Three months had passed since Logos had taken full command of the Laos household. The territory had begun to breathe under his direction, each machine and trade route a pulse in a body that had once been on the brink of collapse. And today, the workshop courtyard itself seemed alive, thrumming with a new kind of energy.
A hundred or so men and women stood in loose formation before Logos. Their hands bore the callouses of labor, their faces showed the weariness of months without employment, of lines drawn deep from worry and hard work. Many had lost jobs when factories closed, when mines folded under financial strain, when the chaos of a failing barony forced families into survival mode.
They were not soldiers. Not knights. Not even apprentices of nobility. They were laborers, machinists, craftsmen of varying skill—people who had once considered the world indifferent to their labor. And yet, they had come because of the name that carried a strange reputation: Logos Laos. Impossible, terrifying, brilliant.
"Are these all?" Logos asked, his black eyes sweeping the assembly, sharp and unblinking. Fifty rifle-men flanked him, forming a silent but imposing line.
"Yes, all of them," Lucy replied, her tone careful but firm.
Logos' gaze returned to the crowd. "Listen," he said, voice calm and steady, though it carried a weight that made people straighten instinctively. "The work you will do from now on is similar to what you have done in the past: hauling, assembling, building. Nothing more. Nothing less."
He paused, letting the words settle, then continued. "Understand this: the work you do is essential—not for my glory, not for my whim, but for the survival and growth of this territory. The mines must yield ore. The machines must function. The trade must flow. If you fail, you do not merely inconvenience a lord—you imperil the lives of every person who depends on this work. From the smallest child in the villages, to the soldiers in the garrison—you are responsible."
A heavy silence followed, broken finally by a tentative voice. "What if we fail?"
Logos' black eyes swept over the speaker, unflinching. "Then make sure you learn, and do not repeat the same mistake again," he said evenly. "Consider this your first warning and your first promise: obedience and diligence will be rewarded. Neglect or rebellion will be met with consequences appropriate to the offense. This is not tyranny. This is order. You may leave now if you are unwilling to abide by it. No man or woman here will be forced against their will. That is your choice."
Whispers rippled through the crowd. Some nodded, others stiffened, but not a single person moved to leave.
"Now," Logos said, lifting a hand to the sky, "here is your first task. Open the boxes in front of you. Group the parts based on similarity. Tools for measurement are already provided."
Murmurs of compliance grew into coordinated action. The laborers began their work cautiously at first, sorting and measuring, testing their understanding of each piece. Hands moved with tentative precision, dust and grime coating every surface, but gradually confidence grew. Patterns emerged. Parts began to line up in neat groups, each pile forming its place in the upcoming construction.
Logos moved silently among them, observing, noting slight inefficiencies and minor errors, correcting them without harshness. His black eyes followed every hand, every piece of metal, every slight misalignment.
After two hours, the work was complete. Every part was carefully grouped, measured, and accounted for. A murmur of accomplishment rose from the crowd, small but genuine.
"Good," Logos said, stepping forward. "Now we will begin assembly." He pulled a large sheet of parchment from his satchel and affixed it to the wall. Drawings and diagrams covered it, annotated with precise instructions.
"First," he said, pointing to a section of the diagram, "pick the pieces that match these shapes. They will form the frame. Assemble according to my instructions. Follow them exactly. No improvisation. Precision matters more than speed."
It was not easy. Though competent, the workers struggled with the technical terminology, and even Logos' precise instructions initially caused confusion. Some parts seemed counterintuitive. Some mechanisms required coordination and timing beyond what anyone had expected.
Yet Logos remained patient. He moved among them, demonstrating, adjusting, and explaining repeatedly until the motions became clear. His voice was quiet, steady, but there was an unmistakable authority in it—a calm, unshakable assurance that this was possible, and that failure would not be tolerated.
By the end of the day, their efforts had yielded a new creation: a machine larger than the mountain-carver, with a massive chisel-like blade facing forward, gleaming faintly under the setting sun.
Logos stepped back to survey it. Dust clung to his robes, streaking the black fabric with gray. His black eyes swept over the assembled crowd and the fruits of their labor. "Good work," he said finally. "This is only the beginning. Today, you built a machine. Tomorrow, you will build the future of this territory."
Lucy approached, handing him a cup of coffee, her hands smudged with soot and oil. "What exactly does this thing do?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
Logos took the cup with one hand, his other resting against the polished frame of the machine. "The blade will be pulled back using mana-mesh technology and then thrown forward," he said, his voice calm, yet precise, technical. "It will punch down limestone pillars located along the White Coast. A single operator can manipulate it safely, but its efficiency will surpass any previous attempt at mass excavation."
Lucy blinked, coffee halfway to her lips. "You mean… it moves stone faster than a hundred men?"
"Yes," Logos replied, eyes distant as if already envisioning the next stage. "And it will not tire. It will not err. It will do what is needed, without hesitation. Today's work is a prototype. The next version will be larger, more precise, and entirely self-sustaining."
Kleber, standing behind Lucy, whistled softly. "You really do think in terms of kingdoms, not machines. It's terrifying… but brilliant."
Masen shook his head slowly. "That boy… he's changing the land itself, one construct at a time. The laborers respect him… but they fear him too."
Bal, arms crossed, leaning on the rail, added dryly, "Fear is good. A little fear keeps obedience… but respect comes from results. And today, he delivered."
Logos' black eyes swept the courtyard once more, taking in the neat rows of sorted parts, the freshly assembled machine, and the tired but determined faces of his workers. His expression softened slightly—though only enough to hint at the pride he felt, buried under calculation and order.
"Rest tonight," he said finally, voice carrying authority. "Tomorrow, we continue. New parts will arrive, and a new machine awaits assembly. Do not underestimate what you are building here. Each screw, each plate, each rune-inscribed component is a piece of the future. Ignore them, and failure becomes inevitable. Respect them, and you ensure progress."
The crowd nodded, some in awe, some in quiet fear, but all with a sense of purpose now stronger than the anxiety that had brought them here three months prior.
Lucy watched him, sipping her coffee slowly. "You make it sound simple… but it isn't."
Logos' black eyes met hers, calm, unyielding. "Nothing worth building ever is."
And as the evening sun sank behind the mountains, the first true machine of the White Coast stood in the courtyard, a testament not just to industry, but to the vision of a boy who would remake an entire territory—and perhaps, the world itself.