The next morning, a golden light seeped into Lornridge Village, brushing the tops of rooftops and spilling across cobblestones that were still damp from the night's dew. Ethan Vale awoke to the soft murmur of the village—the rhythmic tapping of hammers, the creak of a cart wheel on the dirt path, the faint chatter of villagers greeting one another. The air smelled of freshly baked bread and the tang of iron from the nearby workshops, a combination that made him realize just how alive this place was.
He rose carefully, feeling the lingering ache from the previous day's work, his muscles reminding him that skill required not just knowledge, but physical endurance. Even as a highly trained engineer in his old world, nothing had prepared him for the subtle fatigue that came from working with real materials, in real time, with no shortcuts.
Dressing quickly, he checked his pack, ensuring he had his small notebook, measuring tools, and the few materials he had gathered under the master's guidance. Today would be different. Today, he would craft something entirely on his own—a simple mechanism, yes, but one that would demonstrate not just his skill, but his patience and understanding of this world's materials.
The Craftsmen's Circle was already alive when he arrived. The oak tree's leaves rustled in the morning breeze, casting dappled patterns across the workshops. Sparks flew from the forge as the master hammered out a piece of steel, while the apprentice moved between benches with careful steps, carrying wood and tools. Lysa, who had become his informal guide to the guild, greeted him with a wave.
"You're early today," she said, her tone half teasing, half approving. "Determined, I see."
Ethan smiled faintly. "I want to make the most of the day," he replied, careful not to reveal the extra advantage his system could give him. "There's a lot to learn, and I'd rather start small than regret rushing later."
She nodded, her eyes warm. "Good. That mindset will serve you better than talent alone. Come, the master has something for you to try today."
The master, standing near a workbench cluttered with tools and half-finished projects, looked up as Ethan approached. His face was lined with experience, his eyes sharp and assessing. "You are ready for your first proper project," he said. "We will begin with something simple—a gear-driven water pump. Nothing fancy, but it requires precision, patience, and understanding of material properties. This will test your observation and control, not just knowledge."
Ethan's chest tightened slightly, a mix of excitement and apprehension. A gear-driven water pump. To the untrained, it might have seemed mundane. But to him, it was an opportunity to observe the interplay between wood, metal, and motion—a chance to bridge his knowledge from the old world to this new one, carefully, without revealing his advantages.
He began by inspecting the pile of raw materials. Wood planks of varying thickness, cylindrical metal rods, small cogwheels, and tools lined the workspace. The master watched silently as Ethan selected pieces, nodding only once when he noted Ethan's careful choices.
"First, understand your materials," the master instructed. "Wood expands, metal contracts. Measure twice, cut once. Every error compounds."
Ethan nodded, his mind quietly cataloging each property he had noticed yesterday: the weight of the tools, the texture of the wood, the slight resistance of metal under pressure. He did not rush. He aligned the cogs on the table, checking their teeth for consistency. Each gear, each plank, each rod had its own temperament, and he treated them all as partners rather than mere components.
While he worked, Torin appeared at the edge of the workshop, peering curiously. "That looks… complicated," the boy said, eyebrows raised. "I can barely imagine making something like that!"
Ethan smiled, keeping his tone casual. "It's not impossible," he said. "It just takes patience and understanding. Watch carefully, and you'll see."
Torin's eyes lit up, and he leaned closer, eager to observe. Ethan knew this was part of the process—teaching through action, guiding others without flaunting his experience. If he revealed too much knowledge, it would betray his outsider status.
With woodcut to size and metal rods shaped, Ethan began assembling the frame of the pump. His hands moved deliberately, placing each piece in sequence, checking alignment against his measurements. Sparks flew as he used the hammer, the clanging ringing out across the workshop like a rhythm, syncing with the subtle creak of wood under pressure.
"Observe the force," the master said, stepping closer. "Too much, and the material splits. Too little, and the mechanism fails. Find the balance."
Ethan felt the weight of responsibility. Every misstep could ruin hours of work. But he also felt alive in a way he hadn't since arriving: the tangible connection to creation, the immediate feedback from the materials, the satisfaction of seeing the theoretical become practical.
He worked slowly, allowing himself to fail small adjustments, learning from each mistake. By midday, the frame was complete, and the initial assembly of gears was in place. The master nodded once, approvingly, and Lysa watched with admiration.
"You're… precise," she said softly, almost in awe. "I think the system here might have a new student who actually has patience."
Ethan laughed lightly, hiding the truth of his system. "Patience is easier to have when the task is worth doing correctly," he replied.
By afternoon, the gears were meshed, and Ethan prepared to test the pump. Water from the well had been collected in a small bucket, and he began to operate the mechanism by hand. The cogs turned, the rod spun, and water flowed slowly through the pipe.
It was imperfect. Leaks at joints, a slight misalignment in the rods. But it worked. Just barely.
"Not bad," the master said, arms crossed. "Now, notice where it falters. Learn from it. Adjust."
Ethan crouched beside the device, adjusting the rods, realigning the gears, tightening bolts. Each tiny improvement felt monumental. Hours passed. By late afternoon, the pump worked smoothly, moving water efficiently from the bucket to a small trough without spilling a drop.
The satisfaction in accomplishing this was quiet but profound. He had built something functional from raw materials, using only his observation, logic, and patience. The guild was alive around him—apprentices and craftsmen moving independently, discussing designs, sharing techniques. He was not the center of attention, yet he felt part of the guild's rhythm.
As evening approached, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the workshop. Ethan sat on the edge of the oak tree's shadow, watching children play and craftsmen wrap up for the day. He reflected on the slow, deliberate process he had undergone: selecting materials, measuring, observing, failing, correcting.
The master approached, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You have potential, Vale. But remember this—no matter how skilled you are, the world moves at its own pace. Learn it. Respect it. Grow within it."
Ethan nodded, inwardly promising himself to honor that pace. Slowly. Carefully. Deliberately.
This was only the beginning. He had crafted his first creation, but there were hundreds more to understand, countless techniques to master, and an entire world to explore. And he would do it without revealing the knowledge from another world, without rushing, and with the same curiosity and care that had guided him from the village's edge to the Craftsmen's Circle.
Ethan Vale, engineer reborn, felt the quiet thrill of real progress for the first time in days. Here, in this living, breathing world, he would grow—step by measured step, creation by creation, until one day, his craft would speak louder than words, revealing the genius hidden behind patience and observation.