One month had passed since the blue flame first spoke in Lex’s office, and in that time, Alaric had refined the art of spirit communication from a rough experiment into a tactical necessity.

  Alaric sat in his private workshop, the air humming with the soft, high-pitched whistling of mana. On the workbench before him sat two sets of two small, intricate silver boxes. One for Alaric to send messages to them and one for Alaric to receive messages from them.

  Inside each box swirled a small, chaotic vortex of air, a Lesser Wind Spirit.

  Unlike the flame spirit he had given Lex, which could burn the surroundings, these wind spirits were faster. They carried vibrations instantly, their very nature suited for the transmission of sound and intent.

  "Two sets," Alaric whispered, closing the lid on the first box. "One for the Ironhold. One for the Capital."

  He hadn’t arranged anything for its delivery though. Because to him , the communication device was far too important to be delivered by others and normal means . He planned to deliver it himself when he goes to ironhold again.

  Outside his window, the city roared as the sound of construction never stopped.

  This month alone, another five thousand settlers had flooded through the gates. The "aggressive population policy" was working too well. The streets were packed, the temporary lodges were overflowing, and the air was thick with the hope of thousands of people looking for a new start.

  It was all going according to plan. But plans were heavy things to carry.

  Lex walked into the office, his arms laden with scrolls. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharp. The overwhelming panic of the early days had settled into a grim, efficient routine.

  "Sir," Lex said, dropping a heavy ledger onto Alaric’s desk. "The monthly census is complete."

  Alaric opened the book. He scanned the columns of ink, and his breath hitched.

  Total Population: 22,140.

  Alaric leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "Twenty-two thousand."

  "It is staggering, sir," Lex noted, pouring himself a glass of water. "Just last year, when we stood in the mud of the mangroves, there were only two thousand of us. In the first five months of this year alone, we have added twenty thousand souls."

  "And the food?" Alaric asked, knowing the answer.

  "We fear running short every week," Lex reported. "But the port is holding. The shipments from arrive like clockwork. We survive, month to month."

  Alaric nodded. It was a fragile existence. They were a boomtown built on debt and imported grain. If the port closed, they starved. If Larethin attacked, they burned.

  Alaric stood up, walking to the large map of the territory on the wall.

  "We have the people," Alaric murmured. "But we don't have the swords. If Duke Larethin decides to stop playing economic games and marches his army south... my guard corps of a few hundred men will be slaughtered."

  He turned to Lex, his expression hardening.

  "Keep the city running, Lex. I have work to do at the Foundry. I need to build an equalizer."

  The heat in the special workshop was intense. This was a restricted area, guarded by Hans’s most loyal men. Inside, Alaric was working with a team of the city’s best blacksmiths and leather artisans.

  On the massive drafting table lay a blueprint that looked like madness.

  "Lord Alaric," the head tanner asked, wiping sweat from his brow. "You want us to stitch... this?"

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  He pointed to the pile of treated hides in the corner. They were from Wyverns and Drakes that Alaric and his guard corps hunted ,monsters known for skin tough enough to deflect attacks.

  "Yes," Alaric said, rolling up his sleeves. "The stitching must be airtight. Not a single breath can escape."

  He looked at the blueprint. It wasn't a ship for the water. It was a ship for the clouds.

  The Airship.

  Alaric knew he couldn't win a conventional war. Larethin had thousands of soldiers, siege engines,a whole knight order and years of military tradition. Alaric had farmers and refugees. To win, he needed to change the rules of engagement. He needed air superiority.

  "The concept is simple," Alaric explained to the confused artisans, tracing the design.

  He pointed to the massive balloon structure above the operating space in the design.

  "We make a large envelope using the monster leather. It is strong enough to handle immense pressure without bursting. We fill it with air,just a little at first."

  Alaric’s hand glowed with mana.

  "Creo Ignis."

  "Then, we will use flame magic to superheat the air inside. Hot air expands in volume. But it becomes lighter than the cold air of the same volume outside, creating lift."

  "But sir," the blacksmith grunted. "The metal plating you want for the hull... it’s too heavy. Even with the balloon, it won’t lift that much steel."

  "That is where the second layer comes in," Alaric said, pointing to the runic arrays etched into the hull’s design.

  "Creo Terra: Lightweight."

  "We will enchant every bolt, every beam, and every plate with Earth Magic to reduce its mass. The ship will weigh a fraction of what it should."

  He tapped the defensive schematics.

  "And we cover the hull with Null Magic Barriers. Physical and Magical protection. It will be a flying fortress that arrows cannot touch and magic cannot penetrate."

  Alaric’s finger moved to the bottom of the ship, where the weapon ports were drawn.

  "And here," he said grimly. "We mount the steam-based artilleries."

  An airborne ship, raining artillery shells down on an enemy army that couldn't reach it. It was the ultimate high-ground. It was a weapon so powerful, so terrifying, that its mere existence would deter an invasion.

  "No human army can fight an enemy they cannot reach," Alaric whispered to himself, looking at the skeletal frame of the prototype rising in the back of the workshop.

  He wasn't building this for conquest. He was building it because he had twenty-two thousand people to keep alive.

  Far to the north, in the opulent silence of Duke Larethin’s private study, the mood was far less happy.

  Prince Lucian sat in a high-backed chair, swirling a glass of wine, while Duke Larethin paced by the fireplace.

  "It isn't working, Prince," Larethin growled, kicking a log into the fire. "The tariff. The blockade. It’s useless."

  Lucian sighed, looking bored but annoyed. "Yes. My informants are saying that Alaric has established a functional deep-water port in his new town. The ships are bypassing your toll roads entirely."

  Larethin stopped pacing. He turned slowly, his face slack with disbelief.

  "A port?" Larethin whispered. "What do you mean, a port? It’s been only one year since he went to that swamp. How can he make a port in a year?"

  Lucian swirled his wine again. "I don't know the details. But from the reports, he didn't take a year. He likely finished it in three or four months."

  "Three... months?" Larethin sank into his chair, looking pale.

  The Duke was a proud man, but he wasn't stupid. He knew how much time it takes to build stuff. To build a harbor capable of sustaining a city in a mangrove forest in three months wasn't just impressive; it was terrifying. It spoke of a manufacturing capability and magical prowess that defied his normal understanding.

  "Can we even win?" Larethin muttered, his voice trembling. "Against Thorne... and now this Viscount Alaric?"

  A heavy, grim silence fell over the two nobles. The specter of their defeat hung in the room.

  Then, a smooth voice cut through the gloom.

  "Hey, guys."

  Priest Lancaster stepped out of the shadows in the corner of the room. He wore his usual calm, unsettling smile.

  "Don't worry," Lancaster said, walking over to pat the trembling Duke on the shoulder. "I am here, right?"

  He looked at Lucian, then back to Larethin.

  "I will make sure that you guys win. You just have to keep faith in me."

  Lancaster’s eyes gleamed with a purple, malevolent light.

  "Our plan is already progressing, remember? The King is fading. The chaos is spreading. And I have preparations that even the 'Warbreaker' cannot build his way out of."

  Prince Lucian and Duke Larethin looked at the priest. The fear in their eyes slowly replaced with a dark, greedy resolve.

  They gave evil grins, deciding to cast aside their doubts.

  "We have faith, Lancaster," Lucian said softly. "We have complete faith."