Long Road Ahead
The teeth-rattling roar of the engine echoed through the R&D garage, drowning out the ambient clamor of Loriana. The last couple of days had been busy, to say the least. Asep stood beside the open hood of "Project Highway," his face streaked with soot and a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as the engine warmed up.
The vehicle had evolved significantly since its initial conceptualization. The crude iron chassis was now paneled with thin, curved plates salvaged from captured enemy armor, giving it a menacing, patchwork aesthetic. To someone with modern sensibilities like Asep, it was essentially an angkot clad in sheet metal—an undeniable eyesore but given their circumstances, form had to yield to function.
Still, as long as the torque converter holds... Asep thought, gently nudging a reinforced front tire with the toe of his boot. He took a drag and exhaled twin streams of smoke through his nostrils. The alchemical mixture Treste had formulated performed far better than any synthetic transmission fluid he could have reasonably hoped for.
"Hypothetically, this thing can run on standard Lumite for six hours at a steady twenty-five kilometers per hour," Asep muttered to himself, leaning in to inspect a crude pressure gauge fashioned from glass, brass, and mercury. "Treste really outdid herself this time."
He dropped a reinforced tower shield welded onto heavy iron hinges that act like the hood with a dull clang, patting the hot metal. "Don't die on me, buddy."
Meanwhile, the atmosphere inside Zachary's office was far less mechanical and infinitely more political. The large oak desk, usually buried under tactical maps and casualty reports, had been cleared to accommodate three very distinct figures.
Zachary sat at the head, his fingers steepled, his gaze cold and measured. To his right sat Rubia, regal and intimidating as ever, though today she seemed marginally more approachable—likely due to Stark standing silently behind her chair like a watchful sentinel.
Opposite them sat a man who commanded the room simply by existing: Hikam ibn Idris, Merchant Lord of Qurtuba. A National Merchant from Maghreb, operating directly under the Qurtuban Emir. Hikam had arrived in Loriana after Rashid caught wind of the war's brewing logistical bottleneck and alerted him to the lucrative vacuum waiting to be filled.
If Rubia radiated the dangerous, predatory allure of a Sycillian underworld princess, Hikam exuded the vast, unfathomable wealth of the southern dunes. He was a tall, imposing man with short, curly iron-grey hair and a neatly manicured beard. Draped in an immaculate white thobe trimmed with gold thread, he wore a ceremonial golden pauldron across his right shoulder that looked far more like an imperial crest than practical armor.
"...In short," Hikam said, his resonant baritone effortlessly commanding the quiet room as he leaned back into his seat. His amber eyes held the unmistakable sharpness of a man who traded in sovereign debts. "You are proposing a direct trade corridor through Gallia to supply your frontlines, relying on Lady Turturici's 'discreet' border infrastructure."
"That is the gist of it, yes," Zachary replied evenly. "With Albion blockading our coast, our options are limited. Our operational survival hinges on this route."
Hikam chuckled softly, stroking his beard. "Survival is always the most profitable motivator in commerce. I can readily supply the necessary provisions from Qurtuba: grain, preserved meats, medical draughts, and a steady supply of high-grade crucible steel. However, moving substantial bulk through the Papacy's territory—even with Lady Rubia greasing the wheels is still an administrative nightmare."
"I assure you, Lord Hikam," Rubia interjected smoothly, her silver eyes narrowing, "my family's network within Gallia is thoroughly established. The Inquisition is remarkably predictable once the appropriate tithes reach the right bishoprics."
"Perhaps at the border margins," Hikam conceded with an inclination of his head, though the amusement never left his eyes. "Yet I have a counter-proposal, Commander."
Zachary raised a brow. "I am listening."
Hikam leaned forward, clasping his hands atop the polished oak. "I will manage the transit from Qurtuba through Gallia under my own banners. My trading company hold imperial charters granting us unrestricted passage across the Papacy's primary roads. We bypass the fractured provincial outposts entirely. It will be vastly more secure, and free from the scrutiny of overzealous frontier templars."
Rubia's ears twitched slightly above her silver hair. She recognized a territorial squeeze when she saw one. "You intend to monopolize our supply line?"
"I intend to guarantee that the provisions actually reach their destination without being seized at an unmapped toll station," Hikam countered smoothly. "My caravans will head straight for the capital, Arden City. Crown Prince Finlay may then oversee the distribution to Castalia's depots as he sees fit."
