Uninvited Guests
Architecture in this era was far removed from modern precision, where mathematical formulas yielded flawless blueprints down to the millimeter. Artisans relied on practical experience rather than academic theory to erect buildings, and that accumulated experience, passed down through generations, became the craft itself.
Therefore, the single most critical factor in becoming a fine stonemason was securing a great teacher. Only a great master could pass down great experience.
In that regard, Reed was among the fortunate ones.
Meister Anton was one of the foremost craftsmen in the Stonemasons' Union. With an elegantly groomed mustache and neatly swept pompadour, he exuded the composed aura of a refined, middle-aged gentleman—or at least he would have, were it not for his habit of proudly swaggering around with his heavily muscled torso bare. Truly a gentleman plucked straight from a painting, waist up aside.
Befitting an artisan bearing the title of Meister, Anton was well-versed in all facets of stonemasonry, but his true specialty lay in lime.
"Reed. Loty. Watch closely. Add limestone powder and sand, then knead thoroughly with water. Like this. And like this. You must blend it completely, leaving no lumps behind. And never forget that adhering strictly to the mixing ratio is paramount."
Anton showed them the thick mortar sitting inside the wooden tub.
"That's cement," Reed remarked. "Do we just wait for it to harden like this?"
"No. Left as is, it takes far too long to cure. It is even sensitive to the changing seasons, and when it finally hardens, it is hardly durable. That is why we must sprinkle a magic powder into it."
"A magic powder?"
With an elegant sweep of his hand, Anton retrieved a leather pouch, within which sat a fine grey powder.
"Out in the western reaches of the Demonic Borderlands lies a place where lava boils year-round. This is volcanic ash harvested from those very fires."
Sprinkling the volcanic ash over the cement, Anton began stirring the mortar once more with a wooden paddle. Seeing that the process looked tedious and time-consuming, Reed read the room and spoke up.
"Allow me, Meister."
"Hm? Very well, then. Give it a try, Reed."
Realizing a beat too late that he had missed his cue to assist, Loty awkwardly reached out a hand, then sheepishly scratched the back of his head.
Stirring the heavy mortar with the wooden paddle for a while, a thought suddenly crossed Reed's mind.
Can I control this with magic too?
Reed put it to the test immediately. As he channeled Earth Control, the thick paste, though sluggish, began to swirl and fold into itself of its own accord.
I see. So this is what it feels like.
Earth Control was not a spell limited merely to raw soil. From tiny pebbles rolling along the dirt to hefty boulders—with some strain—he could manipulate stone as well. Yet there was a clear disparity in efficiency. Comparing equal weights of dry soil and wet mud, moving mud demanded vastly more effort. Comparing mud and stone, moving stone was incomparably harder.
From this, Reed formed a working hypothesis.
Does a denser molecular bond make an object harder to control?
Unlike loose, independent particles of soil, stone was tightly bound together, perhaps impeding the penetration and flow of mana. Or perhaps it was a matter of surface area. Reed vaguely recalled a concept from middle school science: when a solid object is broken down into countless fine particles, its total exposed surface area increases exponentially.
Mana might operate by enveloping the soil. If that's the case, greater surface area offers a distinct mechanical advantage.
It was merely a theory, but it felt remarkably plausible. And if this hypothesis held true, then soil-based magic was inherently the most efficient medium, meaning that concentrating further on Earth Control...
"Hey there, Reed."
"...Yes, Meister?"
"What has you lost in thought? It's completely blended now. Haha! Stirring mortar with magic—never ceases to amaze me."
Before he knew it, the mortar had been blended into a smooth, uniform consistency. Now all it required was time to cure.
Meister Anton was not a man stingy with his craft. He generously imparted whatever knowledge he possessed: how to inspect the quality of lime, which grades of sand worked best for mortar, the optimal ratios for volcanic ash, water, and sand, the ideal ambient temperatures for curing mortar, and more. In an age devoid of factory-milled cement bags, such empirical wisdom was more precious than gold.
Having finished their work there, Anton's next stop was a brickyard.
