The low, ghastly thrum of the teleportation faded into silence.
The mana carriage coasted to a slow roll over smooth stone, its wheels ticking softly.
A breeze cut through the cracked air vents, faintly sweet with the scent of dust, grain, and something else—metal? Dry roots? It was hard to say.
Baron Gorath reached to the window beside him and slowly wound it down, letting the outside air rush in properly.
His black gloves creaked faintly on the handle as he opened it halfway.
Cool, dry air swept into the carriage like a ghost through a half-open door.
Volker, seated across from him, sniffed once and raised an eyebrow. "Hn."
His head tilted slightly. Though he said nothing, his nostrils flared again—once. Then again.
There was a difference. A warm, earthy one.
It was clear they were near a farming field.
It wasn't just the smell—though that was the first thing to register.
It was the air itself. The oxygen.
The scent of the soil, the grain in the wind, the bite of stone in the sunlight. None of it matched what they'd left behind.
It was not like the Maddach territory.
What most travelers failed to realize—because they never traveled this way—was that normal travel introduced the body to its surroundings slowly.
As a person journeyed across roads and terrain, changes in scent, texture, temperature, even the tone of sunlight came gradually.
One might note the shift, but the body adapted along the way.
The lungs, the pores, the senses—all adjusted together in rhythm with the terrain.
But portal travel cheated the body's senses in a way that not even the Imperial Engineers or Doctors could fix.
They tried, but eventually gave up, as most of the users of the teleportation technology were amused by this unusual feeling of freshness that they could only get here.
Instant relocation meant no such acclimation.
The scent of a new world hit the lungs all at once.
The air pressure, the taste of it on the tongue, the way the earth's aura shimmered just beneath the mana—we notice, even when we pretend we don't.
Gorath didn't comment. Neither did Cheng, Malik, nor Volker.
They were all used to travel. Experienced men with little need to voice what they had each felt dozens of times.
But the difference was there.
Visibly, too.
As the carriage rolled forward under a cloudless sky, the land began to open up around them.
Here, the roads were uneven. The cobblestone didn't shimmer with embedded mana-tracework like those near Maddach Manor.
Their route wound past farmlands that were broad and productive, but scattered and asymmetrical, as if each plot had been carved out of contested ground.
Gorath could see it in the layout alone: disunity.
Each field was its own little kingdom. And none of them matched.
Some used old wooden fencing, others had iron runes spiked in uneven intervals.
No standardized control. No regional harmony.
He didn't need to be told why.
In this part of the realm, minor noble houses fought constantly over boundary rights and tax control.
Their lack of Calculors—trained minds like Cheng, capable of measuring territory, managing wealth, optimizing disputes—meant those squabbles rarely resolved cleanly.
The result? Chaos. Not ruin, but a low-level instability.
Since most of the fights settled through microwars, the houses taking part in them would lose a substantial amount of funds.
And if they lost, risked bankruptcy.
Still, the commoners and the more peaceful minor nobles weren't living in poverty.
Though not unified, these lands weren't broken.
The people here worked hard. They harvested efficiently.
They repaired whatever had been broken through wars they had no choice but to take part in.
They just weren't refined.
A field came into view as the carriage turned down a shallow incline—broad, sloped, filled with workers bending over modular equipment.
The metal of their tools shimmered faintly even in full daylight.
Some sort of low-tier enchantment.
"Malik," Gorath said, pointing with a single gloved finger to a section of glowing spades being operated by three workers. "That one. Those materials—are they Lockewright's?"
"Absolutely," Malik said without hesitation. "That's his model three. Designed for shallow-root crops—carrots, bulbs, that sort. Glows when the mana's near empty."
Gorath watched them for a moment, his expression clearly impressed by the commoners' ability to purchase mana-enchanted tools.
Though the overall infrastructure lagged far behind House Maddach's polished systems, the farming tech here… it rivaled them. Possibly even exceeded.
Efficiency where it mattered.
Eventually, the road straightened again. And the building—no, tower—came into view.
Lockewright Industries.
The carriage slowed as the tower-like structure rose on the horizon—broad at its base, tapering slowly upward, like it had more stories planned but never built.
Its white marble walls gleamed against the sun, rough at the edges in some places, polished in others. Practical.
It looked extremely solid.
Though its incompleteness gave it a unique—or perhaps weird—look.
The tower was still being built, but since it was already in use, it could only mean they didn't have any other place to work in.
Probably sold their previous factory.
The carriage eased to a stop. Malik opened the door.
Gorath stepped down first, his boots clicking onto white stone.
He inspected the structure intently—the lines between each tile had been cut precisely, and between them was the residue of mana.
Then he let his gaze drift toward the entry steps.
A young man descended toward them briskly, his hands in his coat pockets.
He wore a half-buttoned noble's coat—dark green with copper trim—and a ring crest Gorath didn't recognize. A minor house, clearly.
The man stopped a few steps from the Baron and gave a proper bow—not too deep, not too short—before turning to the other three men and giving them respectful nods, which they repaid equally.
"Welcome, my lord. I am Ser Edric of House Relven," he said smoothly. "It is my honor to escort you into Lockewright Industries. Master Wright is waiting inside."
Master Wright? Gorath felt an unusual reaction hearing that.
He wasn't angry, but hearing a noble call a commoner Master was certainly not something he was used to.
Malik's chin was high as he smiled at Edric.
Gorath didn't return the bow. He didn't need to, only offering a light nod.
Instead, his eyes lingered once more on the building behind the man. Marble and steel. Precise but spartan. No unnecessary ornament. No pretense of nobility.
And this was built… by a peasant?
He said nothing aloud.
But the question remained in his mind.