Steam and Curse

On the third floor of Drogo’s Toy Store, an entire wall was covered by a black curtain.

In front stood a wooden frame painted black, bearing an emblem. A circular hole had been cut into its center, just large enough for Drogo's head.

The undead camera across from it was already in position.

Aisha gave a thumbs-up to signal that everything was ready. "Three, two, one, begin!"

Drogo tilted his head left. "Roar—" Then farther left. "Roar—" He blinked.

"Cut."

Aisha watched the footage once and suddenly found Drogo rather adorable.

This was the opening logo Drogo remembered most vividly, without question. There was no special reason for it—when he was little, he always had to watch that lion roar twice before Tom and Jerry came on.

He could not even remember which company the logo belonged to, but that lion had remained etched in his memory.

When making an opening for Holy Mountain Journey, he had naturally thought of it. Drogo Film Studio's logo was Drogo himself. Perfectly reasonable.

With the opening done, the next step was creating the end credits.

They found a huge roll of extra-long paper and dyed it black as well, then hired professional scribes to write down the names and positions.

Yes, there were still professional scribes. They could genuinely write as neatly as print, and when demand was low, they were more cost-effective.

But it was foreseeable that as printing technology advanced, the cost of printing a sheet would soon fall to a fraction of handwriting. Those scribes would lose their jobs because of it.

Perhaps switching to writing on irregular objects, such as painting names onto ships, or moving toward calligraphic art, would offer them a way out.

The art world was also seeking change under the impact of photography, from the exaggeration and simplification of comics to Flynn's attempts at abstraction and anti-realism after being influenced by it.

They needed to hurry. Once they succeeded, Drogo would have somewhere to find animation and graphic design talent.

He wanted to handle everything himself and create every kind of art form, but his abilities were limited. History had never been something a single individual could create.

They hung up the credits, looped one end over a roller, and used the most primitive method possible to make the names scroll.

Drogo shamelessly put his own name down as director, screenwriter, and so on. No one in this world knew about Earth anyway.

Aisha, on the other hand, was extremely excited. She used recording magic to imprint the segment where her name appeared as executive director onto paper and mailed it to her mother with a letter.

The simple work was done. The real torment lay ahead.

Editing.

There were not even computers yet, let alone Premiere, Final Cut, or Jianying. Those were all distant dreams.

Although magic crystals stored data in the form of magical fluctuations, there were no digital processing tools. He could only use magic to cut them apart and connect them again.

It was editing in its most literal sense.

This was different from the earlier rough cut. The final product required precision, but the data within magic crystals could not be slowed down. Drogo could only cast acceleration magic on himself.

His magic resistance might have been high, but even a dragon went numb after being accelerated too many times. In the end, he had no choice but to edit for a while, then rest for a while.

Just as Drogo rested his dragon head outside the window to ease his dizziness, Xin 104 returned.

"Great Master." The goblin, dressed in formal attire, bowed.

After arriving in Twin Towers City, goblins had changed more than any other group among Drogo's subordinates. They were trending from evil beasts living in burrows toward highly intelligent creatures capable of handcrafting goblin technology.

"How did it go?" Drogo asked weakly. He kept feeling as though the ground were spinning.

"The outbreak points of the Steam Curse show no pattern, but the owners of these factories are all closely connected to the church."

"Hm?" That answer surprised Drogo. In his guess, it should have been someone refusing to pay tribute to the church, followed by some secret organization under the church targeting those who would not pay protection money.

"What about a treatment? Do the doctors have any way to cure the people in the refugee district?" Drogo continued.

"The vast majority of doctors believe the Steam Curse cannot be treated. A few also implied that it must not be treated. The church regularly performs exorcisms for them, and there have been some cured cases, so the royal family has entrusted the matter to the church."

That was understandable. Saving people from misery and disaster could earn the most devout believers. The only question was where that misery and disaster had come from.

Could the church really have gone to all this trouble just to gain a few more believers?

Drogo was skeptical. If they wanted followers, was that not easy enough? Hand out some eggs, flour, and cooking oil, and people would line up outside the church.

"However, there is a doctor in the refugee district who said he could try researching the Steam Curse. He has already found volunteers willing to participate in the experiment."

"That's great. What does he need? We can provide financial support."

"No, Master. He said he does not need money. He only needs a safe place."

At that, Drogo lifted his head from the windowsill. Now this was interesting.

He thought for a moment, then instructed Xin 104, "Contact the orcs, the Drow, and..."

Rain fell over Twin Towers City. When it reached the refugee district, it became a mixture of mud, sewage, rotting matter, and grease, giving off the smell most familiar to doctors.

"Knock, knock!" A dull knock sounded at the door.

He tightened his beaked mask, put on his top hat, slung a large pack over his back, and said to the patients in the room, "Let's go. The people here to pick us up have arrived."

When he opened the door, two orcs built like walls stood outside.

"Doctor?"

"Yes."

"Name?"

"Doctor is fine."

"Good name. Battleaxe likes it. Other human names are too hard to understand."

"Where are we going?"

"Dragon Island."

"Which Dragon Island?"

"Dragon Island is Dragon Island."

"Which dragon is your master?" The doctor did not react much to being taken to a dragon's territory. His situation was already terrible enough. How much worse could it get?

"Drogo."

At the sound of that name, the patients behind the doctor cried out in alarm.

"Don't be afraid. Drogo is the best dragon."

"Have you seen any other dragons?" the other orc cut in.

"No, but Drogo is the best dragon."

"That's not rigorous."

"Battleaxe's axe is rigorous!"

"Wait," the doctor interrupted the two orcs before they could start arguing. The important matter came first. "Is anyone following us?"

"Of course. Several Drow are hiding on the rooftops. The goblin said Battleaxe wasn't careful enough, but Battleaxe can protect you all by himself!"

Whoever that goblin was, thank you. The doctor thought.

"Then let's go."

Amid the drizzling rain, the small boat sailed out of the harbor.

They rode the east wind for more than two hours. The sky gradually darkened, and the border of the continent was no longer visible.

Suddenly, the horizon flashed white. A breath later, thunder boomed, and at the same time, a streak of blue light descended onto the boat.

As the light faded, a warrior in heavy pure-white armor stepped out, a warhammer engraved with magical inscriptions in his hand.

"In the name of the goddess, come out voluntarily and surrender. You will be permitted to find peace."

Half a minute passed without any response.

"This is your own choice. May the goddess forgive my slaughter."

The warrior waited no longer. He raised his warhammer and charged, instantly shattering the entire cabin.

No one?

Behind his visor, the warrior's gaze turned wary. Just as he was about to step forward and inspect the wreckage, he noticed seawater washing over his feet.

The boat was leaking. There was an ambush!

Without hesitation, the warrior immediately pulled out a teleportation stone and began chanting.

But after the stone flickered twice, it went dark.

He suddenly looked up. Lightning illuminated the night sky, revealing a fishman priest standing at the bow. That creature held a short staff that maintained a barrier.

An Anti-Magic Beacon?

Why did a fishman have such an advanced magical artifact?

He had no time to think. Turning, he sprinted in another direction, trying to escape the barrier's range.

But webbed blue claws climbed over the sides of the boat one after another. Fishmen had surrounded him from every direction.

If this had been on land, he was confident he could break through the encirclement. But this was the sea.

The seawater had already risen to his knees. The fishmen were in no hurry. The ocean would eventually swallow him.

There was no time left.

The warrior raised his warhammer once more, silently recited a prayer, and launched his final charge at the fishman priest...