Brickmakers were stoking fires, baking bricks inside blazing kilns. As the craftsmen on closest terms with stonemasons, they frequently collaborated on major projects and were practically brothers in trade. Anton took the opportunity to show Reed and Loty the entire brickmaking process.
Clay molded, dried, and fired at blistering heat attained a resilient hardness that would not easily crumble.
Holding a finished brick, Anton's eyes gleamed as if admiring a precious gem.
"Is it not wondrous? Soil, once so soft and yielding, transforms into durable mortar when blended with a few elements—and into such splendid brick when kissed by flame! It is like a beautiful lady donning different gowns. The earth possesses such varied and wondrous charms."
The expression on Anton's face as he waxed poetic was... bordering on perverted. Yet his words struck a chord with Reed nonetheless.
Earth holds many properties. The hardness it gains through mixing and baking is simply another facet of the soil itself...
At that moment, a flash of inspiration darted across Reed's mind. He could not yet articulate it into words, but he instinctively sensed he had grasped a crucial thread regarding magic.
I can confirm it next time I meet Lady Ur.
Busy days followed in swift succession.
Under Anton's tutelage, Reed absorbed the craft at an astonishing pace. While his earth magic undeniably aided in stonemasonry, magic alone was never enough. He had to master the hammer and chisel, and smooth rough surfaces with sandpaper. Certain nuances of the craft could only be felt through bare human hands.
Alongside his technical training, Reed took up physical conditioning. In one corner of the Stonemasons' Union headquarters was a training hall where members built muscle by hoisting heavy blocks of stone.
Haha! Physical conditioning...
Stonemasonry was fundamental brute labor; muscle mass and stamina were absolute prerequisites rather than mere options. It was not without reason that guild members flaunted bulging physiques. Yet to Reed, the very notion of physical exercise felt like an unfathomable luxury. When he had been clawing for survival in the slums, such a wasteful expenditure of energy had been unthinkable. Scavenging scraps of leftover food required endlessly digging through filthy refuse heaps.
Reed felt his quality of life improving by leaps and bounds.
Never having to starve, sleeping in a warm bed without fearing for his life each passing second—it was sheer bliss.
With his daily existence stabilizing, long-dormant thoughts began to surface.
I wonder what happened to that girl.
The girl who had nearly been abducted in Asterritz. Since Reed had rescued her, she had surely escaped serious harm, yet curiosity gnawed at him.
She was loaded, without a doubt. Probably from a noble house. I really should've squeezed a reward out of her. What a waste.
It would have been far more heroic to brush it off magnanimously, but Reed could only berate himself for having such petty regrets.
Thinking of the girl naturally brought his mind to her captors—the Black Blade Syndicate. Considering her family's evident clout, the syndicate must have faced severe retribution. Even so, the sheer tenacity of back-alley syndicates was nothing to sneer at.
Even if the organization fractured, remnants would have survived, and they would hunt Reed down for vengeance no matter how long it took. Even now, Reed occasionally woke from nightmares where shadowy thugs cornered and stabbed him.
If I keep living in terror like this, my mind will rot away. This won't do. I need to find out what actually happened back there.
Reed resolved to hire an informant to gather intelligence on Asterritz. While it carried the risk of leaving a trail, it was far better than trembling in perpetual dread. Of course, hiring investigators required gold. And currently, focused on building his foundation, Reed's purse was painfully light.
Then, one day, welcome news arrived.
"Loty. Reed. Time to head out into the field. We'll be away from Morasil for quite some time, so pack thoroughly."
The western frontier was vast, and demand for stonemasons was endless. Simple peasant cottages could be erected by farmers themselves, but specialized structures demanded professional expertise. A certain pioneer settlement had submitted a formal commission to the Stonemasons' Union, and Meister Anton had been appointed as head builder.
Reed made his preparations at once. In truth, there was little to pack. Gathering a change of clothes and his knapsack, he gripped his trusty shovel.
I feel incomplete without this thing.
With his magic, he rarely needed it during routine masonry work, but in a pinch, it doubled as a reliable weapon.
