06:00 a.m. - At Adventurers Guild, Frosthaven
The morning air was crisp as Ryan strode through Frosthaven, his boots pounding against the cobblestones with purpose. His jaw was set, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. The memory of the abyss still clung to him—the cold, the betrayal—but now, it only fueled the fire in his chest.
He didn't stop to admire the frost-laced rooftops or the bustling market stalls. He didn't even glance at the guards patrolling the streets. His destination was clear: the Adventurers Guild.
The heavy oak door groaned as Ryan shoved it open, the noise cutting through the guild's usual clamor. Conversations stuttered. Tankards clinked against tabletops as heads turned. Most adventurers barely spared him a glance—just another low-rank nobody.
But not Gin, Barden, and Lyss.
The moment Ryan's voice cut through the hall—"Where are they?"—the trio froze. Gin's hand, halfway to his ale, went still. Barden's grip on his shield tightened. Lyss's breath hitched.
Their faces drained of color.
Ryan didn't smile. He didn't need to. The sheer impossibility of his presence was enough. They had pushed him into the abyss. And yet, here he stood—alive, unharmed, and furious.
"You—" Gin started, but Ryan didn't let him finish.
"Surprised?" Ryan's voice was low, dangerous. "Did you think the pit would keep me?"
The guild hall fell silent. Even the rowdiest of mercenaries sensed the storm brewing.
Lyss recovered first, forcing a laugh. "You—you must've climbed out. Got lucky."
Ryan's eyes burned. "Luck?" He took a step forward. "Try again."
Barden, ever the brute, slammed his tankard down. "Enough! You're just a scavenger. Know your place."
The words hung in the air—until the Guild Leader emerged from the back room, his polished armor gleaming. A tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard, he carried himself with the authority of someone used to settling disputes.
"What's the meaning of this?" he boomed.
Gin straightened, his smirk returning. "Just a misunderstanding, sir. This… porter seems to have a problem with his betters."
The Guild Leader's gaze flicked to Ryan, assessing. Then—predictably—he nodded. "Lower ranks don't cause scenes. If you've got a grievance, file a report."
Ryan's pulse roared in his ears. Of course. The guild protected its high-rankers. They always had.
But Ryan wasn't here for justice.
He was here for revenge.
A slow, icy smile spread across his face. "Fine. But since we're all friends here…" He raised his voice, ensuring every ear in the hall caught his next words. "Let's talk about the crystal mine in the dungeon. The one they tried to keep for themselves."
Silence.
Then—chaos.
Gin's chair screeched as he shot to his feet. "You bastard—"
But it was too late. The guild erupted.
"Crystals?" A burly axeman leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "What kind?"
"Enough to feed the city," Ryan said, loud enough for all to hear. "Maybe more."
Lyss lunged, but Barden held her back, his face twisted in rage. They had wanted the treasure for themselves—*needed* it. And now Ryan had ripped it from their grasp.
The Guild Leader's composure cracked. "Is this true?"
Ryan didn't answer. He didn't need to. The guild was already in an uproar, adventurers shouting over each other, already planning their next expedition.
Gin's glare could have melted steel. "You'll regret this."
Ryan met his gaze, unflinching. "No," he said softly. "You will."
And as the guild dissolved into greedy, excited chatter around them, Ryan turned and walked away.
He had just lit the fuse.
Now, he'd watch the explosion.
09:00 a.m. - At Inn, Frosthaven
Ryan slammed the inn door shut behind him with more force than necessary. The adrenaline from confronting Gin's group still burned through his veins, but now came the frustrating reality - he couldn't retreat to his space home. Not yet.
He threw himself onto the lumpy straw mattress, wincing as the motion sent a sharp pain through his side from lingering bruises. His fingers tapped impatiently against the cracked screen of his phone - the last physical tether to his old world.
Seven more days until the cooldown ends, he calculated bitterly.
The room felt suffocating, every creak of the floorboards amplifying his restlessness. Normally, In his cosmic sanctuary - to proper coffee, hot showers, and the comforting hum of technology. Now he was stuck with lukewarm tavern ale and the constant murmur of Frosthaven's streets below.
Ryan let out a harsh laugh. "You knew the rules," he muttered to himself. "Seven days. Always seven damn days."
His performance at the guild had been perfect - just enough righteous fury to sell the act while planting the seeds of chaos. But without the buffer of his space home, the anger sat too close to the surface.
