The first day passed in a blur of misplaced confidence that reality was all too eager to shatter.
Alex woke before dawn, even when his body protested, his mind was already racing. It seemed to be that going crazy had given him a sort of resilience, making his heart heavy.
It was a simple concept of physics he had studied himself even—two containers with an insulating layer between them, and he wondered how difficult it could possibly be to execute.
As it turned out, the answer was very.
He had been excused from his regular duties in the garden for the three days Kael had allotted him, a small mercy that earned him hostile glares from the other slaves who had to pick up his slack. The overseer made sure to mention it loudly enough for everyone to hear as they headed out for the morning's work.
In the workshop corner that Master Henrik had grudgingly assigned him, Alex worked with materials he barely understood, his hands unaccustomed to the feel of rough clay and crude tools. Clay pots felt different than he'd expected—heavier, more fragile, and impossible to nest properly without the inner one sliding around and making direct contact with the outer.
His first attempt took most of the morning to assemble. Two pots, one nested inside the other, with wool packed between them with what he thought was reasonable care. He filled the inner pot with hot water from a kettle and waited, his hands hovering over the container as if he could will it to retain heat through sheer stubbornness.
Thirty minutes later, he checked the temperature.
It was lukewarm, barely warmer than if he'd left it sitting in a regular pot.
"What the hell?" he muttered, staring at his creation as if it had personally betrayed him.
"System, what went wrong this time?"
[The wool packing is uneven,] the System's voice responded in his mind. [Gaps exist where air is circulating freely, creating convection currents that transfer heat away from the inner pot. Additionally, the inner container is making direct contact with the outer pot in several places, creating more bridges]
"Speak plainly." he muttered
[Your insulation is terrible, and the pots are touching each other. Heat is escaping through both routes.]
Alexander wanted to throw the whole useless contraption against the workshop wall, but he restrained himself, carefully dismantling it and starting over from scratch.
His second attempt later that day went even worse. He tried packing the wool more tightly to the eliminate air gaps, but now the inner pot wouldn't sit level. It tilted at an angle that would dump any water the moment someone tried to use it, and when he attempted to adjust its position, the entire assembly tipped over, sending clay pots clattering across the stone floor.
Master Henrik looked up from his own work, a smug smirk spreading across his face. "Having some trouble there, slave?"
"Just testing structural integrity," Alex said through gritted teeth, gathering the broken pieces.
"I'm sure you are." Henrik's smile was all teeth and no warmth. "You have two days left. I'd recommend working faster if I were you."
By evening, Alex's hands were cramped and covered in small cuts from the rough edges of broken clay. His third attempt had cracked as well—the simple spacers he'd fashioned to hold the inner pot in place couldn't handle the expansion. The moment he poured hot water into the inner container, they expanded, cracked, and leaked water all over his workbench.
He sat on the workshop floor staring at the spreading puddle and felt something uncomfortably close to despair beginning to creep in.
That's when the old slave appeared at his side.
The man was ancient by the brutal standards of slavery—probably in his fifties, which meant he'd somehow survived decades of this life through hardship, silence, and resilience, alexander would have respected such a man before.
"Boy," the old slave said quietly, his voice a dry rasp. He glanced around the workshop to make sure no one was watching them. "Why are you doing this?"
Alex didn't look up from the puddle of water on the floor, his hands kept wiping with the cloth in his hand, unbothered. "Because I'll be punished if I don't."
"We're all punished, one way or another." The old man sat down with a wince, his joints popping audibly. "Even if you succeed at whatever this is, you're still a slave. They'll just find new ways to use you up until there's nothing left. Death might be a mercy compared to that."
"Probably." As Alexander spoke, the light in his eyes dimmed, his lips forming a straight line showing no emotions on his pale face
"So why work yourself to exhaustion for them? Why bleed for them?" The old slave's voice carried a note of confusion. "It makes no sense."
Alex finally looked at him. The man's eyes were clouded with cataracts, his hands twisted with arthritis. A lifetime of slavery had left him broken in both body and spirit.
"You want to know why I'm doing this?" he asked, his voice low. "Fine. I'll tell you."
He stood up, his legs stiff and protesting from sitting on the cold stone floor for too long.
"In my last life, I believed that talent was everything. That some people were born special, and the rest of us just existed in their shadows. I had no particular talent myself, so I did nothing worth doing. Lived a comfortable, forgettable, utterly pointless life."
The old slave watched him with uncomprehending eyes, seemingly confused with the boy's analogy.