Packs in hand, Reed walked to the front of the guild headquarters. A horse-drawn wagon was already prepared, loaded with limestone powder and building supplies. Mounted beside it, Anton and Loty sat atop bizarre-looking creatures.
"Ah, you're here?"
"What... kind of animals are those?"
"Hm? Ah. Now that I think of it, you haven't been in the Demonic Borderlands for long. These are pickards."
The pickard was an ostrich-like beast native to the borderlands. Large-bodied and long-necked with coarse plumage, its diminutive wings contrasted sharply with its long, muscular legs, lending it a surprisingly stately presence.
"Out here in the borderlands, folks travel by horse or pickard. Horses have more raw pulling power, making them ideal for wagons, but pickards are nimble and have sharp senses. I had one readied for you as well. It's thoroughly trained, so you won't find it difficult to handle."
Reed reached out and gently stroked the pickard's feathers. They were coarser and stiffer than expected. Seeming to enjoy his touch, the creature let out a soft cry.
"Peep!"
It was a rather adorable sound for such a formidable bird.
Emboldened, Reed climbed onto the saddle strapped to its back. Balancing proved tricky at first, but he quickly found his footing.
"Right! Let us be off. Mercenaries, we're counting on you."
"Leave it to us."
A wagon driver, three stonemasons, and three escort mercenaries set off at an unhurried pace.
Passing wheat fields where spring sowing had just begun and crossing the sprawling Tebe River, they entered vast, rolling grasslands. Aside from sparse, lone trees, the open plains stretched uninterrupted in every direction. Anton steered his pickard with seasoned ease, offering guidance along the way.
"Once you step beyond Morasil, never let your guard down. You never know when monsters or outlaws might spring from nowhere. Wide-open plains like this protect against sudden ambushes, but by the same token, they make us equally visible to enemies."
"Ugh... M-monsters..."
The faint-hearted Loty turned pale. Anton let out a hearty laugh.
"Haven't you gotten used to this by now, Loty? The moment you chose this trade, wandering across the frontier became your destiny. How will you manage if you shiver at every turn?"
"Ugh, you're entirely right, Meister, but scary is scary!"
Contrary to Anton's stern warnings, no incidents occurred. As they were still within the patrol perimeter of Morasil, security remained relatively sound. After three days of steady travel, the party arrived at their destination: Placer Gold Village.
"There it is."
Before them lay a village nestled between a small river and a rocky hillside. Home to roughly forty households, the settlement was encircled by crude stone walls and wooden palisades.
"Welcome!"
As their wagon drew near, villagers poured out in droves to greet them, their faces universally drawn, haggard, and stamped with fear. A relatively young, middle-aged village chief grasped Anton's hand, tears welling in his eyes.
"Thank you for coming! We have been waiting desperately for you!"
With picture-perfect gentlemanly composure—naturally, he was wearing a shirt today—Anton returned the handshake.
"Thank you for the warm reception."
"Under normal circumstances, proper hospitality would come first... but the matter is terribly urgent. May we discuss the work immediately?"
"Of course. If I understand correctly, you wish to reinforce the wooden palisades and stone ramparts?"
"Yes, precisely."
The village chief looked back at the stone wall ringing the village, shaking his head in distress.
"The truth is... villagers have been vanishing of late."
"Vanishing?"
It had begun with a local drunkard. After spending the evening drinking and carousing at the tavern, the thoroughly inebriated man had failed to return home. Assuming he was simply sleeping it off in a ditch, the villagers had delayed searching; when they finally combed the area, not a single trace was found. Next, an elderly man living alone disappeared. After that, a cow vanished from its barn.
Listening intently, Anton mused, "Judging by the pattern, it doesn't sound like bandits. Could wolves be behind this?"
"We thought the same and posted strict watches, but as you know, keeping an eye on an entire perimeter of palisades in pitch-black night is near impossible! Worse still, when we inspect the palisades come morning, there isn't a single claw mark or track. It is driving us mad..."
