Usually, the weekly council meetings were lively affairs. The representative of the Mining workers would argue about pickaxe durability, the Head of Farming would complain about irrigation, and the Construction foreman would demand more timber.
Today, there was only silence.
Alaric stood at the head of the table. To his left sat Lex, whose quill was still for once. To his right was Hans. Around them sat the five leaders of Haven’s labor association.
"You understand the situation," Alaric said, his voice calm but hard as iron. "Larethin has choked us. No grain is coming in. The road is dead."
The Farming Representative, an older man named old Thom with sun-baked skin, leaned forward. "Viscount... if the trade stops, how long do we have?"
"Lex?" Alaric nodded to his secretary.
Lex pushed his glasses up his nose, his voice trembling slightly. "Based on the current census of two thousand citizens... our granaries hold enough food for two months. Maybe two and a half if we ration strictly."
"And the harvest?" Alaric asked.
"Three months out," Thom replied grimly. "The winter wheat isn't ready. We have a thirty-day gap. If we don't get food in two months, people will starve."
A murmur of fear rippled through the room.
"We can't fight Larethin's knights," Hans grunted. "Not without starting a war that gets us all hanged for treason."
"We won't fight them," Alaric said, slamming his hand on the map spread across the table. He pointed to the blue expanse of the southern ocean. "We ignore them."
He looked at the council members.
"I am issuing a General Conscription."
The council members widened their eyes.
"Effective immediately," Alaric commanded. "All economic activity stops. No mining for export. No house building. No shopkeeping. Only farmers tending the crops and guards will remain at their posts."
"Everyone else?" the Construction foreman asked.
"Everyone else builds the port," Alaric declared. "We have one month to build a twenty-five-kilometer road through the jungle and construct a deep-water harbor capable of receiving heavy cargo ships. If we finish it, we can bypass Larethin entirely and import food from the sea."
"That's impossible in a month," the foreman breathed.
"It is only impossible if we work like normal men," Alaric said, his eyes glowing with faint blue mana. "But you are not working for a normal Lord. Gather your people. We start at dawn."
The next morning, the notice was posted in the town square.
EMERGENCY DECREE: TOTAL MOBILIZATION.
There was no riot. The people of Haven were refugees. They knew what it was like to lose everything. They knew that Alaric had given them a home, and now, Larethin was trying to take it away. They didn't complain. They grabbed their shovels.
Before the sun had fully risen, Alaric sent a single runner, a young, fast guard into the forest on foot. He was to sneak past the blockade and trek all the way to Duke Thorne’s territory to deliver a message: The land is closed. Send ships in one month.
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Then, the work began.
Seven hundred workers amassed at the southern edge of the town. It was an army, not of soldiers, but of builders.
Alaric took the lead. He didn't supervise from a horse; he stood at the front of the tree line, his sword drawn.
"Creo Ventus: Sonic Blade."
SCREEEECH.
The air screamed as Alaric severed a dozen massive hardwoods in a single swing.
"Move!" he roared.
The pace was brutal. Alaric acted as a living siege engine, clearing the path through the dense mangroves. Behind him, the construction mages, settlers with minor earth affinities used their mana to dig the roadbed, sinking the soft mud into a hard trench.
Behind them came the laborers. They worked in a rhythm that shook the ground.
- Layer 1: Large rocks were thrown in for stability.
- Layer 2: Sand and gravel filled the gaps.
- Layer 3: Stone bricks, produced by Alaric’s own hand using Earth Magic, were laid on top.
They were building a twenty-five-kilometer spine through a green hell. Alaric worked non-stop. With his current manipulation of atmospheric mana being so good that he could regenerate his whole reserves in 30 minutes while working. He didn't need to sleep much. He barely ate. He just cut, paved, and led the workers.
By the time the road team was halfway to the coast, Alaric had already moved ahead to the shoreline.
The coast here was shallow and rocky which was useless for large trading ships that would run aground hundreds of meters out.
"We need depth," Alaric muttered, standing on a jagged cliff overlooking the waves.
He raised both hands, his mana flaring violently.
"Creo Terra: Pitfall."
Usually, this spell was used to make small traps for enemies. Alaric used it on a large scale.
RUMBLE...
The seabed groaned. A section of the ocean floor, ten meters out, suddenly collapsed downward, vanishing into a magically excavated void. The water rushed in to fill the new depth.
Alaric did it again. And again. He carved a deep-water channel straight up to the shoreline.
Then, he switched spells.
"Creo Terra: Stone Wall."
Massive dikes of stones erupted from the surf, creating two long, protruding arms that reached out into the sea to protect the harbor from rough waves. He flattened the tops to create piers.
He didn't make a small dock. He built a foundation for the port large enough to park ten heavy ships simultaneously.
It was a feat of engineering that would have taken a kingdom years. Alaric and his people were doing it in weeks.
While Haven bled sweat and mana into the mud, the atmosphere in the Larethin Duchy was filled with wine and laughter.
In a lavish drawing room, Duke Larethin swirled a glass of red vintage, looking out the window toward the south.
"You did good, Your Highness," Larethin chuckled, his voice thick with smug satisfaction. "With that toll, the upstart brat will starve his own citizens within weeks. We can show the world that a commoner is still only a commoner. There is no way a boy like that can manage a territory without begging us for help."
Prince Lucian sat opposite him, looking calm and cold. "He took what was mine. It is only natural that nature corrects the mistake."
Larethin took a sip, his brow furrowing slightly. "I am still worried about how Thorne will react, though. Alaric is his man. If Thorne tries to do something to break the blockade..."
"We don't need to worry about the 'Iron Wall'," Lucian interrupted dismissively. "My benefactor... the Priest... he will be looking after Thorne. He has ways to keep the Duke at bay."
Larethin raised an eyebrow. "This Priest... Lancaster? He seems like an interesting guy."
Lucian’s face lit up with a disturbing reverence. "He is. He possesses massive authority around the world, authority that supersedes even Kings. And he hates Thorne and Alaric just as much as we do. He promised to help me achieve all my goals."
Larethin swirled his drink, hiding his skepticism. A priest with that much power? It seems too convenient.
But the Duke was a greedy man. As long as Alaric fell and Larethin gained power, he didn't care who the devil was.
"Well," Larethin grinned, raising his glass. "To the fall of the Warbreaker."
"To the correction of the world," Lucian whispered.
They drank, unaware that to the south, the "starving" commoners were not begging. They were building a miracle….