A Library of Knowledge from Another World

As Shien finished speaking, his stick struck the wooden rim of the Sand Table with a casual knock.

The tent fell deathly silent. For two full minutes, no one spoke.

Every eye remained fixed on the Sand Table.

From the reverse slope that slowed attackers to the Cracked Fang Trap that ignited lamp oil, the weight-triggered ground spikes, the poison-gas trap, the physical blast, and finally the Holy Silver barrier that used the laws of the world to suppress its targets.

A defensive chain whose every link fit perfectly now lay before them.

They stared at the Sand Table, mouths slightly open, forgetting even to breathe.

They knew how to dig trenches. These veteran craftsmen could dig traps with their eyes closed. Taken separately, most of these elements were old fixtures from the Church's fortress designs.

But joining those scattered pieces into a system where each part worked with the next went far beyond anything they had imagined.

Awe filled young craftsman Jack's eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he could not fathom what lay inside the mind of this fourteen-year-old Long Night Lord.

Behind those cold eyes seemed to lie a vast storehouse of knowledge, one so immense it made his scalp prickle.

While Jack shuddered at that astonishing knowledge, something else occurred to old master craftsman Mack.

He had realized what made the system truly terrifying.

Not its power, but its cost... This defensive system, capable of slaughtering High-Rank Werewolves, was outrageously cheap and quick to build.

It could be completed before the Blood Moon Season began in six months, while neatly sidestepping Blackpine Fief's crippling shortage of supplies.

This plan, seemingly cobbled together from scrap metal, was impossible to replicate.

Give the same junk to any other Long Night Lord, and he would build nothing but a rubbish heap that collapsed the moment a monster hit it.

Only the silver-haired boy before them could turn wreckage and waste into treasure, forging it into a war machine designed to exploit a werewolf's weaknesses.

Shien's theory from another world struck like a hammer, shattering the centuries-old assumptions that had bound these craftsmen's minds.

After that brief, dead silence, no one in the tent raised an objection.

Instead, years of practical experience surged to life within the new framework.

"My lord!" Young craftsman Jack's face flushed crimson. "If the poison-gas trench doesn't need an Alchemical Mechanism to trigger it, we don't have to make it so complicated!

"We can tie brittle clay jars of poison gas directly to iron spikes. The moment a werewolf jumps into the trench and steps on a spike, it'll puncture the jar!"

"Right! And that slope to slow them down!" Another earthworks foreman slapped his thigh.

"We'll pile up the dark-red frozen earth we dig out, mix in several layers of quicklime, and pour water over the surface!

"The cold of the Long Night will freeze it solid in an instant. The whole slope will be so slick and hard a fly couldn't stand on it, and the werewolves won't be able to claw their way up!"

Heated discussion erupted through the tent.

The masons and blacksmiths who usually did little more than lay stones according to plan seemed to catch fire.

Crowding around the Sand Table, they drew on decades of experience to fill in the details of the enormous meat grinder Shien had proposed.

Shien leaned quietly against the wooden chair at the head of the table. He did not interrupt their fervor. Instead, his gaze passed over the commotion around the Sand Table and settled above the heads of these key craftsmen.

Within the illusory Karmic Sight, numbers flashed at a startling rate.

+14, +29, +24...

The numbers kept rising like bubbles in boiling water, flowing into the Canon of Grace and Righteousness.

For craftsmen constrained by the thinking of their age, knowledge that could break those limits was itself a great Grace.

Watching the flushed craftsmen talk over one another in their excitement, Shien tapped the table twice.

The arguments in the tent stopped at once.

Everyone fell silent and turned toward the silver-haired boy beyond the firelight.

"What I've given you is only the strategic framework." Shien's voice regained a lord's customary authority.

"You'll need to fill in the details. And don't focus only on the trenches. The outer Fifth Ring trenches are the meat grinder, but it takes living people to keep the machine running."

His sharp gaze swept over several earthworks foremen. "The outer defenses are flesh. The Inner Fortress is the heart that will keep our six hundred people alive through six months of the Blood Moon Season."

The master craftsmen grew solemn and nodded firmly.

"You have the experience," Shien said with unquestionable authority. "Build out the framework as you see fit. Come to me whenever you run into problems during construction."

He paused. "But there's one iron rule: I must personally review and sign every final design before anyone puts a shovel in the ground."

"As you command, my lord!" Mack, the old master craftsman, led the response.

A dozen calloused men dropped to one knee, guarding the sheets of sketch-covered parchment as though they were sacred scripture.

Then the craftsmen filed out, their enthusiasm fully kindled, already discussing the details among themselves.

The heavy canvas flap fell shut, cutting off their calls from outside.

Besides Shien, only one person remained in the tent: Victor, the gaunt figure who had stayed huddled in the shadows from beginning to end.

Once a brilliant Alchemical Artificer, he now picked at the hem of his coarse tunic with his remaining left hand. His skeletal body trembled despite his efforts to control it.

Years of brutal persecution by the Church's Inquisition had left him with a fear of being kept alone with someone in power, a fear branded into his bones.

He thought the cold young lord was about to call him to account.

For taking too long to repair the drive shaft beneath the Sacred Flame Altar. For wasting so much time when he was only one of the Convicts.

Shien went straight to the low table beside him, picked up the iron kettle, and poured a cup of warm ale.

Then he turned toward the shadows and held out the rough wooden cup.

"You deserve the most credit for our victory last night," Shien said, his sincerity plain in his eyes.

Victor froze. His clouded single eye widened.

"If you hadn't gotten those stalled gears turning again, all six hundred of us would be rotting meat in that rat's belly by now."

Shien held the cup a little closer. "Victor, you saved Blackpine Fief."

Those simple words struck Victor's long-dead heart like a hammer.

His hand jerked, spilling more than half the ale, and he dropped heavily to one knee.

"No... no, my lord!" the old man said, his voice thick with tears. "I'm just a crippled Heretic whose soul was stripped away by the Church. I don't deserve—"

Shien did not answer. He took hold of Victor's remaining arm and pulled the old man up from the mud.

Victor's chest heaved.

Shien stepped closer and placed the weight of his hopes on Victor's shoulders:

"Those five trenches are only a net to hold back the wolf pack. The fangs that can truly tear powerful monsters apart—only you can make them in this wasteland."