Zachary considered the terms. The Qurtuban Merchant Lord was offering a legally sanctioned, high-capacity pipeline. The sheer volume Hikam could move dwarfed anything the Turturici syndicate could organize on short notice.
"And your margin?" Zachary asked. "A man of your stature does not move grain out of charity."
"Consider it an investment," Hikam smiled, revealing a row of pristine teeth. "Prince Finlay finalized an exclusive export treaty for Ardenia's raw Lumite yields following the engagement at Silvercreek. My compensation is already assured."
Clever bastard, Zachary thought.
"And where does that leave my operation?" Rubia asked, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave, cool and dangerous.
Hikam turned to her, his polite expression unwavering. "Your network possesses an asset my caravans lack: speed and discretion, Lady Rubia. Your associates will handle immediate, high-priority relief shipments directly to Castalia's border pick-ups. My heavy transports will secure long-term sustainability within the fortnight. A two-pronged strategy serves Commander Valente best."
Zachary nodded. "The logic is sound. Lady Rubia's routes keep the vanguard fed tomorrow; your convoys ensure we do not starve next month. We accept."
"Splendid." Hikam rose, smoothing the immaculate folds of his thobe. "I shall dispatch instructions to my factor in Qurtuba at once. Time is coin, as the ledger says."
With a courteous bow toward Rubia and a firm nod to Zachary, the Merchant Lord strode out, his retainers falling into step behind him the moment the heavy doors parted.
Rubia watched him depart, her expression impassive. She turned back toward Zachary, crossing her arms over her chest. "Arrogant. But his leverage is undeniable." She cast a glance over her shoulder at Stark. "Are your couriers positioned to receive our first cache?"
"They are ready," Zachary said.
Right on cue, the office door swung open, and Asep wandered in, wiping black grease from his knuckles with a ragged cloth.
"Boss," Asep said, offering Rubia and Stark a brief nod of acknowledgment. "The angkot is purring like a kitten. We good to roll?"
"Asep. Perfect timing." Zachary stood up from his desk. "Lady Rubia's vanguard shipment will reach an isolated border crossing near Windyvale by noon tomorrow. I need you to take the prototype out and bring it back."
"Windyvale..." Asep muttered under his breath. It was the forested frontier where they had first stumbled upon Treste—ragged, terrified, and hunted. "The terrain out there is rough."
"Which makes it an ideal proving ground," Zachary replied smoothly, keeping his tone carefully neutral. "Take the old trade bypass. Prove to me this new contraption of yours is viable for logistical runs."
Rubia tilted her head, her sharp eyes flicking between Zachary and the soot-stained mechanic. "What contraption? What is an 'Angkot'?"
Zachary didn't miss a beat, his expression settling into a mask of stoic concern. "A highly experimental transit cart. It operates on an unstable alchemical-arcane core. Under optimal conditions, it cuts travel time down to a fraction of a horse-drawn wagon. However, should it strike an obstacle at the incorrect angle or overheat... it tends to detonate with the concussive yield of a mid-sized siege shell."
Rubia's brows vaulted upward. Her mercantile ambition collided violently with her survival instincts. "You built a self-propelled bomb? And you intend to transport my family's illicit cargo inside it?"
"Desperate campaigns demand calculated risks," Zachary said dryly. "Which is precisely why Asep is driving. He is the only one capable of manually stabilizing the core's fluctuations."
Asep caught Zachary's warning glare and picked up the cue without flinching. "Right. Yeah. Total death trap, honestly. Smells like brimstone and poor life choices. You really wouldn't want to ride shotgun, Lady Rubia."
Rubia eyed the two of them with deep suspicion, her silver gaze lingering on Asep's casual posture before flicking back to the commander. "I fail to understand why you would gamble high-grade military provisions on such an abomination instead of standard pack beasts."
"Speed," Asep said shrug-shouldered. "It moves five times faster than a heavy draft beast. If an imperial border patrol catches our dust, we don't need to fight them. We just disappear down the road."
"Assuming you do not combust," she observed, her arms tightening.
"That's half the thrill."
Stark, recognizing the bold-faced fiction his commander and comrade were spinning to guard proprietary technology, maintained absolute discipline by finding a sudden, intense fascination with an imperfection in the floorboards.
