A Knowledge Vault from Another World

As Shien's words fell, his stick struck the wooden rim of the Sand Table with a casual knock.

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

Every gaze stayed fixed on the Sand Table.

There was the reverse-slope ramp that slowed the enemy, the Cracked Fang Trap that ignited oil, the gravity-triggered spike mechanism, Venom Mist traps, physical explosives, and finally a Holy Silver barrier that used the laws of the world to suppress them.

A defensive chain whose links fit without a hairline gap lay before them.

They stared blankly at the Sand Table, lips parted, forgetting even to breathe.

They knew how to dig trenches. Veterans like them could dig traps with their eyes closed. Taken separately, most of these elements were old components from Church fortress designs.

But fitting those scattered components together, each link locking into the next, went far beyond the bounds of what they knew.

Awe shone in the young craftsman Jack's eyes. Rack his brains as he might, he could not fathom what the fourteen-year-old Long Night Lord had inside his head.

It was as though a vault of knowledge vast enough to make one's scalp crawl lay behind those cold eyes.

And while Jack trembled at that world-shaking knowledge,

the old master craftsman Mack suddenly grasped what was truly terrifying about the system.

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

It could be completed before the six-month deadline when the Blood Moon Season erupted, while neatly sidestepping Blackpine Fief's most crippling shortage of supplies.

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

Give that junk to any other Long Night Lord, and all he would build was a heap of rubbish that would collapse at a Demonic Beast's first impact.

Only the silver-haired boy before them could turn wreckage and scrap into gold, forging it by sheer force into a war machine built to exploit werewolves' weaknesses.

Shien's theories from another world struck like a sledgehammer, shattering the shackles of conventional wisdom that had bound these craftsmen for centuries.

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

Instead, years of hands-on experience began fermenting wildly within the new theoretical framework.

"My lord!" The young craftsman Jack flushed scarlet. "If the poison-fog trench doesn't need an alchemical mechanism to trigger it, there's no need for all that trouble!

"We can just tie brittle poison-gas jars to iron spikes! The moment a Werewolf jumps into the trench and steps on a spike, the point will smash the jar!"

"Right! And that slowing ramp!" Another construction foreman slapped his thigh.

"We can pile up the dark-red frozen earth we dig out, mix in several layers of Quicklime, then pour water over the outside!

"The cold of Long Night will freeze the water solid in an instant. The whole slope will be so slick and hard a fly couldn't stand on it, and Werewolf claws won't be able to dig in!"

Heated discussion exploded through the tent.

The masons and Blacksmiths who normally did little but stack stones according to plan now seemed to catch fire.

Crowding around the Sand Table, they drew on decades of experience to fill in the vast meat-grinder framework Shien had laid out.

Shien leaned quietly against the wooden chair at the head of the table, letting their fervor run unchecked. His gaze passed over the commotion around the Sand Table and settled above the heads of the core craftsmen.

Within the illusory Karmic Sight, numbers flashed at a frantic pace.

+14, +29, +24...

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

For craftsmen constrained by their age, the gift of knowledge that could shatter their understanding was also a profound grace.

Watching the craftsmen flush with excitement and spray spittle as they argued, Shien tapped the tabletop twice.

The argument stopped at once.

Everyone fell silent and looked toward the silver-haired boy in 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 keep your eyes fixed on the trenches. The five outer rings of trenches are the meat grinder, but it takes living people to keep the machine running."

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

The master craftsmen grew solemn and nodded firmly.

"You have the experience," Shien said with unquestionable authority. "Go ahead and put flesh on the framework. Come to me whenever construction runs into a problem."

He paused. "But there is one iron rule: I must personally review and sign every finalized design before anyone turns the first shovelful of earth."

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

More than a dozen calloused men dropped to one knee, guarding the sketch-covered sheets of parchment as though they were holy scripture.

Then the craftsmen, their drive thoroughly kindled, filed out and began discussing the details among themselves.

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

Besides Shien, one shriveled figure remained in the tent, huddled in the corner shadows from beginning to end—Victor.

Once a brilliantly gifted Alchemical Artificer, he now clutched the hem of his rough-spun clothes with his only remaining hand, his bony body trembling beyond his control.

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

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

For taking too long to repair the Sacred Flame Altar's base drive shaft. For wasting too much time when he was one of the Convicts.

Shien walked straight to the low table nearby, picked up the iron kettle, and poured a cup of warm ale.

Then he turned, approached the patch of shadow, and held out the rough wooden cup.

"You deserve the most credit for winning last night's meat-grinder battle." Shien's gaze held a sincerity that went straight to the heart.

Victor froze, his clouded single eye flying wide.

"If you hadn't got those stalled gears turning again, all six hundred of us would already be rotten meat in that rat's belly."

Shien pushed the wooden cup half an inch closer. "Victor, you saved Blackpine Fief."

That simple acknowledgment struck Victor's heart, dead for so many years, like a sledgehammer.

His hand jerked. Most of the ale spilled as 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 gripped Victor's remaining arm and pulled steadily, lifting the old man from where he knelt in the mud.

Victor's chest heaved.

Shien stepped closer once more and laid a weighty hope upon his shoulders:

"Those five trenches are only a net to hold the wolf pack back. The true fangs that can crush powerful Demonic Beasts—on this wasteland, only you can make them."