Misaki stood before the wall section he'd marked as "critical failure risk" and did math that made his stomach sink. The structural analysis was damning: to properly rebuild this fortification to Syvra's specifications—fifteen meters high, six meters thick at the base, using properly fitted stone with modern mortar techniques—would require completely demolishing the existing structure first.
Demolition timeline: six months minimum, probably closer to a year given the wall's four-hundred-fifty-year-old construction methods that had essentially fused the stones into a single massive entity.
Reconstruction timeline: eight to twelve years for the complete circuit, assuming consistent labor force, no weather delays, and unlimited material supply.
Total: a decade minimum before Stone's End had the defensive walls it needed to deter Vel'koda'mir aggression.
"We don't have ten years," Misaki said quietly, rolling up his survey documents.
Syvra's two-hundred-year-old face showed the grim acceptance of someone who'd already done these calculations herself. "No. We don't. Vel'koda'mir has been establishing border garrisons at a rate of one every six months. At their current expansion pace, they'll have military installations completely surrounding this region within five years." She gestured at the deteriorating wall with obvious frustration. "But we can't defend a city without walls. So we're trapped between inadequate fortifications and reconstruction timelines that guarantee we'll be vulnerable for a decade."
"What if we don't demolish the old wall?" Misaki asked.
"It's structurally compromised. Those cracks will widen, the mortar will continue eroding, sections will collapse—"
"So we work with that assumption. The old wall is temporary. But temporary doesn't mean useless." Misaki pulled out his journal and began sketching rapidly, his engineer's mind assembling a solution from principles he'd seen in Japanese castle architecture during his aerospace training's cultural immersion programs. "We build a second wall. Outside the first one. Bigger, stronger, designed from scratch to meet modern defensive requirements."
Syvra leaned over the sketch, her experienced eyes tracking his rapidly forming design. "That's... actually that's concentric fortification. Some of the ancient capitals use that system—inner and outer wall layers. But it's monumentally expensive. Double the materials, double the labor—"
"But a fraction of the time," Misaki interrupted, his pencil moving faster as the concept solidified. "Look. The old wall stays standing while we build the new one. It continues providing basic defense during construction—not perfect, but better than nothing. Meanwhile, we use the old wall as a reference line for the new wall's positioning. And here's the critical part—" he sketched a framework structure, "—we build wooden reinforcement frames around the existing wall's most compromised sections. Japanese castle architecture calls this 'shoring.' It prevents catastrophic collapse while we work, buying us years of additional service life from infrastructure that would otherwise fail."
The defensive coordinator studied the sketch with growing interest. "The reinforcement frames would be temporary?"
"Exactly. Once the new wall is complete and functional, we can decide whether to demolish the old wall or simply leave it as an inner defensive layer. Either way, we're not dependent on it for primary defense anymore."
Syvra traced the sketch's outer wall line with one weathered finger. "You're proposing the new wall follows the terrain rather than perfectly mirroring the old wall's circuit?"
"Yes. See here—" Misaki pointed to several sections where his proposed wall deviated from the existing structure. "The new wall can be strategically positioned. Smaller and lighter in areas where terrain provides natural defense—like this northern section where the cliff face makes scaling impossible anyway. But much thicker here, and here, and here—" he marked three sections, "—where the ground is level enough for siege equipment positioning. We put the heavy fortification exactly where attackers would concentrate their efforts."
"That's... that's actually brilliant," Syvra said slowly. "Conventional fortification doctrine says walls should be uniform thickness throughout. But you're right—if we know where the vulnerable approach angles are, we can concentrate resources there instead of building everything to maximum specifications."
Misaki flipped to a new page and began sketching a cross-section view. "And we add one more element. Something from my world that doesn't exist here yet—a moat."
"A what?"
"A moat. It's a—" Misaki paused, realizing he'd need to explain from first principles. "It's a water-filled trench that encircles the fortification. Typically six to eight meters wide, three to four meters deep, positioned between the outer wall and potential attackers."
Syvra stared at him blankly. "A trench full of water. Around the city. Why?"