"If my family's cargo is incinerated due to your crude field experiments," Rubia warned Zachary, her voice dropping into a lethal, low register, "my father will recalculate our exchange rates accordingly. We expect crates, Commander. Not a smoking crater."
"You will have your cargo, Lady Turturici," Zachary answered evenly. "Now, I suggest you return to the inn. Stark requires a brief furlough before his squad mobilizes."
Rubia scoffed softly, turning on her heel with feline grace. "Come along, Stark. We have matters to discuss—starting with your complete and utter disregard for basic marital correspondence."
Stark snapped a stiff, silent salute toward Zachary, his eyes carrying the unmistakable glaze of a man marching to the gallows, before falling in line behind his wife.
The moment the thick oak door clicked shut, Asep tossed the grease rag onto an empty stool and let out a long whistle. "Man. 'Explodes like a siege mortar'? Really, Boss?"
"She's a Turturici," Zachary said, collapsing back into his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "If that family discovers we've harnessed self-propelled mechanical transport, they will try to patent the metallurgy, corner the fuel refining, and bleed us dry on licensing fees before the engine block even cools. Keep the hood latched and the hoodwink intact."
"Understood," Asep chuckled. "Just me, Treste, and our secret jalopy."
"Move fast, keep your head down, and bring those supplies back in one piece," Zachary ordered, though a faint smirk betrayed his stoic exterior. "Dismissed."
Out on the cobblestone avenues of Loriana, Stark walked half a step behind Rubia, his stiff mercenary posture slowly giving way to a weary blend of affection and mild terror.
"So," Stark began, clearing his throat as they navigated the crowded thoroughfare toward the upper-district inn. "How are things in Genoa?"
Rubia kept her eyes forward, her ears twitching at the raucous calls of neighboring fruit vendors. "Genoa is enduring," she said, the razor edge in her voice softening. "Father has been occupied. Since we eliminated the Salvi syndicate during the Glitterdust incident, the lower wards have been a patchwork of petty territorial disputes."
Stark's jaw clenched slightly at the memory. Glitterdust—that vile, refined narcotic distilled from fairy wings. It had nearly sparked a full-scale civil war throughout Sycillia's underworld. What had started as a simple escort assignment for Castalia turned into a bloody vendetta when Stark couldn't sit idly by while Rubia was targeted by the cartels. The rescue had earned him Don Vittorio's profound respect—and a permanent, open-ended threat of execution if he ever broke her heart.
"Has Don Vittorio mentioned me recently?" Stark asked cautiously. "Or is he still looking for a shallow ditch to drop me in?"
Rubia let out a soft, amused snort. "Father adores you, Stark. He merely expresses his paternal warmth by promising to feed you to the harbor eels if you step out of line. It is a traditional Sycillian endearment; do not overthink it."
She slowed her pace as they turned down a quieter residential lane, facing him directly. Her sharp features relaxed into something vulnerable. "The fallout from the Salvi purge left deep fractures. Remnants, splinter cells, desperate street thugs looking for a score... We are putting out fires daily. It is why I couldn't write more often. It was unsafe."
Stark reached out, his calloused hand gently resting over hers. "You should have sent word. I could have rotated out on leave. I could have helped."
"And abandoned your command in the opening stages of an imperial invasion?" Rubia chided gently, though she did not pull her hand away. "No. You have your war here, and I have mine in the docks. We understood the terms when we married." She let out a quiet breath, glancing down at his fingers. "Besides... I was not traveling alone. I made arrangements with Eve."
Stark froze. "Eve?"
His first wife. A hardened, brilliant battlemage who had fought beside him in the mud and blood of the Ardenian Civil War over a decade ago.
"Don't tell me she's coming to the front," Stark groaned, instinctively massaging his temples. "Tell me she stayed in the capital."
"She is already here," Rubia replied, an amused smirk playing at the corners of her lips. "She heard Ardenia was mobilizing against Albion and declared that sitting by a hearth was giving her joint rot."
Before Stark could process the logistical nightmare of his domestic life colliding in the middle of a war zone, a cacophony of small, high-pitched voices echoed down the cobblestones.
"Papa! Papa!"
Stark's tactical instincts completely evaporated.
