[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
06:10 a.m. – At Bench Room, Technologia, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (30 January 2026)
The room smells like cold stone and cheap soap.
I sit at the little table by the window, notebook open, pen tapping in a nervous loop. Outside the glass, Dawnspire is still half‑asleep—chimneys yawning, sky stuck between blue and ash.
I check off an item on the to‑do list.
"29. Build a simple dynamo when the time is right — check."
(We actually did it. The dynamo spins, but sometimes my laptop won't charge.)
There are a lot of factors that decide whether a machine behaves or refuses to—things like rotational speed and overall stability. The makeshift water‑wheel dynamo I cobbled together is still temperamental, but if I really focus on refining it, it should at least be able to keep my laptop alive so I don't have to respawn to that mystery house every time I need a charge. It'll probably eat into the poor thing's lifespan, though.
I'm not entirely calm about it—if something spikes or sags in the wrong way, this setup could cook the laptop—but I'm counting on whatever protection circuits are hiding on its power board. As long as I don't try to charge while playing, and the output voltage doesn't drop to something pathetic, it should be fine.
The notes under it are messy arrows:
- water wheel → shaft.
- shaft → dynamo.
- dynamo → bricks (battery stand‑ins).
- bricks → lights, presses, future everything.
The basic electronics book can help, but building many things in a medieval world is too hard.
I scan the page. The next to‑do line sits there like a boss encounter.
My eyes land on line 47, and I hesitate over it. I've basically finished that one, so I cross out "in process" and switch it to "check."
"47. Introduce universal measurement standards (meters, liters, kilograms, etc.) — check"
Until now, I've been lazy—I used what this world uses. Hands, spans, cubits, "so many paces from the oak," "as much as fits in this bucket."
(And honestly? It works. People here aren't stupid. Their units grew out of real life, same as ours. Just… fuzzy.)
Fuzzy is fine for medieval people and fantasy things.
Fuzzy is death for engines, modern physics, and calculating the trajectory of a projectile.
"If I want real science," I mutter, "I need real constants."
I write it clean, like an internal law.
At Technologia, we use:
- meters for length.
- kilograms for mass.
- seconds for time.
- liters for volume.
- etc. — based on Earth standards.
No more "1 alz" on the order slips. No more "cut it as long as Bromar's stride" in the workshop.
(Use their language. Use my numbers.)
I've written a book, Universal Measurement Standards.
In the book I explain all the measurements we use, what a ruler is, what scales are, etc.
"That's how you stop the world from drifting," I whisper. "Pick up a pen and write them down in Universal Measurement Standards."
I add under the title: "Written by Elric Mercer."
I shut both books for a second, just to feel the weight of them in my hands.
Dynamo: check. Measurement standards: check.
(Foundation first. Fancy stuff later.)
Next, I need to hit the main choke points in the company's growth:
Talk with Aidan: seaport plans, fresh supply sources, and rolling out the new measurement standards to all Technologia employees.
Build a Gutenberg‑style printing press.
Level up Bromar's brain → introduce basic materials science and the new measurement standards.
Translate science books → send to Aidan after I leave Dawnspire (I'm going to slack off. Actually… I'm going to help Snowball.)
I take a breath. My hand steadies.
"Right," I murmur to the empty room. "Lock in the company's footing and course before I step out."
---
09:00 a.m. - At Floor Office, Technologia, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (30 January 2026)
I snatch up all the books, slip them into my bag, and stride toward Aidan's office.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Aidan? It's Elric. You in there?"
The latch clicks, the door swings open. Aidan takes me in at a glance and steps back to let me through, posture easy but attentive.
"Is there something you need from me, Mr.Elric?" he asks, polite and steady.
Since that deal, Aidan's view of me has shifted into plain respect. His position is still CEO, but now it's under my control. I'm the founder of the company. I'm okay with this arrangement because I don't have to deal with the headache of clients, the king's representatives, the sly trade guilds, or the Church's accusations of heresy.
"Walk with me to the shore, Aidan," I say. "I want you at the beach with me."
Aidan looks confused.
I add, "We're going to expand our empire."
---
12:20 p.m. - At Riverbend Bay Flats, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (30 January 2026)
Wind off the Silverwyn tastes like mud on my tongue. The river widens here into a lazy half‑moon, mudflats and reeds and three crooked jetties poking out like bad teeth.
