was, however, one unshakable truth about Avicebron: he despised crowds. When Arthur offered him a place in the mansion, he refused outright. Only after repeated insistence did he agree to stay "temporarily," with the clear promise that he would move as soon as he could build a proper house. Arthur didn't push further, better a reclusive genius nearby than no genius at all.
The people, naturally, had panicked when they first saw hulking clay golems stomping through the streets. Arthur couldn't really blame them. If something that ugly walked up to his door in the middle of the night, he'd probably panic too. Thankfully, one announcement later, everyone calmed down, and the golems were rebranded as "those ugly things that dig holes for us."
With the constructs finally working, mining began on the iron vein. The first group of fifty miners went in, and iron trickled back to the settlement. For now, they could repair broken tools and weapons; upgrades would need a blacksmith's shop, more ore, and minerals they didn't have yet. Arthur decided not to get greedy, repairs were enough.
Organizing the population came next. Out of four thousand people, fifteen hundred were farmers, five hundred were soldiers, and nine centurions doubled the military's structure. Porucus, pleased as ever, received a promotion to general of the first legion. The rest of the population was a strange mix, administrators, blacksmiths, a diplomat, doctors, fishermen, teachers, artisans, and craftswomen. It was the first time Arthur looked at the numbers and thought, 'this actually looks like a society, not just some mob.'
Assignments went smoothly: farmers to Quintus, soldiers to Porucus, and administrators into a "new office" on the first floor of the mansion. In truth, it was just an extremely large dining hall Arthur hadn't known what to do with. At least now the absurd thirty-person table Cecilia had ordered from the carpenters (seriously, who needs a table that size?) was finally pulling its weight. With paperwork off his desk, Arthur felt something close to relief. Big decisions still landed on him, but at least he wasn't drowning in reports about missing cattle or broken hoes anymore.
Food, to his relief, looked secure. The farmers could manage several hectares each, and with magical reinforcement of the soil, the crops would feed everyone for a year with surplus to spare. The golems handled heavy labor, easing the burden even more. For the first time, Arthur could see the settlement functioning like a well-oiled machine: farmers farming, golems digging, magi tinkering in the background. Civilization (or something close to it) was actually taking shape.
With survival handled, Arthur finally had time to focus on his own training. His theory on magicraft was correct: with focus, he could cast normal spells reliably. Not spectacular, but stable. Body Reinforcement remained untested, he wasn't about to risk turning into a fine red mist, but progress was progress. Day by day, he was improving.
And with free time at last, Arthur turned his attention outward. The endless forest surrounding them had been gnawing at him for weeks. He dispatched golems, accompanied by familiars designed to relay their vision back to the magi, ordered to march in a straight line until they found an edge. Days passed. Reports trickled in.
The result?
Still forest, nothing but trees.
Arthur wasn't sure if the forest was really endless, or if it was just another "joke" mocking him, personally? He thinks it's probably the second one.
But today broke the routine. As he entered his office and sat at his desk, there came the usual knock, followed by a loud thud. At this point, it was basically Cecilia's signature entrance. Arthur honestly didn't understand how her skull hadn't caved in from all the abuse. Maybe she'd fallen on her head as a baby and that explained her clumsiness? Yeah, probably.
"Cecilia… Are you okay? You really need to be more careful, or you're going to end up with brain damage. I'll ask Hohenheim if he can rig something to protect your head the next time you fall. Anyway, is there a report I need to see? If so, put it on that pile." Arthur's tone hovered somewhere between exasperation and genuine concern.
"...Oww. Ah, sorry! No report this time. Master Hohenheim and his new friend found something important. They want to ask what you want to do about it, so they told me to tell you. They seemed really busy." Cecilia rubbed her head, wincing.
Arthur sighed. To everyone else, Avicebron had become simply "Hohenheim's friend" or "that golem guy." He'd tried introducing him once, but Avicebron had cut him off mid-sentence with, "Don't tell them my name. If they don't know it, they won't bother me or ask for anything."
So yes, edgy much, Avicebron, but if the man wanted anonymity, Arthur wasn't about to fight him on it. If anything important came up, sending Cecilia was the easiest option. She wasn't shy about barging in and asking questions, even if she couldn't remember the man's name to save her life.
...............…
Arthur had grown accustomed to the noise of hammers, bubbling glassware, and the occasional small explosion from Hohenheim's workshop. But today the racket was different, more frantic. When he opened the door, he found Hohenheim and Avicebron cramming delicate alchemical instruments into bags like two mad scientists caught red-handed. If someone walked in right now, they would either assume a breakthrough in magical theory, or that the pair had been cooking drugs and just heard the city guard pounding on the door.
Arthur shut the door behind him after he entered with the faintest hope of retreating back to his office with no new problems. Unfortunately, Hohenheim looked up immediately, face grave.
"Master, you are finally here. We've found something. At the edge of the forest, there's… a bounded field. When we tried sending a golem and a familiar past it, both were destroyed the moment they touched the boundary."
Arthur's expression hardened. "Destroyed? If it threatens the people, I'll put every resource at your disposal to break it."
Hohenheim raised both hands quickly. "No, no, perhaps I worded it poorly. The constructs weren't shattered. Rather, their prana was drained instantly, stripped away until they reverted to base matter. Stones, clay, ash. The material wasn't harmed, only the magical structure undone. It only activates on contact, not at range. That said…" He glanced at Avicebron, whose shoulders shifted like a guilty child. "…we'd like your permission to investigate properly, Just a controlled peek, nothing reckless."