Now, He just needed to be chilling.
He dug into his pocket and pulled out the handful of copper coins he'd scrounged as payment for the failed dungeon dive. Not much. But enough for food. For shelter. For now.
His breath steadied.
He had no furnace. No tools. No Sera showing up with that infuriating smirk to mock or challenge him.
But he did have his mind. His knowledge. And time—real, unyielding time—to plot his next move.
Ryan sat at the wobbly inn desk, pulling out a scrap of parchment and a charcoal stub. If he couldn't retreat into his dimension, he'd force this world to serve him instead.
He began sketching.
A basic bloomery furnace. Crude but effective. He'd need clay, stone, charcoal. He'd need to barter, convince, manipulate.
But that was fine.
The guild thought he was just some reckless, powerless outsider.
Let them.
Ryan glanced at his cracked phone again. Useless here—no signal, no internet, no magic solution. Just a broken relic.
He exhaled, slow and deliberate.
Four more days until his power reset.
Plenty of time to make his enemies regret ever crossing him.
And when his moment came?
He'd be ready.
11:00 a.m. - At Murdock's Forge
Ryan pushed open the heavy oak door of Murdock's Forge, the heat of the furnace rushing to greet him. The scent of molten metal and charcoal wrapped around him like an old friend.
Murdock didn't glance up from his work, hammering rhythmically against glowing steel. "Back already, lad? Here to pester me about that wee pen of yours?"
Ryan smirked. "Better." He unfurled the parchment in his hands—a design unlike anything the dwarf had ever seen.
Murdock's hammer stilled. His thick eyebrows shot up as he snatched the blueprint, calloused fingers tracing the diagrams—a high-efficiency furnace, its design refined by centuries of metallurgical knowledge from another world. "By Durin's beard…" he muttered, eyes widening.
Ryan leaned against the anvil. "Three days," he said. "That's all it should take you to build it."
Murdock let out a low whistle. "Aye. Three days." His sharp eyes flicked up, studying Ryan with new respect. "You've got a wicked mind, lad." Then, after a beat, his tone darkened. "Though seems the world's got wicked things of its own brewin'."
Ryan didn't look up from adjusting the schematics. "Oh?"
"The Belmara Empire," Murdock grunted, stoking the forge flames higher. "They've marched on Drakensvale. Old Malakar's finally made his move."
Ryan's hands didn't falter. He shrugged. "Not my problem."
Murdock shot him a look. "That so?"
Ryan met his gaze, unflinching. "Wars come and go. And this one?" He flicked a stray ember off the blueprint. "It doesn't involve me."
Murdock chuckled—a deep, rumbling sound. "Spoken like a man who's either very wise or very foolish."
Ryan's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Let's call it 'focused.'" He tapped the furnace design. "Three days, Murdock. Then we change this city's future."
Murdock grinned, smacking the anvil with his hammer in agreement. As Ryan turned to leave, the forge's glow painted his retreating silhouette against the stone floor.
Politics and war? Let the empires tear each other apart.
He had his own revolution to build.
11:00 a.m. - At Merchant Guild's, Frosthaven
The Merchant Guild's reception hall was alive with the murmur of commerce when Ryan entered. Ellara Brightmire, the ever-enthusiastic receptionist, looked up from her ledger, her emerald eyes lighting up in recognition.
"Ah! Mr. Mercer," she said warmly, sliding a sealed parchment across the polished oak counter. "Your examination results are in. I must say—we rarely see perfect scores, let alone on a first attempt. Your understanding of math principles is exceptional."
Ryan accepted the document with a nod. The wax seal broke with a satisfying crack, revealing his official Merchant Guild membership certification. The golden insignia at the bottom gleamed under the lantern light—his key to Frosthaven's commercial world.
Ellara clasped her hands together. "As a guild member, you now have access to our capital investment programs. You may register a business, apply for loans, or establish a trade brand. Though, given your newcomer status, borrowing limits will be modest at first."
Ryan didn't hesitate. "I'd like to register a company. Technologia. And I'll need startup capital."
Ellara's quill danced across the ledger. "A bold name. How much were you thinking?"
"Ten gold coins."
She paused, giving him an apologetic smile. "A sensible start for your credit level. It's approved." The quill scratched again as she filled out the promissory note. "Just sign here, and the funds are yours."