Aidan stands beside me with a folded Dawnspire map, boots sinking a thumb into wet silt.
"Ugly piece of shore," he grunts. "Ferry and many boats. What do you see, Mr. Elric?"
"Our all‑in solution," spills out before I filter it.
His brow arches.
Not just a way out for Technologia—a way out to go hunting new resources. A way to follow my to‑do list.
"9. Make a Veythralis world map."
I toe a river‑scarred plank. "If the king ever turns tyrant and tries to grab my company, or if Aurelthorn starts losing the war and our ore and material suppliers get burned, Technologia dies chained to one kingdom's throat. I don't want to bet the company on Aurelthorn's luck."
"You think Aurelthorn falls?" Aidan asks.
"I think Aurelthorn is unreliable." I tap my glasses. "I hate variables I can't control. Shipping routes spread risk. If one kingdom burns, cargo still comes by sea from somewhere that isn't on fire."
"Aidan, have you ever thought about building your own empire without depending on anyone, just being yourself?"
Aidan is thinking, jaw working.
He flips the map open. Lines in brown and blue, tiny ink notes. He points with two fingers.
"This bar is city land," he ticks off. "Those sheds belong to House Meryn. That salt patch—" his finger lands on a crosshatched strip "—used to be Stoneveil brine storage. On paper it sits under Technologia now. Part of what you took off Odrik for one gold."
"Odrik still helps without meaning to." I grin. "Good. I want that asset to cut our costs."
"What for?"
"Deep‑water dock here." I draw on the map with one finger. "Cut a new basin off the bend, line it with our concrete, sink oak piles. Long pier out to where the keel of a real sea ship won't scrape. Warehouses back here. Customs lane. Rope‑walk spur. One clean road from dock straight to our yard and the stores."
I show the shipyard blueprints to Aidan.
"That is a huge shipyard." His eyes narrow. "You think the King lets you dig his river?"
"He needs crossbows and our products, and he already pays us for both. We make him a port that feeds the war and the city after. You present it as part of the rebuild—urban plan, deep‑sea port on land we already hold from Odrik. No new fief, just better use."
Aidan folds the map against his chest, thinking.
"Imports?" he pushes. "Name three we do not already pull by cart."
"Fine." I count on my hand.
"One: unexplored coasts and lands. Places nobody here has charted properly—good for trade and for my world map.
"Two: minerals—especially better iron and anything close to oil. Strange stones, strange sands, things we can feed to forges and chem.
"Three: new plants—vegetables, spices, and seeds this world isn't moving yet. If it grows somewhere, I want a chance to bring it home."
He snorts once. "And exports?"
"Nibs. Soap. Tools. Steam engines, presses, paper. We ship finished product, not raw materials." I tap my glasses. "This turns Technologia from 'clever workshop' into 'startup empire.' Different weight."
He watches the river for a long breath.
"You want three berths?" Aidan checks. "Or four?"
"Start with two. One day we hang cranes here." I drag a crude L shape. "I don't want to drag barrels up a ladder forever."
A faint smile tugs his mouth. "You think far."
"I think about not watching everything I built die because a church blocks a bridge or a king throws a tantrum."
Aidan closes the map. "Cost will be ugly. Guilds will scream."
"Guilds scream anyway. We budget phases. No need to rely on merchant guilds; we use our own money, tie it under the King's writ as an extension of the drainage and road plan. 'Deep‑sea port, Phase Two of the rebuild,' on land already under Technologia."
Aidan nods once, slow. "You hand me the drawings. I hammer the deals. That the split?"
"For the port, yes."
His attention sharpens. "We already built a new factory extension specifically for paper production."
"Let's turn paper made from animal skins into paper from trees."
Aidan shows me the results of the paper he brought with him.
"For a new CEO, you learn quite quickly," I tell him.
Aidan nods in acceptance of the compliment.
I change the topic to the Gutenberg printing press.
"Right now we stamp one page at a time for manuals. Remember the first nib wrappers?" I snort. "One stupid plate, one page."
"You swore at that press for a full week." Aidan's mouth curls.
So I take out the Gutenberg printing press blueprint.
"This," I tap the drawing, "is a paper machine. Pulp vat here. Water and rag slurry spill onto a moving mesh belt—think mould that never ends. Water drains out, we squeeze the sheet thin with rollers, then either hang it or run it across warm drums to dry. Continuous strip. Trim to size at the end. Same width, same weight, every gods‑damned page."
