For two full days, Princess Angelina and her maid Ya'er had lived within the Ross Kingdom. And in those two days, everything they had seen and heard had shattered the worldview they once held as elves of noble blood.
At first, they thought Gavin Ward had humiliated them by assigning them farmland. But the more they observed the lives of the common people, the more they realized a startling truth: this small mortal kingdom had achieved things their own proud tribes and even empires had never imagined.
The Fields of Iron
In the farmland beyond Rose City, Angelina and Ya'er first encountered what the locals called seeders. These were strange machines—iron beasts that rumbled across the earth, planting seeds with mechanical precision.
Angelina watched in disbelief as a single farmer, perched upon one of these machines, sowed hundreds of acres in a single day.
She and Ya'er had tried to compete with magic. They summoned roots and vines, urging the soil to open, seeds to plant themselves, and saplings to rise. But the strain quickly drained them. By the end of the day, exhausted and pale, they had only managed thirty acres together. The machine, meanwhile, had covered more than three times that with effortless ease.
Ya'er's confidence as an elf magician crumbled. "What's the use of our magic," she whispered one evening, "if even ordinary humans can outdo us with machines?"
Her words haunted Angelina as well. For centuries, elves had considered themselves stewards of the natural world, superior to mortals in agriculture and craft. Yet here, common farmers armed with machines surpassed their ancient arts.
The question burned in Angelina's mind: Who exactly is Gavin Ward? How has he built a kingdom like this?
A City of Light
Their greatest shock came not from the fields but from the city at night.
On their first evening walk, they found themselves frozen in place. The streets blazed with light. Every streetlamp glowed with electric brilliance, casting a brightness like daytime across Rose City.
Angelina looked up, her golden eyes wide. "Is… is it still night?"
People bustled about with ease—merchants shouting, children laughing, inns alive with music—all under the glow of artificial suns strung above every street.
In all their travels, they had only seen such brilliance in the Central Magic Empire, where vast magical formations illuminated noble districts. But here? Here in a kingdom without a single magician, without a single enchanted artifact—mortals had achieved what even mages required spells to create.
Angelina's thoughts swirled with questions, her curiosity about Gavin Ward only deepening.
The Cloth Market
"Your Highness, look!" Ya'er's cry broke her daze. She tugged at Angelina's arm, pointing to a cloth stall.
On display was a bolt of green silk, shimmering like woven emerald. Ya'er held it up to the light, her voice trembling. "This kind of craftsmanship… even in the Central Region, only magicians and nobles could afford such cloth!"
The peddler chuckled, shaking his head. "My lady, you jest. This is nothing special. It's ordinary cloth. No one here would pay extra for it."
Ya'er's jaw dropped. "Ordinary?! This would be a luxury among elves!"
The man pointed across the street. "Look, even restaurants use it for tablecloths."
They turned to see waiters clearing tables. Oil and sauce were spilled without care onto the same green silk. When the diners finished, the cloths were bundled up, tossed to scrubbers, and washed like rags.
Angelina and Ya'er stood petrified. What they considered royal quality was, in Ross, mere table linen.
As they walked further, they noticed the truth everywhere. The garments of common folk, though plain, were cut from fabrics finer than anything peasants elsewhere could dream of. In kingdoms they had traveled, nobles fought for scraps of quality. Here, quality was so abundant it bordered on worthless.
This was the power of industry. When production soared, even luxuries lost their meaning.
Silk of the Royal Standard
The cloth merchant leaned in, lowering his voice as though sharing a secret. From beneath his stall, he pulled a roll of shimmering satin. "If you seek true quality, try this. The latest product of our weaving technology. Only one silver coin per foot."
Angelina touched it. Her hand froze.
She knew this material. She had seen it draped across the robes of royals in the Tongsley Empire, the great alliance where kings and queens wore such fabrics as symbols of untouchable privilege. There, one foot of this silk cost one hundred gold coins.
Yet here in Ross, the merchant sold it for one silver coin—a price so absurd it made her dizzy.
Angelina stared, lips parted. "This… this is the same as the silks of royal palaces…"
"Better," the merchant said cheerfully. "The latest refinement. Softer, stronger, and easier to wash."
Angelina's entire worldview cracked. How can common folk here live better than the royal families of empires?
Her pride as an elf princess faltered. She had always believed elves stood above mortals. But now she wondered: are we the backward ones?
A Storm Approaches
Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden tremor in the air. A voice thundered from the sky, so loud it seemed to shake the earth itself.
"Gavin Ward! Who is Gavin Ward!!"
Angelina's body went cold. A vast wave of magic surged across the heavens, pressing down on Rose City like the weight of the sea. She instinctively extended her own magic to probe the disturbance, but the moment her power touched it, it was swallowed.
Her knees trembled. "This power…"
It was like a small boat in a hurricane, dashed to splinters by a single wave.
Her voice cracked: "A top sky mage!"
She remembered the sky mage slain during Ross's battle with Nott, but this was something entirely different. That man had been dangerous—yet this presence was overwhelming. The difference between them was like cloud and mud, heaven and earth.
The pressure intensified, rattling windows and forcing citizens to cover their ears.
"Gavin Ward! You killed my thirteen apprentices! Come out—I want your life!"
An old man appeared, soaring above the city. His long beard and hair whipped wildly in the wind, his robes billowed like storm clouds, and his eyes burned blood-red with fury. His aura alone seemed capable of crushing armies.
The legendary archmage Leander had arrived.
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