A heavy snow had fallen the night before, and the gray skies finally released their burden, leaving behind a rare clear day. The air was crisp and clean, devoid of the usual acrid stench. The black smoke of the steam boiler factories was now buried beneath a pristine blanket of snow. What had been a gloomy, soot-darkened town yesterday now gleamed with fresh whiteness. Standing in the middle of the street, the deep blue sky resembled a bottomless lake, and the distant snow-capped peaks of the Lirak Mountains rose sharply against the horizon. Occasionally, massive gray-blue airships would slice through the cold currents of the sky, gliding slowly across the mountain slopes, their high-pitched whistles echoing through the crisp air.
"Those wretched merchants! Don't they fear triggering an avalanche in the Lirak Mountains?" came an exasperated voice nearby.
The snow-shovelers lining the wide roads chuckled at the remark, finishing their work and beginning to pack up for the day.
Casia shook his head, smiling faintly. With a few shovelfuls, he cleared the small patch of snow in front of his house, patted it down, and, stepping carefully in his snow-soaked rubber boots, returned the shovel to the side of the door.
He slipped off his boots, gently opened the weathered wooden door, and stepped inside, closing it behind him.
Thick, dark curtains blocked every ray of natural light. The room was dim, illuminated only by the modest glow of a fire burning in the center of the hearth, casting a soft amber sheen over the narrow space.
Heating pipes lined the room, accompanied by the steady, soothing chime of a large brass clock, playing a never-ending lullaby.
Casia's mother slept soundly beside the fire, her breathing even and measured. With the Empire's Reordering approaching, factories throughout the town had been working overtime. Casia's mother, employed at a textile mill, had been returning home late into the night. The noble overseers cared little for the lives of lowly commoners, treating them as little more than cogs in the Empire's vast machinery—working tirelessly until worn out, merely to generate wealth for their masters.
No one expected mercy from the Empire's upper echelons. Their only hope was to receive the wages they were owed, without interference or deductions.
Beside the hearth, under a thick quilt, Casia's younger sister, Lilia, curled up in her small frame. Her wide, dark eyes, sharp yet innocent, peeked from the blanket, framed by disheveled hair and delicate eyebrows. Cold made her clutch the quilt tightly, leaving only her face exposed.
Casia made a shushing gesture, signaling her sister to go back to sleep. Lilia blinked, then sank back into slumber.
Silently, Casia slipped into his small room, pulling thick navy curtains closed before lighting the gas lamp on his desk. Stacked neatly on one side were thick books, mostly about steam machinery and theological history, worn from countless readings.
On the other side rested a gilded letter of acceptance:
"Casia Tussos, congratulations on your admission to the Imperial Heavy Industry School, affiliated with our Academy. Please report on the 12th day of the 2nd month, Saint Calendar 1096."
Signed: Saint Dorag Military School
The Military School—the pinnacle of the Empire's martial power, the source of its finest soldiers, a counterpart to the Saint Dorag Academy in prestige. If the Academy represented the Empire's technological, political, and commercial elite, the Military School embodied the ultimate martial prowess, producing soldiers, commanders, and assassins of unmatched caliber.
The Imperial Heavy Industry School, under the Military School, specialized in mechanical engineering and weapons manufacture: firearms, melee weapons, heavy and light armor, airships, cruisers, electrical devices—whether openly known or classified, most bore the Imperial Heavy Industry emblem.
This was the strength of Imperial Heavy Industry and why it was dubbed the Empire's next-generation factory. With over eight centuries of history, its legacy and influence were unquestionable.
When Casia received the acceptance letter from the postman, he understood it was more than a personal opportunity. It was a chance to give his mother and sister a better life.
His father had died on the battlefield five years prior. Though he was a second-level warrant officer, his family received little from the promised compensation after bureaucratic delays and deductions. Their home, originally assigned to his father, had been seized upon his death. In the Empire, only the living could generate value and claim rewards; the dead were reduced to mere entries in the military archives. Casia remembered vividly the neighbors watching silently as officials evicted them, their gazes a mixture of sympathy and fear, knowing that similar fate could befall them at any time.
With his mother carrying heavy bags and Lilia clinging tearfully to her, Casia had moved to a remote frontier town beneath the Lirak Mountains, where winters were harsh and summers brief.
There, he balanced school with work in the town's steam machinery factory. From manual labor to small technical tasks, five years passed swiftly.
Now, after a simple breakfast of bread and cold water, he changed into a coarse work uniform and quietly left home. Lilia remained asleep.
The factory's chimneys belched black smoke continuously. Two shifts ensured the machines never rested, the building itself groaning like a living entity.
The factory was no clean, tidy space. The roar of interlocking gears, the heat and steam, the oily, rust-stained floors, massive machinery adorned with corroded gears, hissing valves, blinking indicator lights, and a constant cacophony of swearing filled the air. This was the heart of the Empire's industrial might, the engine that allowed its citizens to survive harsh environments and fueled the Empire's rapid expansion across dozens of neighboring states in mere decades.
Casia's factory was one of millions across the continent.
The small building, painted blue and reinforced with iron sheets, steamed and hissed at its entrance. Inside, workers bustled as Casia donned his yellow safety helmet. Foreman Vixy, bald and imposing, stood by a forging machine, clipboard in hand.
"Casia! Soon you'll be off to Manoma! Don't forget to give this old factory one last push!" Vixy tossed a numbered tag to him.
Casia caught it with a smile, revealing a row of white teeth, while the forge nearby slammed down, rattling the entire building. Steam jets hissed as the machine lifted massive iron blocks, which workers then moved to the next stage for precision finishing and stress relief before shipping to the front lines.
Navigating between machines with practiced ease, Casia reached the quieter lower section of the factory. At his station, he donned white gloves and opened a locked drawer containing delicate tools and a code card embedded with hundreds of tiny gears. Beneath a soft cloth lay a nearly completed perpetual calendar wristwatch, missing just thirteen components.
Casia had first encountered watchmaking under his father's guidance. His father, a second-level warrant officer, owned a basic military perpetual watch, tracking dates, currents, and celestial patterns—vital information for airship navigation.
The thirteen gears took nearly a full day to assemble. As dusk fell over the town, Casia completed the watch. Sweat glistening on his brow, he connected the red-brass interface of the code card to the steam output, its gears whirling to life with boundless energy. He inserted it into the Z-type differential machine—the Empire's latest model, capable of precise calculations suitable for small factories.
The machine began executing the program: adjusting time, date, month, year, and celestial positions. Manual adjustments were prone to error, amplified by nature itself, making precise automated regulation essential.
The watch adjusted slowly through the night. With no backlog of work, Casia planned to return home to see Lilia.
Days passed in quiet routine.
One afternoon, the factory's hum shifted. Tools vibrated, metal grated, and then silence fell, broken only by high-pressure steam valves. A strange, patterned tremor spread through the earth, reaching every corner of the town.
Then, a piercing, crystal-clear whistle shattered the stillness, slicing through buildings like a black lightning strike.
Workers cheered, residents rejoiced—the Empire's annual Reordering train had finally arrived. It was the serene afternoon of 2nd January, Saint Calendar 1096.