Aidan leans in, pupils bright. "How many bodies?"
"Fewer than twenty to run a line that feeds every scribe in Dawnspire." I dot little stick people along it. "Four on pulp, four on vat and belt, four on press and cut, the rest on dry‑lines and packing. Once the skeleton stands, it's repetition and checks. Soap rules, but with rags."
Aidan taps the rollers I've drawn. "You have full plans?"
"In my bag." I pat it.
Aidan lets out a short breath. "You hand me ports, steam engines, paper‑make and now a Gutenberg printing press. Any more wonders stitched into that coat?"
"Plenty." I shut the sketchbook. "Oh, and the ship I want to build should be made of steel and have a steam engine installed."
Aidan looks like his life is getting shorter.
I cut across it. "Let's finish building the ports and shipyard first. I'll send you the ship plans later."
Aidan sighs deeply.
"I'm not staying in Dawnspire." The line sits in my mouth like something half bitter, half sweet. "Frosthaven needs someone to handle Technologia Company's second branch for R&D, the chemical branches. I can't helm both cities and stay in one piece."
"So you leave me with a shipyard and a machine," he sums.
"I leave you with a shipyard design, a paper line blueprint, and the King's order for two hundred crossbows a day. You already run this floor better than I ever managed. This is just the next tier."
His jaw locks. "You hand me all that on trust?"
"If you didn't, I'd be back in the Space—" I cut myself off, cover it with a shrug. "I trust you more than I trust most of the magic runes here."
He studies my face, weighing it.
"What do you need out of me, straight?" he presses.
"Five things." I hold up fingers.
"First: you treat the port as core city work, not a side hobby.
"Second: you build the Gutenberg printing press following my blueprint.
"Third: you send me letters—real reports—once a month to Frosthaven so I don't wake up and discover you've raised a temple where my shipyard was meant to go.
"Fourth: reap the benefits and expand your influence through employing city people.
"Last: we build an empire for science to improve the quality of human life."
He barks a short laugh. "No temples. I've seen enough of those."
His hand comes up, palm open between us.
"You put the documents in my hands before you go," he lays out.
"I speak with the castle about the port. I start adding the port into the contracts for the urban plan; Ressa and Tobyn will be on the shed frames and concrete mix.
"I expand our employees as income allows.
"I ask Bromar to build the Gutenberg printing press.
"I set Sariel on income and expense reports.
"I answer your five with work, not pleasant noises."
I nod.
"Then Frosthaven is my next step," I tell him. "Just don't let Dawnspire burn down before I get there. And if anything explodes in my absence, call it a strategic initiative. They'll believe a CEO."
Aidan clenches his fist, as if trying to hold back his annoyance at my antics.
"Walk sharp, Mr. Elric."
"You too, CEO."
---
05:10 p.m. - At Bromar's Forge, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (30 January 2026)
Heat hits as soon as we duck under the lintel. Hammer on steel, coal smoke, orange light breathing over everything.
Bromar works alone at the main anvil, shoulders rolling with each strike. Sparks jump around his boots.
"Aye, if it isn't my two favorite troublemakers." He lifts the bar to the light, eyeing the glow. "You came as promised, didn't you, Mr. Elric?"
"Yes."
I drop my bag on the cleared bench. Three things come out in a neat row: a slim bound book, a thicker one with pages bristling in two languages, and the roll of Gutenberg drawings.
I tap the slim book. "First, this. Universal Measurement Standards. From now on, every job inside Technologia uses what's in here. One meter is one meter, whether you're in this forge or at the Technologia workshop."
Bromar wipes his hands on his apron, then flips it open. Lines. Tables. A sketch of a bar with marks along the edge.
"So this 'meter' is your new 'cubit'." His beard twitches. "Why is your cubit made of numbers instead of a dwarf's arm?"
(That was one of the reasons founding Technologia was so difficult—everything felt out of place and had to be adjusted over and over again.)
"Because arms change when people grow up." I point at the drawing. "You forge one master bar. We lock it in a chest. Every ruler, every jig, every casting pattern copies that bar. Same with this—" I flip to the mass page "—kilogram weight, same game. Any argument on a job, you walk back to the box and measure."