"Because it creates a physical barrier that's extremely difficult to cross quickly. Attackers can't simply run up to the wall—they have to either wade through water that slows their movement to a crawl, or they have to build bridges, which takes time and exposes them to defensive fire from the walls. Siege equipment can't cross water easily, so they'd need to construct causeways first, which again provides advance warning and slows their assault." Misaki was sketching rapidly, showing the moat's positioning relative to the wall. "And if we're really clever, we can connect the moat to Stone's End's water supply system. That way it stays filled year-round and provides a secondary water source during siege conditions."
The defensive coordinator's expression shifted from confusion to fascination to cautious excitement. "We have plenty of water. The mountain springs provide more than the city needs—we actually divert excess flow away from the settlement to prevent flooding during snow melt season." She studied his sketch with the intensity of someone seeing a tactical problem solved in a way she'd never imagined possible. "A water barrier. Combined with concentric walls. Concentrated thickness at vulnerable approach angles. This isn't incremental improvement—this is fundamental redesign of defensive architecture."
"Will it work here?" Misaki asked. "I'm designing based on principles from my world, but Vulcan's military tactics might be different—"
"No, this is... this is extraordinary." Syvra was already pulling out her own planning documents, cross-referencing Misaki's sketches with the city's topographical surveys. "The moat concept alone would revolutionize border defense throughout Seleun'mhir. And the concentric wall approach solves our timeline problem completely. We could have the new outer wall functional in three to four years instead of a decade."
"Three years minimum," Misaki corrected. "That's if we have consistent labor, adequate material supply, and I can train local crews in Earth's stonework techniques. But yes—manageable timeline instead of impossible one."
Three months later
The foundation trenches for the new wall carved through mountain soil like surgical incisions, each excavation precisely positioned according to Misaki's revised architectural plans. Work crews moved with practiced efficiency—many of them former M'lod villagers who'd transitioned from refugee labor to skilled construction workers under Misaki's training programs.
The old wall stood wrapped in wooden reinforcement frames that looked almost organic—massive timber supports braced against the deteriorating stone like external skeletons, taking structural load off the compromised sections and preventing catastrophic collapse. The shoring had added years to the original fortification's functional lifespan, buying exactly the time they needed.
And beyond the old wall, the new foundation emerged from the earth.
Misaki stood in one of the completed foundation trenches—three meters deep, four meters wide, filled with the first layers of fitted granite blocks that would support six centuries of defensive infrastructure. Sera perched on the trench's edge above him, her seven-year-old legs dangling over the side, a canvas tool bag slung across her small shoulders.
"Hand me the level," Misaki called up.
Sera rummaged through the bag with the focused concentration of a child taking her responsibilities seriously. She'd appointed herself Misaki's official tool assistant two months ago, and she approached the role with an intensity that was simultaneously adorable and slightly concerning. "The wooden one or the string one?"
"String level. I need to check horizontal alignment."
She located the tool—a weighted string with calibration marks—and carefully lowered it down to him. "Lyria says Kyn tried solid food today. He made a mess everywhere."
Misaki took the level and smiled despite his focus on stonework alignment. "Did he like it?"
"He spit it out three times, then ate it, then cried. Lyria says that means he's developing normally." Sera kicked her feet absently. "The kitchen ladies keep trying to give him sweets. Lyria has to tell them no because he's too young. But they think he's so cute they keep forgetting."
Kyn had indeed grown over the past three months—from a fragile infant who'd barely survived the exodus north into a healthy baby who smiled at everyone and had apparently charmed every woman in Stone's End's communal kitchens. Lyria spent half her time cooking and half her time protecting the eight-month-old from an army of middle-aged women determined to spoil him.
"Plumb line next," Misaki said, checking his measurements. "Should be in the bag's side pocket."
Sera located the weighted cord and passed it down with the careful precision of someone who understood that tools were important and breaking them meant problems. "Are we building walls forever? Because some of the other kids asked if you're ever going to be done."
"Not forever. Maybe three more years for the complete circuit. Four if we hit complications." Misaki hammered a reference marker into the foundation stone, ensuring it was level before moving to the next section. "Then you'll have a brother who builds bridges and walls instead of just walls."
"That's still a lot of building."
"Yeah. But it matters. These walls will protect Stone's End long after we're gone. Centuries from now, people will walk these fortifications and never know our names, but they'll be safe because we built something that lasts."