"I died having accomplished nothing, I was even mocked for my beliefs, questioned if I really thought fate was set in stone." Alex laughed, a bitter and sharp sound in the quiet workshop. "And here's the thing—I still believe that. My fate, its all depended on my starting point. You were born a slave. That noble's son was born with power and wealth. Neither of you chose your starting position."
"Then why—" the old slave began, but Alex cut him off.
"Because my fate changed." He gestured at the broken pottery and scattered wool around him. "I have something I didn't have before. Knowledge that only i can grasp, it is as if i have centuries of experience ready too be made mine. That's a new predicament, a new tool I can use."
He walked back to his workbench, his hands reaching for fresh clay despite the pain. "I'm not working like this because I suddenly believe in dreams or hard work or any of that inspiring garbage people tell themselves to get through the day..... I'm doing it because not using the tools I've been given would make me even more pathetic than I was before."
The old slave was quiet for a long moment, processing what he'd heard. "That's... all? You're not trying to prove something?"
"Prove what? That I'm noble? Heroic?" Alex began shaping new spacers, his movements more careful and precise now. "I'm just pragmatic. If someone hands you a weapon, you use it. Standing there with your hands empty while the weapon rusts—that's the real waste."
"I don't understand you, boy," the old slave admitted after another long silence.
"You don't have to." Alex didn't look up from his work. "I barely understand myself these days."
A grim expression appeared on the slave, he seemed even more bothered than before " To think you would go crazy like this.... its truly regretful"
He left without another word. Alex didn't watch him go. He had two days left, and understanding his own motivations was far less important than understanding the path to success
The second day brought new failures and new lessons. His fourth attempt solved the spacer problem by using a more flexible clay, but now moisture became the enemy. Condensation formed between the pots as they cooled, and the wool absorbed it like a sponge, losing its insulating properties spectacularly fast.
"System, how do I stop moisture from ruining the insulation?"
[Seal the top of the gap between the containers while leaving the inner pot's opening accessible. This will prevent ambient moisture from entering while still maintaining the pot's functionality.]
It made sense. Why hadn't he thought of that himself?
Because he was too narrow minded, that's why. He'd worked through most of the night, barely sleeping, his hands moving on autopilot while his brain barely understood, it was because he did not grasp this knowledge that he did not progress.
His fifth attempt involved adding a clay rim that sealed the gap between the two pots at the top. He filled it with hot water and waited.
The inner pot's bottom cracked. He'd made it too thin in his rush, and the weight of the water combined with the thermal stress was too much for it to handle.
Alex stared at the spreading puddle—again—and wanted to scream. Instead, he laughed, a high and slightly unhinged sound that made several of the craftsmen look at him nervously.
"Having fun over there, slave?" Master Henrik called out from across the workshop, his voice laced with mocking amusement.
"The time of my life," Alex called back, and meant it in the darkest, most ironic way possible.
By the second evening, he'd stopped bothering to go back to the slave quarters. He slept in the workshop corner, his head pillowed on a sack of wool scraps.
The other slaves avoided him completely now, having decided he was either cursed or insane, and neither option seemed wrong.
The third day dawned cold and bright. Alex's hands shook as he shaped a new clay, not from fear this time, but from pure exhaustion after two days of relentless work with too little rest. He had until sunset. If this attempt failed, there wouldn't be time for another.
Attempt number six would have to be the one that worked.
He started from scratch one last time, incorporating every lesson he'd learned from the previous failures. A thicker inner pot to handle the weight and thermal stress. Spacers made from the flexible clay mixture, positioned to allow for expansion. Wool packed carefully into the gap, not too loose and not too tight. The top of the gap sealed with a carefully smoothed clay rim to prevent moisture intrusion.
And one final addition the System had mentioned: a lid for the inner pot, with a small cork-sealed opening to reduce heat loss from the water's surface while still allowing access.
He worked with the careful, deliberate precision. This was his last chance, No rushing, no shortcuts, every connection checked and double-checked until he was satisfied.
By midday, it was finally done.
He filled the inner pot with hot water and waited, his heart hammering against his ribs and his hands refusing to stop shaking.
Thirty minutes passed, he removed the cork and poured the water into a small bowl, it was still quite hot. Better than any previous attempt.
One hour later and it was still warm, genuinely and comfortably warm.
Two hours. Still pleasantly warm.
Alex felt something bright and dangerous bloom in his chest—hope, perhaps, or just the relief of knowing he succeeded.
At the four-hour mark, he checked again, barely daring to breathe. The water was no longer hot, but it was still warmer than room temperature. Comfortably warm. Usable.