Aidan leans on the bench, reading over his shoulder. "People can learn this."
"Exactly why you two need this together."
The thicker book lands in front of Bromar. Handwritten Common labels. My cramped notes between. The cover reads, clumsy but honest: Basic Materials Science.
"That one is rude," I warn him. "It thinks it understands your forge."
(I said that because I was afraid that Bromar might not accept it because it was knowledge from Earth that was too new for Bromar to understand and prove.)
Bromar snorts, then stops on a sketch of crystals under a lens. Another page shows iron cooling curves, arrows at different points.
"You tell me steel changes not just with heat, but with time and how fast it cools?" His eyes narrow. "You draw wee scratches on a page and claim to know my steel better than I do?"
"That's how I was able to design a furnace that could melt iron like water."
"It's not holy writ. It's knowledge that comes from passing on and observing from generation to generation." I tap the curve. "You already know by feel that quenching in water gives harder, more brittle steel than oil. This just gives names and patterns. You test, you break bars, you keep a log. You'll find places on that curve the book never saw."
His thumb rests on the margin where I've scribbled: Try at forge. Prove or crush the theory.
"Aye," he rumbles. "I do like crushing bad theory."
I unroll the last bundle, blue‑black lines across rough paper. Frames, screws, gears, moulds for type.
(Let's change the subject; I don't want to leave late at night.)
"Gutenberg printing press," I say, laying it out between them. "Aidan runs the paper line. Bromar, you build this printing press. Wood frame goes to the carpenters, but every part that moves, squeezes, or breaks under load is yours."
Aidan traces the blueprint with a knuckle. "We use it first for?"
"For this." I drop my palm on Universal Measurement Standards.
"Job 1: you two print a cheap booklet of these standards. Give one to every worker in Technologia. Next, print Bromar's Basic Materials Science once he starts learning my metal theories."
"Actually, I'd like to distribute them throughout the kingdom, but I want to start with Technologia first. For other types of books, I'd like you to try buying books from the Magician's Library and translating them. It would be interesting and could generate some income."
Bromar's beard bristles. "This is the book you wrote, and you seem to care about sharing your money‑making skills with others, Mr. Elric."
(Because I hate lack of innovation, and most of the content in the book is not mine. I took it from books from Earth and translated it again.)
"I want a machine that lets apprentices learn in one week what took you twenty years. That means our mistakes become ladders, not secrets."
He grunts. That's a yes in dwarf.
Aidan folds the standards book and the press drawings together and tucks them under his arm. "I'll set up a library near the new paper hall for this. We'll use it as a training floor so the staff can upskill, using salary increases as motivation. I'll put up the notices properly."
"Good." I slide the materials book closer to Bromar. "You take this one for yourself. Build something that isn't on my list. Surprise me."
His fingers close on the spine, slow, like it's a hot ingot. "Careful, Elric. You give me tools like this, I might outpace your clever little brain."
"I'm counting on it."
Silence hangs a beat—just the crackle of the forge.
I shoulder my bag.
"I'm heading for Frosthaven before the gate crowds thicken," I tell them. "Aidan, the Technologia company in Dawnspire are yours. Bromar, beat the truth out of that book."
Aidan straightens. "You travel quiet?"
"Caravan bench, hood up, tunic shirt." I shrug. "You hold the spotlight. I'll work where no one looks."
Bromar snorts. "Coward."
(Since coming to this fantasy world, I have died about five times.)
"I'm not a coward—"
(I'm just trying to keep my deaths under double digits per year.)
I sigh and say, "Alright, everyone has something to do. Good luck. I'll send you a letter."
At the caravan gate an hour later, I swing onto the back of a trader's wagon between sacks of grain and a crate that smells like onions. The caravan creaks forward toward the Frosthaven road.
No banners. No crowds. Just wheels, hooves, and the long, open track ahead.
I lie down and think, "Well, it must be January on Earth, and it's a good time to reassess my actions and decide what to do next."
I also think of the man I'd shot with a crossbow. "That bastard stole Snowball," my best friend and trusty moose.
"If I remember correctly, he was with two other women, and one of them looked like Sera."
I close my eyes. "How am I supposed to find them?"
My mind races with ideas of how to help my friend.
And that is one of the first times after getting the power—Safe from Fatigue—that I actually use it to sleep off this tedious journey and take a break like ordinary human.