Chapter 24 - Butterfly effect
The air in the Great Hall was thick enough to chew—a humid soup of roasted fat, old-fashioned ale, freshly baked bread, and the desperate ambition of men who knew their clocks were ticking. While the Tusked Bastion ate in a silence that spoke of absolute security, the table of the provisional nobles was a theater of the frantic.
Through my optic and audial skills, I isolated a cluster of three recruits near the center of the hall. They were the "Leased Bloods"—sons of wealth-born merchants and knight-service fathers whose nobility was a flickering candle in a high wind. Their status would end either with them or after the death of their parents.
"Did you see the way the captain looked at my lunge?" a boy named Kael asked. His voice cracked as he slammed a copper mug onto the wood, the sound lost in the general roar. He was the grandson of a hero from the coast, but his father had never earned a deed of his own before passing away.
Kael was the last gamble for his family name. "Three goblins. I carved three of them before the smoke even cleared. That has to be enough for a citation in the Registry."
"Goblins are pests, Kael, not a 'Deed of Valor,'" a girl beside him hissed. Her fingers nervously twisted a silk ribbon that looked absurdly delicate against her boiled leather armor.
Her family had bought their way into the gentry two generations ago; she was the liquidity wall personified. "If we don't get assigned to the Lowland Survey, we're just militia. My father said if I don't return with a blood noble's favor, he's selling the estate to pay the royal taxes."
"The boy," the third one whispered, casting a furtive glance toward the high table. "The Star Lord. They say he's the one who caught an embezzler himself. They say he is very sharp for his age."
Kael snorted, though the study of his body language through my optic skill betrayed his bravado. "He's seven. What does a child know of anything? I just need the Baron to see me. If I can't get a deed, I'll get a marriage contract. The Hatar blood is perpetual. One signature on a dowry and the clock stops forever."
He turned his head then, his eyes searching the room not for a threat but for a target. His gaze landed on a young serving girl stumbling slightly under a heavy tray of ale. Kael's face shifted into a mask of practiced, aristocratic disdain.
"Watch your feet, peasant!" he barked, his voice cutting through the surrounding chatter. He wasn't angry; he was performing. He believed authority was measured by the volume of one's contempt. "One more spill and I'll have you lashed for wasting the House's coin."
The girl bowed her head, trembling, and hurried away. Kael leaned back, preening, checking to see if his "authority" had reached the high table. From my elevated chair, I watched the Hidden Eye move in the shadows behind him. A small, charcoal mark was made on a piece of parchment.
Olford microscopic tilt confirmed the result:Phase I test, failed. Kael was "too needy." He sought to elevate himself by crushing those below him. In a crisis, a man like that wouldn't hold the line; he would sell it to the highest bidder just to keep his status.
I turned my attention from the scabbards to the blade: Tina. She was still eating, her eyes fixed on her plate, oblivious to the theater around her. She didn't need to perform; she simply was.
As the charcoal mark faded, a second recruit stepped into my audial skill range—a boy with the broad shoulders of a stonemason and the steady gaze of a hunter. He didn't bark at the serving girl. Instead, as she passed, he reached out a steady hand to balance her tray, his fingers grazing the wood with a quiet, unthinking respect.
"Steady, lass," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that didn't seek the High Table's attention. "The Sanni mud is a thief of balance."
He didn't look around for applause. He simply returned to his stew. I looked at Olford. A microscopic tilt of the steward's head confirmed the observation. He passed the Phase I.
"Who is he?" I whispered, my voice lost in the hall's cacophony.
"Goran," Olford replied, his eyes never leaving the room's human map. "Son of a frontier carpenter. He doesn't have a silk ribbon, my Lord. But he has The Way."
The test continued throughout the night. As the ledgers were filled, the trend emerged with cold clarity: the commoners, forged in the grit of the Lawless Lands, largely held their ground. The provisional nobles, haunted by the ticking clock of their status, were the ones most likely to crack.
I decided to sleep after eating twice the usual amount, as I needed the calories for overclock.
-----
Tib swung his axe one last time, felling the final tree of the day. He had cleared fifteen more than his quota, driven by the steady rhythm of a man with a plan. For this extra labor, he was paid in Hatar Coins, a new currency minted by the noble house that had recently claimed this rugged frontier.
While these coins were only accepted within the Star Fortress and its growing territories, Tib didn't mind the restriction. He was hoarding his traditional Kingdom currency, saving it for the day he could buy a permanent plot of land in the village.
For four generations, Tib's family had lived a wandering existence, drifting like shadows to escape the monsters that haunted the Sanni Forest—all because of an ancestor who fled to this cursed land. Nobles had always been the villains of their bedtime stories: greedy, distant, and cruel. But the Star Fortress was different.