Barreling toward him was an unruly miniature strike team. Leading the charge was eight-year-old Lucas, Stark's spitting image, whose usually serious expression instantly melted into a beaming grin. Hard on his heels were the five-year-old twins, Elian and Eira, moving as a coordinated wrecking crew, followed closely by four-year-old Mia, who was stumbling on her hem but determined not to be outpaced.
"Whoa—incoming!" Stark braced himself just in time.
The collision nearly swept his boots out from under him. Small arms encircled his armored greaves and leather jerkin in a chaotic flurry of embraces and loud chatter.
"Papa, you smell like iron and horse sweat!" Mia declared loudly, wiping her runny nose directly across his steel knee cop.
"Did you fight the knights, Papa? Did you take their swords?" Lucas asked, bouncing on his heels, his eyes practically vibrating with curiosity.
Stark ruffled the boy's dark hair, an overwhelming warmth swelling in his chest that momentarily drove out the cold chill of the looming campaign. "No duels today, Luke. Just boring supply meetings."
He looked up and saw the rest of his household approaching at a leisurely pace.
Eve strode forward with the posture of an active combat veteran. Draped in deep purple robes beneath a thick fur-lined mantle, her chestnut hair tied into practical twin sidelocks, she carried her Lumite focus staff across her shoulder like an infantry pike.
A pace behind her walked Lisa, Stark's second wife. The quiet, graceful elf carried their youngest daughter, Rina, who was fast asleep against her shoulder, a single pointed ear twitching lazily in the cold mountain air.
"You lot..." Stark sighed, gently hoisting Mia into the crook of his arm. "I thought you were staying put at the family manor until the spring thaw."
Eve stopped a few paces away, propping a fist on her hip while adjusting her staff. "Stay put? And let you play soldier without supervision? Husband, if I waited for you to wrap up a war before seeing you, our grandchildren would be enlisting."
She looked past him, offering Rubia a respectful nod. Between the three women, an unspoken, battle-tested treaty existed—forged through years of mutual survival and the collective exasperation of managing the same stubborn man.
"Thank you for the escort, Lady Turturici," Eve said.
Rubia returned the nod smoothly. "It was the most pragmatic route. Moving your household inside an armed Turturici merchant contingent was considerably safer than trusting the provincial post roads."
"Are the logistics settled?" Lisa asked softly.
"For now," Rubia replied. "Which brings us to the operational reality. Lisa, the children, and the baggage will rest here overnight, then accompany my return caravan south to Genoa."
Stark's head snapped toward them. "Genoa? To Sycillia? Are you sending the children across the border?"
"The war has arrived on our doorsteps, Stark," Lisa said, her gentle voice laced with firm resolve as she repositioned the sleeping toddler in her arms. "The southwestern townships are already burning. Refugees are pouring into Loriana every day. This city will be a staging ground within a month. It is no place for toddlers."
"The Turturici estate in Genoa is fortified, garrisoned, and utterly indifferent to northern politics," Rubia stated plainly. "My father has already prepared the guest villas. They will be untouched by the empire."
Stark swallowed hard, looking down at Lucas, who was watching his parents with quiet understanding. The boy knew what war meant. Stark hated that he did. "I... I understand. It makes sense. It's the right call."
He turned back toward Eve, his eyes narrowing as he noted the combat harness buckled beneath her fur mantle and the polished silver runes running up the spine of her staff. "And you? You're not going with them?"
"Me? Hide behind the Turturici family walls while Albion marches on my homeland? Never!" She took a step forward, jabbing a finger straight into his breastplate. "I spent six years changing diapers, managing tenant farmers, and pretending I care about growing winter cabbages, Stark. The Castalia Company is bleeding, and you think I'm going to knit socks in Sycillia? Absolutely not. I've already submitted my reactivation papers to Commander Valente."
Stark tilted his head skyward, silently appealing to whatever gods were listening. He had an underworld syndicate financing his army, his elven wife escorting his children to an island fortress, and his first wife was strapping on her battle regalia to join a frontline meat grinder.
"Eve," Stark said, keeping his voice steady. "We are going against imperial legionaries and heavy mechanized cohorts. It's going to be a slaughterhouse."
"Excellent," Eve grinned, a terrifyingly familiar spark flaring in her eyes—the exact look she wore before raining hellfire upon a mercenary phalanx. "My area-of-effect incantations were getting rusty anyway. It's been far too long since I shattered a proper shield wall."