Sera was quiet for a moment, processing. Then: "I think I want to be an engineer too. When I'm older. Maybe I can help build things that protect people."
Misaki looked up at his adopted little sister—this tiny survivor who'd carried her infant brother through genocide and somehow still had enough faith in the world to think about building rather than destroying—and felt something warm and painful lodge in his chest.
"I think you'd be an excellent engineer," he said quietly.
Four hundred kilometers south, in what remained of Ul'varh'mir
The riots started in Velkyn's lower districts and spread like fire through dry grass.
General Vaiolder watched from the palace's damaged ramparts as three thousand unemployed citizens—mostly former loggers, mostly desperate—smashed through the merchant quarter's storefronts looking for food they couldn't afford and work that didn't exist. His soldiers formed containment lines but didn't engage. What were they supposed to do? Massacre their own citizens for the crime of starving?
The bread riots had started six weeks ago. Small demonstrations that the city guard could disperse with minimal force. But unemployment had hit forty percent in the logging sector, food prices had tripled, and the occupied territories weren't sending grain shipments anymore. Desperation had transformed peaceful protests into violent chaos.
"Another convoy left for Vel'koda'mir yesterday," his intelligence officer reported. "Two hundred families. Mostly skilled craftsmen and their dependents. They're accepting Vel'koda'mir's settlement offers—free land, guaranteed employment, protection from civil unrest."
Vaiolder's hands clenched on the stone balustrade. "That's four thousand people this month. We're hemorrhaging population to a nation that conquered us."
"Sir, they're offering what we can't—stability. Food. Work. People will overlook who conquered whom when their children are hungry."
In the distance, smoke rose from burning buildings. The general had lived six hundred forty-three years, served five kings, witnessed three civil wars. But this felt different. This felt like watching a nation bleed out slowly from wounds that no military solution could address.
In the occupied northern territories
The High Elf logging teams moved through the Tra'vvv groves with surgical precision, their centuries of forest cultivation knowledge guiding every cut. They harvested selectively—one tree per decade from each grove, allowing the ancient forests to regenerate naturally while still providing the rare wood that Xyi'vana'mir's economy would absorb at prices Ul'varh'mir could never have commanded.
"The humans didn't understand what they possessed," Forester Lyse'thara observed, her silver hair catching sunlight as she marked the next tree for harvest. "Six-thousand-year-old groves that should have been cultivated as sacred resources. Instead they clear-cut like vandals, destroying in decades what took millennia to grow."
Her assistant tallied the harvest schedule in his ledger—sustainable extraction rates calculated to maintain forest health for the next ten thousand years. "The occupation administrator wants increased output. Vel'koda'mir is offering premium prices for Tra'inki bow wood."
"Then Vel'koda'mir can plant their own forests and wait six thousand years. We're not repeating human mistakes." Lyse'thara touched the ancient tree reverently. "These forests will still be here when Ul'varh'mir is a footnote in history texts. That's what matters."
In Vel'koda'mir's newly established Research Division
The dungeon entrance stood permanently open—not naturally, but held open by an array of carved runestones that pulsed with channeled mana. Master Researcher Dreth'alan recorded measurements with clinical precision, documenting the breakthrough that would revolutionize his nation's economy.
"Confirmation: sustained mana channeling maintains dimensional stability," he dictated to his assistant. "The dungeons' seasonal opening mechanism responds to planetary mana flow fluctuations. By artificially replicating those fluctuations using coordinated runic arrays, we've achieved year-round access."
The implications were staggering. Dungeons that normally opened for fifteen days annually could now be harvested continuously. Monster materials, magical artifacts, rare beast cores—all available on demand rather than seasonal limitation.
"Estimated economic impact?" his supervisor asked.
"Conservative projection: three hundred percent increase in dungeon-derived revenue within five years. Aggressive projection: complete market dominance in magical materials trade within a decade."
While Ul'varh'mir tore itself apart and Xyi'vana'mir cultivated stolen forests, Vel'koda'mir was unlocking the fundamental mechanics of the world itself.
The balance of continental power was shifting.
And in a small border city in Seleun'mhir, a twenty-one-year-old engineer from another world built walls and taught his seven-year-old sister about foundations that would outlast kingdoms.