Ryan scrawled his signature—the ink still wet as Ellara stamped the document with finality. She counted out ten gleaming coins from the guild strongbox, each clinking softly onto the counter.
"Congratulations, Master Mercer," she said, pushing the small fortune toward him. "Technologia is now a recognized enterprise of Frosthaven. What will your first venture be, if I may ask?"
Ryan pocketed the coins, the weight of them solid against his palm. "Innovation," he said simply, already turning toward the door.
The pieces were falling into place.
Soon, all of Frosthaven would know the name Technologia.
And none would question its founder again.
02:00 p.m. - At Frosthaven
The cold evening air bit at Ryan's cheeks as he trudged through Frosthaven's cobbled streets. The weight of Technologia's first ten gold coins pressed reassuringly against his hip, but there was another, more immediate need gnawing at him—knowledge.
A Pause for Snowball
At the stable, Snowball resident, the massive creature lifted its head, velvet-soft nose twitching as Ryan approached. Its towering antlers glimmered faintly in the fading light, fragments of ancient starlight swirling in their ridges.
"Hey there, big guy," Ryan murmured, pressing his palm flat against the beast's warm flank. Snowball huffed, breath curling into the crisp air, and nudged him with a familiarity that made the corner of Ryan's mouth lift. "Yeah, yeah. I know—I didn't bring treats this time."
The Antlersteed snorted, unimpressed.
The Library
Leaving Snowball to his twilight grazing, Ryan slipped into the dim glow of Grimoire & Quill, Frosthaven's oldest bookshop. The bell above the door chimed softly. Dust motes swirled in lantern light as parchment-scented air enveloped him. Behind a crooked desk, an elderly scribe peered up, ink stains splattered like battle scars across his fingers.
"Ah," the man said, voice creaking like old leather. "The guild's newest merchant." His eyes—sharp despite their milky film—flicked to Ryan's cracked phone before returning to the ledger before him. "Seeking poetry? Histories?"
"Basics," Ryan said, tapping the counter. "A primer on Common Tongue script. Something for… late beginners." Or illiterate outsiders, he didn't add.
The scribe smirked but said nothing, shuffling to a low shelf. He returned with a slender volume, its worn leather cover embossed with gilded letters: "The Lexicon of Loam & Leaf."
"Letters first," the old man rasped, sliding it across. "Then words. Then sentences. Mind the inkwork—it bites."
Ryan flipped it open. The pages whispered beneath his fingers, revealing painstakingly illustrated glyphs—each stroke annotated with phonetic guides. Finally. A cipher for this world. He tossed two copper coins onto the counter.
The scribe caught them mid-air. "You'll need more than that, if you mean to read royal decrees."
Ryan tucked the book into his coat. "I'll manage."
The First Lesson
Back in his inn room, Ryan spread the primer open on the wobbling desk. The crack in his phone's screen caught the lamplight as he propped it up, its glow illuminating the alien alphabet. His finger traced the looping script—**Aurelthorn's Common**—and bit by bit, the symbols began to shift from gibberish to meaning.
This one's an 'S'. This, a guttural 'Kra'.
A slow, satisfied smile crept across his face. Languages were code. And if there was one thing Ryan Mercer excelled at, it was cracking systems.
Outside, Frosthaven slept, unaware of the quiet revolution unfolding in a dim-lit room above the stables.
08:00 a.m. - At Murdock's Forge
The clang of hammers and the roar of the furnace greeted Ryan as he stepped into Murdock's Forge three days later. The air shimmered with heat, and the scent of molten metal clung to every surface—but something was different.
There, in the corner of the workshop, stood the new furnace.
It was a beast of stone and clay, taller than Ryan, its design streamlined and efficient—nothing like the primitive setups around it. And beside it, resting on a worn workbench, was the steel nib mold, its edges sharpened to precision.
Murdock wiped soot from his brow with a grin so wide it split his beard. "Well, lad? Will it do?"
Ryan ran his fingers along the furnace's exterior, feeling the residual warmth. The craftsmanship was flawless, every joint reinforced, every vent positioned for optimal airflow. It was like seeing a relic from his old world dropped into this one.
"Damn right it will," Ryan said, smirking.
Murdock barked a laugh. "Knew you'd appreciate it. Took the lads two sleepless nights to finish."
Ryan rolled up his sleeves. "Then let's see how well it works."