Stark looked hopelessly toward Rubia, silently praying the mob heiress would talk some sense into her.
Rubia merely offered an elegant shrug. "Do not look at me. I supply the reagents; I do not dictate how she utilizes them. If your wife wishes to turn Albion cataphracts into smoking slag, I consider that a sound return on investment."
Stark let out a long, defeated exhale, adjusting Mia on his hip. "Fine. But you are assigned to my squad as dedicated artillery. No vanguard charging. No solo incursions. Am I clear?"
"We'll negotiate terms in the mess hall," Eve replied breezily, already reaching down to usher Lucas and the twins toward the inn's warm hearth.
Stark stood rooted to the cobblestones for a long moment, watching his chaotic, fragmented family disappear into the tavern. He was an exhausted company captain staring into the maw of an imperial war, and he had never felt more completely outmatched.
Out past Loriana's eastern palisade, Asep eased the clutch out. The angkot—or "Project Highway," as Treste's official blueprints labeled, rumbled forward, clearing the iron gatehouse. The leaf-spring suspension groaned in dull protest beneath the weight of its improvised armor plating, sending vibrations straight through the worn wooden seat and up Asep's spine.
It lacked the familiar rattle of his old ride back in Bandung. That beat-up minivan had a rhythm forged from thousands of jarring potholes and countless aggressive lane merges. This vehicle was a crude chimera of Earth mechanics and arcane alchemy—a blunt, heavy solution to an impossible logistical dilemma.
"Hold onto something, gremlin," Asep said, adjusting his grip on the smooth wooden shift knob.
Treste sat in the passenger seat, hugging a brass-bound clipboard to her chest like a protective ward. Beneath her wide-brimmed witch's hat, her lilac eyes darted frantically across the crude dashboard dials, oscillating between intense academic fascination and sheer panic. Every jolt in the frozen road made her flinch, though she fought to maintain a mask of haughty, intellectual superiority.
"You verified the alchemical coolant reserves, yes?" Treste asked, her voice squeaking slightly over the mechanical roar. "The friction coefficient inside the transmission will spike on the incline! If the torque converter overheats—"
"Relax," Asep cut in, tapping the glass gauge with a grease-stained thumb. "The needle is sitting pretty. Needles don't lie. Usually."
He kicked down the clutch and threw the lever into third. The alchemically treated fluid bit, the drivetrain engaged with a deep metallic growl, and the iron-clad van surged down the packed dirt road, leaving a plume of grey exhaust in its wake.
The frozen scenery blurred. The once-verdant foothills of Ardenia had been muted by an early dusting of winter frost, the naked birch trees standing like pale bones against the grey sky. Asep took a slow drag from his cigarette, guiding the steering wheel with one hand and the practiced ease of an Indonesian driver who had survived floods, reckless motorbikes, and the harrowing gauntlet of rush-hour traffic.
Back home, he had spent his youth running routes from sunrise to dusk, balancing setoran fees and trade-school tuition on an orphan's budget, wearing down his youth behind a cracked windshield. Barreling through a war-torn fantasy frontier in a steel-plated carriage while a tiny witch rode shotgun was an insane escalation, yet the muscle memory remained identical.
After half an hour of uninterrupted driving, Treste's anxious hovering finally subsided. She set the clipboard aside, resting her chin against the window frame to watch the snow-capped Gallian mountains rise on the horizon.
"Why do they bother?" Treste suddenly muttered, her voice nearly swallowed by the rhythmic thrum of the motor.
"Who?" Asep asked, squinting against the bitter wind whistling through the cracked driver-side window.
"The Church," she said, gesturing toward the jagged peaks dividing the realms. "Or even those lunatics in Roake. The Children of the Eclipse. Why do people warp faith into something so... grotesque?"
Asep grunted, downshifting as the road transitioned into a rocky, upward slope. "Religion, huh? Heavy topic for an afternoon supply run."
"Religion is an obsolete mechanism," Treste declared, slipping comfortably back into her academic arrogance. She crossed her arms, her oversized hat bobbing with the carriage's sway. "It is an instrument designed for population control. A systematic way to suppress dangerous knowledge and preserve an archaic hierarchy. Look at the archives of the Grand Sanctuary—every major breakthrough in arcane synthesis has been branded heresy before it was accepted. They fear what they cannot codify, so they bury it."