A string of baffling disappearances. After much deliberation, the villagers had concluded that bolstering their defensive wall was the only solution. Their crude stone barriers and wooden palisades had numerous gaps and low points; they suspected the beasts were slipping through those vulnerable seams. To Reed's ears, it seemed a reasonable deduction.
"Understood. I was told the villagers would provide the primary labor—is that correct?"
"Naturally! It is our village, after all. We have already gathered stone suitable for the wall."
"Then let us survey the perimeter first. We shall calculate the estimates today and commence work bright and early tomorrow."
"We put our complete faith in you, Meister! Please, we beg of you!"
Faced with such an earnest plea, Anton nodded firmly. Rock-solid confidence showed across his features, and only then did relief wash over the chief and villagers.
The demeanor that instills trust in others... I should learn that too.
Reed realized an artisan required far more than simple manual dexterity.
Having settled the preliminary terms with the chief, Anton immediately began inspecting the village perimeter. Placer Gold Village followed the standard layout of frontier settlements. Houses were clustered tightly together, anchored at the center by a sturdy stone structure designed as a final refuge for children and the elderly during an attack. While such shelters were often the village hall or tavern, here it was the chief's residence.
They've prepared reasonably well. The palisades are crude, but ordinary bandits wouldn't breach this place easily.
The young men standing watch carried wooden crossbows as a matter of course. Though wooden crossbows lacked the punch of military-grade weapons, a bolt could punch straight through a human skull at close range; they were not to be underestimated.
The defenses are quite solid. Which means people are vanishing despite this level of security.
How on earth are they getting in?
Reed pondered the puzzle briefly before putting it aside to follow Anton along the palisade. Examining every potential gap where a beast might slip through, Anton nodded in satisfaction.
"Hm. Nothing too arduous. Ten days should be plenty. Let us rest for tonight and begin at dawn."
"Understood, Meister."
Afterward, the villagers laid out a feast for their guests. While not extravagant, there was meat, bread, and ale—a thoroughly generous spread. The wagon driver and mercenaries gulped down ale merrily, whereas Anton, Loty, and Reed abstained completely.
"Drinking is reserved strictly for after the job is finished. That is my personal creed. While you study under me, you will abide by it."
"Yes, Meister."
Such was Anton's professionalism.
That was not to say Anton was antisocial. He joined right in with the drunken chatter of the mercenaries and driver, laughing and bantering warmly. Reed listened in between mouthfuls of sausage tucked into freshly baked bread.
"Work's been pouring in lately; life's finally good. Thought I'd starve to death last winter."
"I hear ruin diving brings in monstrous coin these days. Jamie's crew struck gold with an artifact recently. If you're interested, Meister, you ought to look into it."
"Haha. That sort of treasure hunting isn't quite my calling."
The mercenaries and stonemasons moved in entirely different spheres, making the chatter uniquely fascinating. Most tales revolved around where blood had been shed and where coin could be made. In the western reaches surrounding Morasil, clashes erupted almost daily, ensuring mercenaries were never out of work.
After listening to the drunken mercenaries' rambling, boastful tales, Reed felt the urge to relieve himself and stepped outside.
Darkness had already blanketed the land. A half-moon hung high in the clear night sky. Tucking in his tunic, Reed reached for the latch of the outhouse door.
Just then—
"Krrrk. Kaaak."
A strange sound leaked from within. Startled, Reed snapped backward.
"Ah. My apologies. Didn't know someone was in there."
More rustling echoed from inside. Reed sighed inwardly.
Quite the ruckus. Severe hemorrhoids, maybe?
Just as he was about to turn away to seek another outhouse, the door swung open. It hadn't been latched in the first place. Caught off guard, Reed stumbled back half a step. The door parted fully, and his gaze locked squarely with the occupant inside.
"Oh."
To be precise, it was not an occupant, but occupants.
And to be even more precise, they were not human.
Two rat-beasts—bipedal monsters resembling giant rodents—were staring dead at him.
"..."
Creak. Click.
Reed, with absolute composure, pulled the door shut.