The first payday under the black flag of the Nova Empire changed everything. As the labor shifts ended, the Elder Races gathered at the BSMG kiosks to receive their wages. There were no paper ledgers or empty promises of protection; instead, the workers were handed heavy, gleaming gold coins. To the Novanians, these were simply Credits, the standard currency of their interstellar realm. To the refugees, they were a shock.
Brouver Hoog and his fellow dwarves huddled over their haul, biting the metal and weighing the coins in their calloused palms. The purity of the gold was staggering, far beyond anything minted in the south. "By the ancestors," Brouver muttered, staring at the embossed dragon. "If these Credits ever reached the southern markets, the crowns of Novigrad would be dethroned overnight. This single coin is worth more than a human lord's treasury."
While the dwarves obsessed over the gold, the Aen Seidhe were discovering a new form of lethality. On their hunts through the tundra, they had been introduced to conventional firearms. To an elf who had spent centuries perfecting the silent draw of a bow, the weapon was a revelation. It fired something called bullets—small, leaden teeth propelled by controlled explosions. It was loud, lacking the elegance of elven craftsmanship, but its utility was undeniable. It could strike with the force of a bolt from the sky and fire so rapidly that it could easily replace the sword in close-quarters combat.
In the warmth of the hydroponic domes, the Halflings were experiencing a life they had never thought possible. In the Nova Empire, farmers were not seen as lowly peasants, but were treated as the backbone of a nation. The Novanians provided them with advanced agricultural tools and, in return, fed them incredibly healthy and delicious food. For a people who valued the hearth and the harvest above all else, being treated with such respect and being given the finest meals the Empire could provide was a dream they never wanted to wake from.
Meanwhile, in the hum of the factories, the Gnomes were undergoing a crisis of understanding. For generations, they had believed that great feats were only possible through the manipulation of Chaos—the wild magic used by mages. But the Novanian technology was different.
"There is no magic here," a Gnomish worker whispered, watching a circuit board come to life. "It is not powered by Chaos, but by Order. Every gear, every wire, and every spark follows a perfect, logical law. And yet, it achieves the same results as the highest sorcery—perhaps even better."
As the Elder Races settled into their roles, the fear of the "star-men" began to fade, replaced by a deep curiosity for a civilization that built its world on logic, gold, and lead.
******
The trial period reached its conclusion under the cold, blue sun of the North. For many among the Elder Races, the weeks of labor, discipline, and absolute adherence to the Guild's protocols had borne fruit. In a massive, sterile hall within the primary command spire, the first large group of Dwarves, Elves, Gnomes, and Halflings stood before the medical kiosks. They were no longer mere refugees or "local assets." By the decree of Emperor Shaun III Lanchester, they had earned their merit.
They were now Novanians.
One by one, they stepped forward to receive the nanobot shot. As the silver fluid hissed into their veins, the transformation was near-instantaneous. The microscopic machines flooded their systems, stitching themselves into their muscle fibers and nervous systems. The Halflings felt a surge of vitality that warded off the biting mountain chill; the Dwarves felt their already dense bones reinforce with metallic durability; and the Elven hunters felt their senses sharpen to a preternatural edge.
However, there were those who stood apart. The Aen Saevherne, the Sages of the Elves, remained at the back of the hall, their eyes glowing with a faint, natural amber light. They were not given the nanobot shots, nor did they ask for them. To those who possessed the Source, the nanobots were a disruption—a physical static that interfered with the delicate weaving of magic spells. The Sages did not mind being bypassed; they looked upon the technology as a clever crutch for the masses. In their view, the nanobots were a means to power the weak, whereas the truly strong—those who could tap into the primal forces of the world—had no need for silver blood.
What truly fascinated the Aen Saevherne, however, was not the technology itself, but the people who created it. As they watched the human administrators and engineers move through the city, the Sages realized something profound and unsettling. These humans from the stars were entirely devoid of chaotic energies.
"There is a silence in them," one Sage whispered to Filavandrel. "A hollow space where the Power should be. They do not tap into the Ley Lines; they do not draw from the elements. There will never be a Mage born from among their kind."
This realization explained the frantic, brilliant complexity of their civilization. Because they lacked the innate ability to bend reality through Chaos, they had been forced to master Order. They used the nanobot shots not just for health, but to artificially manufacture the physical and psychic powers that their biology lacked. They had replaced the erratic miracles of magic with the predictable, cold perfection of science.
As the newly christened Novanian citizens flexed their enhanced limbs, the Sages looked on with a mixture of respect and dread. The Nova Empire had achieved through steel and logic what the Sorcerers of the South had spent millennia failing to do with spells: they had made every man a master of his own body.