Gromkuld (4)
"So, what exactly do you expect me to do? You didn't hire the lord of the Ivory Tower as your exclusive mage just to run silly errands, I trust."
No sooner had the elixir's effects worn off than Leonhard shed his screw-loose demeanor and reverted to the dignified intellectual befitting the Ivory Tower's lord. It was a transformation so swift even Udir would have to concede a point, but Estiang just shrugged it off—Leonhard's always been like this in the original story, after all. A normal person suddenly acting weird would be shocking, but a weirdo being weird? Nothing special there.
Instead of calling out the switch, he laid out Leonhard's future duties.
"You'll mainly be assigned to the Great Wall reconstruction. Magic should make it straightforward enough."
"Great Wall reconstruction?"
Leonhard furrowed his brow.
"Does His Grace take me for a stonemason or carpenter? For the greatest archmage in history—enough to blaspheme even the goddess—it's a rather trivial task for an exclusive mage."
"What can you do when there's no better use for you otherwise?"
"There must be more substantial, productive work. Commissioning special magic scrolls or artifacts from me, for instance. Or I'm quite versed in alchemy too—say the word, and I'll whip up an elixir for you."
"Artifacts? That reminds me. It'd be great if you could improve the crossbow-type artifacts we bought from the Ivory Tower. And repair the broken ones while you're at it."
"Still trivial, but better than playing stonemason or carpenter."
"Of course, you'll do both."
"Urk."
Leonhard let out a strange groan. Then, with a sly huh, he grinned.
"Naturally, with my magic attuned to the profound truths of mana, I could finish it far faster than a battalion of masons or carpenters. Child's play for an archmage."
"I've already got the plans drawn up. Want to see?"
"Gladly."
Estiang fetched a sheet of parchment and sketched lines with a quill. First, the merlons of the primary defensive line. In front, a wide, deep moat incorporating Silla's distinctive present-gate structure from the Three-Year Fortress.
The north's climate meant any water in the moat would freeze solid fast, rendering it pointless. Same issue with artificial ponds to hinder advances, like in the Three-Year Fortress. Even as a dry ditch, though, the moat would effectively raise the wall height by its depth. Digging pits was far simpler than stacking stone, so he planned to make it deep.
"Hmm. No military expertise here, but even I can tell this'll be a nightmare to assault."
"Not done yet."
"There's more?"
"This is just the front-line merlons. Naturally, there'll be an outer wall behind it and an inner wall."
Next came the outer wall as the secondary line, and finally the existing Great Wall as the ultimate inner defense. He added protruding bastions to harass attackers and concentrate fire. The overall design followed the Theodosian triple walls but crammed in every defensive trick refined by the Three-Year Fortress.
The pinnacle of Hellenism—Alexander himself would slap his knee in awe. This was Orientalism fused with Occidentalism, the very Hellenism Alexander had dreamed of.
"Oh... ooh..."
Leonhard murmured in admiration.
"Planning some impregnable fortress that defies all sieges?"
"Exactly."
That was the point. The triple walls had never truly fallen to a frontal assault. They crumbled eventually under Urban's super-cannon barrage, but that was after centuries of Roman decline and neglect. A moat starting at ten meters deep reduced to less than one by the Ottoman assault? Case closed.
Put another way: against poorly maintained walls, after thousands of siege-gun barrages, Janissary heroics through a hard-won breach, and the defender commander's injury-forced withdrawal. Only with every lucky break aligned did they take the Theodosian walls. Their defensive prowess spoke for itself.
After poring over the parchment from every angle, Leonhard spoke up.
"One issue, though. Building this as designed... manpower aside, the cost won't be cheap. Even dumping Berg's entire annual budget might not cover it. Feels like it'd take several years' worth."
"That's why we're getting support from the capital. Unprecedented crisis, right?"
"Ah, yes. If Berg falls by some fluke, those pampered rear-line nobles are next. Makes sense."
"Quick on the uptake—good."