"It worked," he whispered to the pot, a slow grin spreading across his exhausted face. "You beautiful bastard, it actually worked."
[Congratulations. Your persistence has been noted, if not particularly admired.]
"Shut up and let me have this moment."
[Very well. Enjoy your moment of triumph before your audience arrives.]
The demonstration was scheduled for sunset. Alexander spent the remaining hours making sure everything was perfect, then creating a second, normal single-walled pot for comparison.
When the workshop door opened, he was ready.
Kael entered first, his expression a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Lord Verlaine followed behind, his calculating eyes immediately finding Alex and not looking away. And with them, moving carefully, came Lady Elara. She was younger than Alex had expected—perhaps in her early-twenties—she had the kind of refined beauty that would make the hearts of many men flutter, but her face was tight with a grim expression.
"Well, slave?" Lord Verlaine's voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "The three days are up. Show us what you've made, or show us why we shouldn't waste our time on slaves with foolish ideas." He sent a rather nasty look towards Kael.
Alex bowed, carefully schooling his emotion off his face. "My lord, I have two pots prepared for demonstration. It was a success"
He'd filled both with hot water, his audience grew in the thirty minutes of wait. Master Henrik was here now, along with the overseer and even the slaves. He made sure to time it carefully.
Now he gestured toward them. "The first is a normal clay pot. The second uses my insulated design."
Kael stepped forward and dipped his fingers into the first pot, his eyebrows rising. "Its lukewarm. Barely warm at all."
Then he tested the second pot, his hand jerking back slightly. "This one's still hot! Quite hot, actually."
Lord Verlaine moved closer, leaning on the counter, his sharp eyes studied both the pots and then the slave. He tested both pots himself, his expression shifting from skepticism to genuine, unhidden surprise.
"Thirty minutes ago, both pots were the same temperature," Alex explained, keeping his voice level and respectful. "The normal pot has lost most of its heat. The insulated pot retains it."
"How long will it stay warm?" Lord Verlaine asked, his eyes fixed on Alex's face as if he could read the secrets of his mind there.
"I tested it for over four hours, my lord. The water remained at a comfortable, usable temperature throughout that time."
Silence filled the workshop. Lady Elara was staring at the insulated pot like it was a miracle made manifest. Master Henrik looked quite surprised himself, while the overseer was gritting his teeth, Alexander will not taste his whip today it seems.
Master Henrik, finally spoke up. "Young master, I must point out that the design is crude. The workmanship could be much finer if a proper craftsman were to—"
"The design WORKS," Kael interrupted, his voice carrying an edge of authority Alex hadn't heard before. "And this slave conceived it, tested it, and proved it. That matters more than polish."
Lord Verlaine moved closer to Alex, studying him with an uncomfortable intensity that made the hair on Alex's arms stand up. "Where did you learn to think like this, slave? This is not common knowledge."
It was a dangerous question. Alex chose his next words with extreme care. "My previous owner believed that educated slaves were more valuable than ignorant ones, my lord. He taught me to gain knowledge and think through problems. This design came from observing how winter clothing works, I simply applied the same principle to keeping water hot."
"Clever." The lord's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Very clever indeed. Tell me, Alexander—that is your name, is it not?—what else did your previous owner teach you?"
"Many things, my lord. He died but left his way of thinking with me...."
"Unfortunate for him, perhaps. Fortunate for us." Lord Verlaine turned to his son. "Kael, I believe we've found something useful. Have this slave build a full-sized version for Lady Elara's quarters. And after that..." His calculating gaze returned to Alex. "We'll find other projects for his talents."
"Yes, father." Kael was grinning now. "Alex, you'll be working with Master Henrik permanently from now on. Consider yourself promoted from garden work to the craftsman's workshop!"
Something that might have been resentment flickered across Henrik's face before he smoothed it away. "Of course, young master. I'll ensure the slave learns proper techniques."
"See that you do." Lord Verlaine gestured to Lady Elara. "My lady, shall we see about getting you that relief you've been seeking?"
She nodded, but before leaving, she looked directly at Alex. "Thank you. You have no idea how much this means."
Alex knew he should probably feel grateful, or relieved, or at least something positive. Instead, all he felt was a profound, ache.
A purple panel flickered into view in his vision:
[Quest Update]
[Phase 1: Demonstrate Value]
[Progress: 35/100]
[Achievement Unlocked: First Innovation]
[Reward: 200 points]
[Current Points: 235]
he'd done it. Three days of failure, and he'd actually succeeded.
"Not bad for a talentless hack," he muttered to himself, and meant it without a trace of irony.