The Cleansing Rain and the Bent Rails
Thanks for the free share (2)
Eisengrad territory outskirts.
Several thousand refugees who had fled Volfsberg were gathered here, but rather than a chaotic refugee camp, it felt like a well-organized field encampment. The rows of tents stood in precise grids, each section numbered. Water stations and portable latrines were set up everywhere, keeping odors at bay.
"Section 3 rations starting! Pull out your meal tickets!"
At the shouts of Eisengrad administrators, people lined up in perfect order. Warm soup and bread were handed to them.
"Heh, life's full of surprises."
An old man muttered as he tore into his steaming bread.
"Heard the Airhart family's wastrel is the lord here... Guess even a wastrel makes sure folks get fed on time."
"Yeah. Better than the old lord, at least. No starving to death on his watch."
A strange mix of relief and suspicion lingered in the refugees' eyes. They'd lost their homes, but since arriving in Eisengrad, they weren't treated like animals. The thorough management and protection put them at ease—yet also made them curious.
What the hell does he want from us, treating us this good?
There was no such thing as a free lunch. This sharp-eyed new lord wouldn't show kindness without reason.
Even as they ate, they kept glancing toward the border. That morning, Lord Kyle had driven his wagon into that death trap, Volfsberg.
That's when it happened.
"Hey! Look over there! The sky beyond the mountains...!"
Heads snapped east at the cry. Normally, that sky was shrouded in ominous purple smog—a deadly veil no one dared approach. But now, the thick purple cloud layer writhed unnaturally, as if some invisible giant were stirring it. Dark violet clouds scattered, white smoke mingling in the gaps.
"The poison fog... it's changing color?"
"No way the lord touched that thing, right?"
Amid the orderly calm, the refugees sensed it instinctively. The lord who fed them and imposed order was now laying hands on that cursed land.
The same moment, inside Volfsberg territory.
Kyle and Serina stood atop the wagon, hoods drawn. Around them towered stacks of white sacks.
"My lord. No standard purification spell could handle this much."
Serina adjusted her hood as she spoke.
"That's why I brought science instead of magic."
Kyle pointed at the sacks—finely ground limestone powder mined near Eisengrad.
"Investigator Serina, time to show your stuff."
Serina stepped forward. Raising her staff high, the ambient mana began to vibrate fiercely.
"Wind Blast!"
With her shout, hundreds of sacks burst open at once. A mighty gust carried the white lime dust skyward. The powerful wind spell swept across the purple-fog-choked land.
Sizzle—!
A burning sound echoed in the air, faint heat rising. The purple aerosols clashed with the alkaline lime powder, reacting violently. The light toxic gas turned into heavy solid clumps.
But the change didn't stop there. The fine lime particles acted as condensation nuclei, drawing in atmospheric moisture.
"Wha...? The fog... it's falling?"
Just as Serina said. Moisture-laden particles clumped into massive thunderheads in seconds. Then, as if the sky could hold no more, it burst.
Plop, patter. Pour—!
Gray rain laced with poison and lime hammered the ground.
"Rain...?"
"Yeah. Rain."
As the muddy downpour hit, the visibility-blocking purple fog sank away like it had been washed clean. After a while, the purple toxin faded to white vapor, replaced by harmless steam-and-dust rain.
"Without a single spell... in just hours...."
Serina stared at her hands in disbelief. What would take hundreds of mages months of chanting purification spells, Kyle had solved in hours with mere rock dust. She'd just provided the wind.
Once the rain eased, Kyle doffed his hood. He slicked back his wet hair and explained.
"Complex organic toxins have fragile structures. Hit 'em with strong alkali like lime, and the bonds snap—total breakdown. Then the rain washes the wreckage to the ground."
He nudged a gray puddle with his boot.
"Now it's just organic fertilizer feeding nitrogen to the soil. Next year's harvest will be a bumper crop."
The distant mountain ridges sharpened into view. It reeked of damp earth, but the purple fog was gone.
Kyle nodded in satisfaction.
Kyle drove straight back to the border refugee camp. Even after witnessing the poison fog's miraculous dispersal, shadows clung to the refugees' faces.
"Fog's gone—so what? Houses burned, no food tomorrow."
"Maybe the lord'll help?"
"Feed thousands on what coin? Heard he's on the imperial shitlist—no aid coming."
Anxiety spread like plague.
Then Kyle climbed a pile of materials in the camp center. Gripping a megaphone mana stone, he faced thousands of hungry eyes.
"People of Volfsberg."
No gentle comforts from him.
"Your homes burned. Fields ruined. The Empire abandoned you—no aid coin. Truth is, I don't have the cash to feed you for free either."
Brutal honesty stirred the crowd. Despair confirmed.
"But!"
Kyle's voice rose an octave.
"I won't give you free bread. I'll give you jobs."
He gestured to the vast plain behind—the rough wasteland linking Eisengrad and Volfsberg.
"We're laying iron roads across that land. Pick up picks, haul gravel, lay rails under me... and you'll get—"
At his signal, Ella and attendants pulled back tents. Fresh bread, meat, and sacks of silver coins piled high.
"Stuffed bellies. And wages higher than any imperial tenant farmer!"
"...!!"
Silence. Then a shout.
"I'll work! Anything for food!"
"Me too! Hire me, please!"
Despair flipped to fervor in an instant.
Throw refugees into massive civil works, pump money into the territory—an isekai New Deal. Confident. Materials plentiful, labor overflowing. Plans perfect—just lay track.
But enthusiasm alone doesn't solve everything.
Days later, decent-looking rails stretched across the plain.
"Hey! Lordling! Feast your eyes!"
Grodi, inspecting the site, hands on hips, swaggered.
"Straight as a die, eh? Nearly bent my back like one making 'em! Art, pure art!"
The foreman wiped sweat, nodding.
"Perfect. Even a dragon couldn't wreck this."
"Good. As expected from Grody. At this rate, ahead of sched—"
Before he finished—
Screeech—clang!
A nails-on-chalkboard shriek from the rails, something snapping violently.
"Wh-what? What was that?"
As murmurs rose, Grodi's eyes bulged.
"Wha—?! My rails! What the fuck's wrong with my babies?!"
The straight steel, snake-like, writhed and buckled sideways. Classic rail buckling.
"Th-the iron's bending like taffy! N-no one touched it—it just...!"
The foreman screamed. Grodi clutched his head, collapsing.
"Impossible... Bad mix? Weak strength? No way! It was perfect!"
He rushed over, touching the warped rail. Hot as midday sun.
Shit...!
His fatal mistake dawned. Daytime sun spiked temps; nights cooled. Thermal expansion. Steel lengthens with heat. Eager for quick completion, he'd butted rails tight—no gaps. Nowhere to go, steel shoved sideways and burst.
Not Grodi's fault. My oversight—not accounting for site variables. Rookie desk-knowledge limit.
He bit his lip unconsciously. Grodi wailed beside him—"My rails... sob, my masterpiece..."—but no time for wallowing.
"Grodi, quit crying and get up."
"You see this and no tears?! You'll remake 'em?!"
"Yeah, relay 'em."
Pointing firmly.
"Rip it all out."
"...What? All of it?"
"Every buckled section—out and redo. Different method this time."
New orders issued.
"Leave finger-width gaps between rails."
"Gaps? Won't it jolt on passage?"
"No gaps, train passes and we all die. Lay with gaps."
Trial-and-error's price was steep. But it etched the lesson deep: This world's sun burns hotter than expected, steel more temperamental.
Building on early failure, the redo flew. White gravel paths bloomed on the wasteland, twin steel lines marching horizon-bound at steady intervals.