Estiang nodded. The north was barren, but its tax revenue was substantial. Maintaining over five thousand standing troops—not levied peasants with pitchforks—proved the wealth.
Still, materials alone would near a million ducats. For a project this massive, squeeze every coin from the capital.
"Won't wrap up quick, that's for sure."
"Normally, it'd take years. Money can come from support, but time? Can't outsource that."
"Then it's time for this mage among mages, the great Ivory Tower lord Leonhard, to step up."
Leonhard's lips curled higher.
The Theodosian walls took nine years. But here, they had foreman Leonhard and heavy-equipment Aisha.
Just to check, Estiang prodded.
"What can you handle?"
"What can I handle?"
Leonhard pondered briefly, grin widening.
"Your Grace must be mistaken about something."
"Mistaken?"
"About everything."
"Hm?"
"Nothing my magic can't accomplish. Save maybe stopping the strongest Sword Master from breaking through, or squashing a certain grand duke's nose flat with elixir. Anything else? Rare indeed."
Leonhard smirked with oozing confidence.
"I am the pinnacle and controller of all mages. What in the world can't I do with magic?"
"Dunno about the rest, but your confidence gets full marks. Strongest ego of anyone I've met."
"That's because I know I can deliver."
Original heavy-equipment spirit mage versus upstart heavy-equipment archmage. A clash of human powerhouses who could solo the work of dozens or hundreds with a flick of the wrist. Estiang's chest swelled.
No nine-year slog like Byzantium. Maintenance would be ongoing until monsters were eradicated, but it'd serve well. And it wasn't even his money alone.
Estiang patted Leonhard's shoulder in trust. Unlike Berg's generals or knights, who might tear up in gratitude, Leonhard haggled.
"Means you trust me that much, right? To meet expectations, how about twice a week?"
"Rejected. I'm busy enough as is."
"Guh."
In Berg, work progressed smoothly. First up: deploying ranger forward bases beyond the wall—watchposts of sorts.
Outposts outside the wall, garrisoned by rangers on regular patrols. Like canaries in a coal mine, but without the death risk. No monster could match mounted mobility; if things went south, abandon post and retreat inside.
Per Estiang's orders to flesh out the blueprint, northern craftsmen racked their brains debating how to build this ironclad bastion.
Meanwhile, in the imperial capital, a grand compromise unfolded.
Leste Duke and Iliad Duke. After huddling in secret with the emperor, the noble titans reached a mutually satisfying conclusion. Unprecedented northern crisis meant supporting Berg to protect their own hides—regardless of faction.
No need to bicker between moderates and nobles; Berg's fall meant fire on everyone's feet.
Yet Iliad Duke still had one headache post-compromise.
"Helena."
"Yeah, Dad?"
Rubbing his throbbing forehead, Iliad Duke eyed his daughter.
Helena Iliad. The red-haired villainess twirled her locks, barely listening.
"Do you even know where that is? Why would you go there?"
"Is it somewhere I can't go?"
"Helena, think rationally."
"I am being rational and sensible."
Helena snapped irritably.
"Give me one reason I can't."
"Er, well."
Even the mighty Iliad Duke was stumped by his sole daughter's logic-defying words. A duke's daughter leading a caravan to another noble's territory? What parallel universe's common sense was this? On par with "why two, not four or five?"
Seizing his hesitation, Helena laid down the law.
"Block me, and I never speak to you again. Got it?"
"Kh—cough!"
Iliad Duke clutched his chest. So raising kids is pointless, huh. The price of spoiling her, though her temper was infamous empire-wide. Too late for the rod now—and he wasn't the type to wield it anyway.
"Anyway, I'm going. Consider yourself warned, Dad."
"......"
Helena added breezily. Iliad Duke could only nod—fine, do as you like.
A father to the end, even for the daughter hammering nails into his heart: I love you anyway...
This was scripted. Watching her saunter off with feigned haughtiness, Iliad Duke mused.
Still, my girl's heading to Berg herself. For her dignity, the aid shipment north has to be generous.
Estiang would have cheered.