Arthur sighed. "Which, coming from you, means it will be exactly reckless." He pinched his nose. "Fine, We'll wait two days until the new Valhalla is complete, then I'll summon a combat-oriented Servant. Until then, one of you goes in while the other monitors. No improvising."
Both magi looked disappointed, like children told they couldn't blow up the kitchen, yet.
Arthur turned away, muttering to himself. 'Wonderful. Another problem. Which means another Servant. Which means another ridiculous 'Servant Quest.' He had someone in mind already. But with both relics spent, he could only rely on these cursed quests the system gave him. The list of quests for the combat Servants available from the Roman or Neutral camps was laughable, half impossible, the rest suicidal. Except one. One quest that was absurd, back-breaking, but… technically doable.
And so, two days later, Arthur stood on the roof of the empty lord's mansion, his stomach sinking as Hohenheim and Avicebron layered every enchantment, ward, and reinforcement they knew onto his body. He'd cleared the area. No one else was allowed near this idiotic task.
................
Servant Quest: [The Trial of the Distant Horizon]
Goal One: Fire an arrow to the distance of 50km (scaled down for current level).
Goal Two: Place a symbol of fertile soil in the magic circle (Goal One must be cleared first).
................
Arthur grimaced. 'When I said this was "doable," I didn't mean for me. Just… compared to the others.'
Arcus Gaiae thrummed in his grip as he drew. The arrow Hohenheim had crafted hummed with stored prana, designed not to unravel mid-flight. Yet even with the bow's weight straining his arms, Arthur felt the power wasn't enough. He ordered them to push the support spells harder.
Hohenheim hesitated until Arthur, through clenched teeth, assured him he wouldn't die. That was… not a promise Arthur fully believed himself. The surge of overcharged spells seared through his body like fire. Still not enough. Desperation made him commit to something he almost never used, full body reinforcement.
The pain was instant. Skin splitting in red lines, muscles tearing, bones groaning. His body screamed with each fraction of the bow he pulled back. He forced himself calm, eyes locked on the targetless horizon. And then…release.
The arrow screamed across the sky. Arthur staggered, blood seeping through his armor. Behind him Hohenheim shouted something, but Arthur ignored it. His gaze followed the flight.
1 km.
5 km.
10 km.
20.
30.
40…
The shaft wavered. Its speed faltered. It began to dip.
Arthur exhaled raggedly. 'So that's it. Not enough after all. Who was I kidding? A stunt like this in the first few months?'
Pain blurred into thought. 'Was I just proud? Or terrified? Every blessing, every cryptic message, every reminder that something outside already knows we're here… maybe it's just fear. Fear of the unknown gnawing until I break. Maybe that's why I keep grabbing power, even when I hate it. Maybe I'm not numb, just paranoid. Dragged out of a modern life and dropped here, already nearly dying twice in a month. What did I expect, that this would be fun?'
The arrow began to fall. Arthur let his shoulders sag, ready to accept the failure. So… a week or two in bed. Hopefully nothing broken beyond repair.
And then, behind him, clear and ringing, came laughter.
He saw a sky filled with stars, a part smothered beneath a veil of shifting shadow. From the shadow rang laughter, his laughter, echoed back louder, sharper, like a carnival bell tolling for a fool's parade.
Was it mocking him? Mocking his failure?
The thought should have stoked anger, yet instead his chest felt light. He laughed again. Louder. Until his throat burned raw and bloodied. Until he no longer knew if it was his own voice… or the shadow's.
Then it spoke, sing-song and serrated, a grin hidden in every word.
"Ahhh… wonderful! A man who rips himself apart just to draw a bowstring he cannot possibly master! The world will call you bold, perhaps even noble. But let's be honest…"The voice giggled, delighted."…you looked like a drunk trying to wrestle the sky. and the sky won!"
Laughter burst again, bright and merciless, echoing like a thousand clowns clapping in time.
"And yet…and yet! You laughed! Splendid fool, bleeding through your armor, cackling as though you've just heard the dirtiest joke in creation! Do you know how rare that is? Most men cry. Some rage. A few kneel. But you? You laugh in failure's face until your throat splits. That's not tragedy. That's art! That's Elation!"
Arthur's throat convulsed as the laughter rose in him again, raw and ragged, until he wasn't sure if he was mocking the shadow, or the shadow was mocking him.
The voice coiled tighter, sharp and sweet as sugar glass.
"Others will call it failure. I call it a punchline! A jest worth carving into the stars themselves! You bleed, you break, and still, you try. Oh, how delightful. You remind me of me. A fool, yes, but one who twists his own agony into comedy."
The laughter crescendoed, fond and cruel all at once.
"They'll call you reckless. They'll call you mad. They'll say you're doomed. And they'll be right! But me? I'll call you mine. Because the cosmos is nothing but a bad joke that never ends, and you, Arthur, are the only mortal dumb enough to laugh at every single one."
It laughed again, rolling thunder made of bells and mockery, and Arthur felt himself carried with it, his pain blurring into its joy.
"So tell me…what now, king-that-isn't? Will you keep bleeding, keep stumbling, keep laughing with me? Or was that pitiful arrow your grand finale?"
"I…."