Asep exhaled a cloud of smoke, tapping his ash out the gap in the window. "Can't argue with that. Seen it back home; read it in the history books. But that's only half the story, witchlet."
Treste glanced at him, her lilac eyes narrowing behind her bangs.
"It's not just about control. Or suppression. At least, not at the start. Back from where I came, we had thousands of religions. Countless gods, rituals, and holy books. And sure, leaders used them to draw borders, start wars, and burn villages. But... at their core, sapient beings are inherently degenerate."
Treste blinked, taken aback. "Degenerate? You mean... intellectually flawed?"
"Flawed is sugarcoating it, witchlet. We're an impulsive, selfish, greedy mess. Given the choice, humans—and elves, and beastkin, and whatever else walks on two legs... They will chase their basest desires first. When left completely to their own devices, people don't naturally lean toward harmony."
He nudged the throttle, the engine responding with a steady, droning hum.
"Without some Big Boss in the sky laying down the rules," Asep said, pointing the burning ember of his cigarette toward the bleak horizon, "most folks would dive headfirst into chaos without blinking. We need the idea of an unseen judge like a consequence that outlasts our mortal bodies just to keep our animal instincts from tearing society apart."
"Morality does not require theology to function," Treste countered, her voice rising defensively. "A rational intellect can deduce mutual cooperation through logic and basic empathy. We do not require divine terror to recognize that murder is detrimental to the social collective."
"Sure. You can deduce that. Because you're an educated scholar who spends all day thinking about theory. But how many people in this world are rational philosophers? Five percent? Ten? The rest of the world doesn't care about ethical frameworks. They understand: Don't steal, or God will smite you. It works."
"So you reduce faith to a mere societal leash?"
"No. It's more than a leash," Asep said softly. He flicked the cigarette butt out into the rushing wind. "It gives ordinary people the one thing science can never manufacture."
"Which is?"
"Hope."
The word lingered between them, cutting cleanly through the roar of the cylinders and the rattle of the chassis.
"When everything falls apart," Asep said, his eyes fixed on the frozen path ahead, "when you're starving in a ditch, freezing to death, or watching your friends get butchered in an imperial meat grinder... you can't comfort a dying soldier by explaining the laws of thermodynamics or cellular decay. Knowing the mechanics of death doesn't make dying any easier. What people need is the belief that their pain isn't meaningless. That there's a light waiting on the other side of the dark."
He glanced at her, catching the conflicted look in her eyes.
"That's why those cultists in Roake could brainwash all those refugees," Asep added quietly. "When people are drowning in the dark, they will latch onto any light they can find—even a toxic, twisted fire like the Eclipse. Because nobody else offered them the real thing."
Treste sat in silence, her gloved fingers resting on the leather straps of her satchel. The haughty scholar persona seemed to recede, leaving behind a solemn girl who knew all too well what it meant to hide in the dark.
"...Even if the light is merely a fabricated myth," Treste whispered, looking down at her boots, "it remains a tragic necessity for a broken world."
"Nobody knows the ultimate truth anyway," Asep shrugged lightly. "Look at it like this: if a faithful person dies and wakes up in paradise, they win. If they die and there's just an empty void, they won't even be around to feel disappointed. But... if God does exist, and you spent your whole life acting like a bastard? Well, that's a bad gamble to lose."
Treste let out a soft huff that sounded remarkably like an amused chuckle. "A rather cynical, transactional approach to salvation, Asep. I didn't take you for a theological gambler."
"I'm not," Asep snorted, settling deeper into his seat. "I'm just a guy who smokes cheap tobacco and drives a smoky van."
He pressed down slightly harder on the accelerator, the engine responding with a deep, throaty growl as they crested the ridge, Windyvale's jagged pine canopy sprawling out before them.
Asep glanced sideways at her, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. "Though speaking of human ingenuity, Treste... have you ever stopped to realize that almost every great technological leap our species made just boils down to finding new, increasingly complicated ways to boil water?"
Treste blinked, completely thrown off balance. "...What in the Grand Sanctuary are you talking about?"
"Think about it," Asep chuckled, shifting into high gear. "I'll explain on the way down."