[POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
08:10 a.m. - At Technologia Lab, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (09 February 2026)
After a long journey, I arrive in Frosthaven. I head straight to my lab.
Stone swallows the sound of the door as I push in.
One room. Thick walls. A single slit of a window with frost biting its corners. A rough bench under it, a wobbling table, just cold air and dust.
"Welcome to the R&D department," I mutter. "Population: me."
Bag down on the table.
My notebook. The stupid hundred‑item to‑do list that wants everything from soap to starships.
(What a long list to accomplish.)
I slide the drawer under the cabinet open and look.
Folded sketches. An M1‑ish rifle, a chunky revolver. Weapons from Earth in cheap ink.
I spread the rifle drawing flat with both palms.
"Alright," I tell the paper, "what do you actually need?"
I look at a note on the paper:
chamber pressure ≈ 300–400 bar?
barrel I.D. 8 mm → wall ?
σ_steel > safety × pressure
The barrel looks as thick as a thumb. If the steel is dirty, if a weld hides a slag pocket, if the bore is off by half a millimetre, the gun will turn into a hand grenade glued to someone's face.
I stare at the sketch of the bolt lugs. Tight tolerances. Repeatable heat‑treat. Machining they simply do not have yet. Powder I cannot trust to burn the same from one batch to the next. Primers I do not even have the chemistry for.
"Yeah," I breathe. "I want one for self‑defence too, but it looks like building it isn't easy. Some of the tools just aren't ready yet."
"Especially lathes."
I pause.
"Future project."
I fold the rifle and revolver drawings slowly, edges lined up, and tuck them deep under the desk, under my notebooks.
Next thing I can do: start a maths revolution. After that, every employee can read and do arithmetic and not flinch at a fraction.
I flip open the laptop to find an e‑book.
One word on the screen, a heavy title: Arithmetic
I pick up a sheet of parchment and drag a line across it until the nib bites the paper, ready to start translating.
I write a little bit—about two hours a day, every day—turning books into something I can publish and send to Aidan and Bromar.
After the next two hours alone, I lean back and consider the next thing I want to do in the city.
My purpose in coming to Frosthaven now is to prepare the city for new technology.
"I'm also trying to find a way to help Snowball, who's all dark right now."
I also want to expand my business overseas and find more time to learn my own powers.
I hate making weapons for others, especially crossbows. At first, this wouldn't have happened if I'd known that finding iron during the war was nearly impossible without manufacturing weapons for the kingdom.
Now I have iron, iron, iron, and…
Suddenly, I realise why I haven't started exploring resources. I don't know why I forgot this important thing—and I need help.
If I remember correctly, mining in the dungeon makes sense. I should join an adventurers' guild. Maybe I should just go solo, I think, and I smile.
"If it weren't for that terrible experience back then, I might still be in the tulip‑filled land."
"Okay, that's tomorrow's story, now I'd better continue writing the book."
---
12:00 a.m. - At Technologia Lab, Frosthaven, Aurelthorn. (10 February 2026)
Night eats the window slit. The lamp droops low, flame a tired orange tongue. Street noise thins down to one cart somewhere, then nothing.
Island of light. Me. Paper.
I pull a fresh sheet close and write at the top, in Common strokes:
"Numbers are marks that tell how many of a thing there are."
Under it I sketch three little hammers, then a "3".
Next line:
"A sack holds 40 measures. Your family eats 2 each day. How many days until the sack is empty?"
Next line:
"You buy 7 rods. Each rod is 3 hand‑spans. How many hand‑spans of iron do you own when the merchant walks away?"
My pen stalls.
On Earth I had infinite scroll. Light from LED. Hot showers at a thumb's tap. Coffee that did not taste like burnt mud and regret.
Here I have cold stone that call bread, bad soup, and a non‑zero chance of dragon fire or some drunk idiot with a knife because of greedy.
The lab I'm in right now is like a home. A house in the dark.
It feels different from the Mystery House.
The Mystery House flashes behind my eyes. Cream walls. Black hole at the window. Time stuck at 22:00 forever.
Laptop on the desk, humming from the computer. Phone that never rings. Frozen internet, like the world stopped in the middle of an apocalypse.
No shouting employees. No office boss. No friend. Just me and the backlog of all human knowledge, stretching wider than any sky.
The good thing about it being better than the house in the old world is that he doesn't have to pay for electricity, water and internet.
I like it there.
That thought tastes wrong and sweet at once.
"No sound. No politics. Just books and time," I breathe into my sleeve.
Also no Aidan. No Sariel. No Murdock swearing at slag. No one for this crap I'm writing to reach.
Stay there too long and I'm not a civ builder. I'm a ghost with Wi‑Fi.
I reach for the gun sketches on reflex.
My fingers brush the folded packet.
Drawer open a crack. Edge of a bolt lug peeks out.
I push them to the back until they hit wood.
"Bullets can wait. The world needs tools first."
Back to the page.
In Common, slow and careful, I write the final real line of the book's body:
"If you can count clearly, fewer people can lie to you."
Under it, tiny English letters hide like contraband:
"Arithmetic is your first weapon."
I picture soot‑stained kids at Murdock's bench, running these sums with charcoal stubs. A clerk in Frosthaven market, frowning at a merchant because the numbers don't match. A guildmaster grinding teeth because the usual tricks don't land.
Push it far enough and it becomes algebra. Statistics. Calculus. Pumps that don't fail. Vaccines in glass vials. Bridges that stay up.
And artillery that lands where you aim. Supply chains that feed an army to the last spear. Blast patterns you can graph.
The same ladder builds clean water and better killing machines.
I lay the pen down and flex cramped fingers until the joints pop.
Title glows in the lamplight:
"Arithmetic for a Fantasy World"
I huff a laugh that scrapes my throat.
"Ahh, the taste of life for a twenty‑four‑year‑old in another world: no internet, no showers, dead people, dragons, and I'm staying up late writing a maths book."
Pen back in the ink.
I bend over the page and keep going.