The process was methodical. Murdock handed him a scoop of powdered flux, watching as Ryan meticulously lined the mold. Together, they fed charcoal into the furnace's belly, stoking the flames until the interior glowed white-hot.
"This isn't some brittle quill-maker's craft," Murdock mused, gripping the crucible tongs. "This'll change things."
Ryan didn't respond. His focus was locked onto the molten steel—a ribbon of liquid silver as it poured into the mold. The metal hissed, settling into the fine grooves of the nib's design.
Perfection.
An hour later, resting on the anvil, lay Technologia's first product: a slender steel nib, its tip honed to a finer point than any quill could achieve.
Murdock picked it up, turning it between his fingers. "Never seen metal this smooth used for writing. It'll last lifetimes."
Ryan nodded, already calculating. "And that's just the start."
Murdock's grin faded slightly. "Assumin' folks want it."
Ryan pocketed the nib. "They will."
The old dwarf hesitated, then leaned in. "Word's come from the south," he muttered. "Belmara's forces have crossed into Drakensvale territory. Full-scale war by week's end."
Ryan exhaled through his nose. "That's their business."
Murdock arched a brow. "War shapes markets, boy."
"Then we'll shape them first," Ryan said, stepping back from the furnace. "Starting with these."
Murdock watched him go, shaking his head.
The nib gleamed in Ryan's palm as he strode into the evening light.
Ryan turned back from the doorway, the newly forged steel nib glinting between his fingers. A slow, knowing smile curled at the edge of his lips as he met Murdock's gaze.
"One's impressive," Ryan said, flicking the nib into the air and catching it effortlessly. "But can you make a thousand?"
Murdock's hammer froze mid-swing. The forge's firelight danced across his soot-streaked face, etching deep shadows into his furrowed brow. For a moment, the only sound was the crackle of burning coal.
Then—**laughter.** A deep, rumbling roar that shook the rafters.
"A thousand?" Murdock wiped his beard with the back of his hand, eyes alight with a mix of amusement and defiance. "Lad, are ye tryin' to put me out of business or start a revolution?"
Ryan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Yes."
Murdock's grin sharpened. He tossed his hammer onto the anvil with a clang and strode toward Ryan, stopping just short of him. The dwarf's shadow swallowed the light as he jabbed a thick finger into Ryan's chest.
"Fine. But here's my condition—ye supply the steel, the flux, and the coin to pay my lads. And when the last of those thousand nibs leaves this forge..." His voice dropped to a growl. "Ye tell me exactly what game ye're playin'."
Ryan didn't blink. "Deal."
Murdock barked another laugh and turned back to the furnace, already shouting orders to his apprentices. "You heard the man! Stoke the fires! Melt down every scrap of steel we've got! And someone fetch me a barrel of ale—this'll be a long damn night!"
As the forge erupted into frenzied activity, Ryan slipped out into the dusk, the weight of the first nib still warm in his palm.
A thousand pens. A thousand tiny keys to unlock a medieval world's dependence on quills and ink-stained fingers.
And by the time the last one was forged?
Frosthaven wouldn't just know the name Technologia.
It would depend on it.
The Crimson Quill's bell jingled as Ryan stepped out into Frosthaven's crisp morning air. He absently rubbed his thumb along the sample steel nib in his pocket - smooth, precise, revolutionary. But nibs alone wouldn't change the game.
"Alright," Ryan muttered under his breath, squinting at the southern road where traders' carts lumbered toward Dawnspire. "Time to play merchant for real."
The capital loomed as his next battlefield. Four things needed securing:
1. Suppliers - Iron ore sources, specialty metallics, reliable transport
2. Distribution - Merchant alliances, guild approvals, royal contracts
3. Protection - Patents, legal defenses, political favors
4. Intel - Market trends, rival technologies, war news affecting trade
A gust of wind fluttered the cloth cover of a passing merchant's wagon - the silver stag sigil of Aurelthorn gleaming in the morning light. Ryan smirked.
Perfect.
He turned back toward the inn, already calculating:
- Which Frosthaven merchants could provide introductions
- What capital officials controlled trade licenses
- How to frame Technologia as an asset to the crown's coffers
The nib was just the first move. Dawnspire would be where this game truly began.
Ryan adjusted his pack and set off toward the stables, the steel nib clicking quietly in his pocket with each purposeful step.