His first visit to the chaotic bazaar had shattered his old perceptions, revealing a place where monsters were kept at bay and a man could sleep without one eye open. So, when the opportunity for work arrived, he quickly stood in the queue for the allotment of work.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Tib approached the camp's scribe to record his day's work. The official checked Tib's progress against the ledger and passed him to an apprentice smith nearby, who cross-referenced the tally and recorded it in his own ledger, ensuring the count was absolute. He then stamped the "Proof of Work"—a thin metal sheet marked with a monthly grid and Tib's personal information.
"What must a man do to buy a piece of this land?" Tib asked, his voice low with hope. "To build a house that stays put?"
The scribe looked up with a surprisingly warm smile. "There are several paths to a title deed, woodcutter. Skill is the fastest; we offer steep discounts to master craftsmen. But there is another way for a hard worker like you."
He leaned in, explaining a special provision: "If you choose to take thirty percent of your standard pay in Hatar Coins, the House will grant you a 'Pioneer's Discount' on the land's purchase price. Not as much as a master smith, perhaps, but a significant head start. Better yet, you'll receive a certificate that adds five percent more value to your coins at the Star Fortress distribution centers when you buy grain or supplies."
Tib looked at the metal sheet in his hand, the dream of a permanent home suddenly feeling less like a story and more like a certainty.
-----
Hammet had served his master, whom he called Olford 'the torturer,' for longer than most men in the Sanni Forest had been alive. In all those years, his current mission was, by far, the easiest. He drifted through the barracks and the temporary mess halls, his eyes a clinical filter as he scanned the five hundred soldiers for the tell-tale signs of dissent.
The introduction of the Hatar Scrip—the "Meat-Backed Coins"—had been a calculated shock to the system.
Most of the veterans and savvy recruits didn't mind; the promise of increased meat rations and priority access to the Star Fortress distribution centers was a physical reality they could taste.
But for a few, the lack of "true" Kingdom currencies was a wound to their greed. Hammet's task was simple: establish the Black Market.
He became the man in the shadows, offering to "exchange" Hatar Scrip for Royal currency—at a predatory rate, of course. It was the ultimate lure. By operating this illicit exchange, he didn't just find the greedy; he found the compromised.
Those who approached him were gently squeezed for information or offered "special bonuses" for reporting on their squad leaders. They thought they were being clever, playing both sides for a few extra gold coins. In reality, they were walking into a trap.
Every name was recorded in Olford's private ledger. These men and women weren't arrested—not yet. Instead, they were quietly "flagged." They would find themselves always passed over for promotions to key positions.
Their career paths within the Star Fort were effectively cut off before they even realized they were being watched. But Hammet's role was even more significant. He was to be the "Big Player"—the face of the "disloyal" underground.
By establishing himself as a powerful broker, he would be the one to make contact with the enemies of the House. To the outside world, Hammet would appear as a corruptible high-ranking official; in reality, he was a conduit for intelligence. He would gather their secrets and, more importantly, plant the false information that would lead them into the Baron's jaws.
Surveillance was maintained on the "Gold Flow" of every flagged soldier—a tracking of their secret wealth. They were allowed to remain in the ranks, serving as controlled variables—pawns that the House could move, manipulate, or "sanitize" at a moment's notice should their petty greed ever turn into a grave act of treason. In the Sovereign Grid, even your secrets belonged to the House.
----
The sound of the rhythmical clang of the hammer against the anvil usually felt like an echo of the past to Reek, a dull echo of his grandfather's legacy that had slowly turned into a repetitive routine. But as he focused on the white-hot steel designed for the ball-bearing hubs, his eyes held a burning light he hadn't felt in decades.
He remembered the day the young "Star Lord" had approached him—a child whose height was not normal for his age. He didn't come just because of curiosity or to create trouble here but to hand over the design of a wheel. He carefully examined it and sensed as if the design itself were speaking to him about the wheel friction, radial loads, durability, and mechanical efficiency. He could see the improvement requirements in the design. That encounter had shattered Reek's innovative stagnation; the lord's son hadn't just given him a blueprint; he had given him a reason to dream in steel again.
To achieve the perfection the Young Master demanded, Reek had to merge his dwarven grit with a delicate touch of mana. He used his magic spell on the mechanical ball grinding machine to strip the excess, and the spell also acted as a high-precision abrasive, polishing the spheres until they were so smooth and uniform that they defied the eye. Each ball was a masterpiece of "magic engineering"—a tiny, shimmering testimony to a reignited flame.
As he dropped the finished bearings into the hub, Reek felt a surge of pride that surpassed any weapon he had ever forged. For the first time in three generations, the Galar forge wasn't just maintaining the past; it was pioneering the future. He realized that Zaemon had seen the "half-breed" not as a social outcast but as the only man capable of bridging the gap between cold iron and ethereal power. The "Star Lord" had asked for a wheel, but in doing so, he had given Reek his soul back.
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