Chương 2: Chapter 1: New World

Torin drove his hammer down. Just this last stretch, he told himself. Then we'll have a break. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his calloused joints momentarily wetted. His back pressed into the weight of his harness, muscles bulging through.

"Lower!" he shouted. The rope lessened against pulleys. He drifted from sixty meters off the ground to slightly less. In front, a giant stone face the size of a house stared back, its worn surface still a marvel to behold. This was the visage of Markus Augorus Septyn, First Regent-Eagle of the Avinum State and the Great Conqueror of the First Crusade. No, Great "Liberator," not "Conqueror," Torin reminded himself. They'd want to hear the former during the examination, not the latter. It was a strange sight.

Suspended in front of the largest statue in Vrisgard, Torin thought back to the fateful day that set this journey in motion. Back when he'd been a naive boy in a State camp, with Cornelius feeding into his fantastic mind. His benefactor held that same expression then. How long had it been since that day? Ten years? More? Time became a strange beast living under the State, his life before no more than a fleeting dream.

He could barely remember his youth in Bairoy's Bog, let alone what he had done or learned while there. Torin had seen seventeen summers. Of this much, he was certain. Even with the constant pillars of ash pouring out of the War District, the Vrisgardian climate remained far cooler than his first home. Summer became a godsend.

"More!" Torin shouted. The rope relaxed another half a meter, now putting him in the unflattering position directly below the statue's nose. Sure enough, corroded nullium sat along the rim. With a sigh, he placed his chisel and went to work, clinking the old metal free. One strip after the next, he filled the bucket floating beside until it was full. Then, with a shout, it descended, and the opposing rope hoisted another empty bucket up. Torin used the moment to relax, letting the harness handle all the strain.

This might have been the highest he ever rose before. The statue of Markus Augorus Septyn had been built specifically to stand taller than all parts of lower Vrisgard, a reminder to everyone from the Artisan District to the War District that no one stood above the State. Not even the fifty-meter walls eclipsed his head, though with banners rolling down every one hundred meters, the walls served their purpose too. No matter which way one looked, the white swan of the State could not be escaped for long.

A creak echoed, and all two hundred renovation workers tensed. The scaffolding strained against the statue's weight somewhere… Again. But where? Rope snapped, and the hairs rose on Torin's neck as he spotted the source. A wooden pillar splintered five meters away. He kicked off the statue's nose without a second thought, momentum carrying him onward. His flax tunic contained plenty of nails, so he hammered feverishly into the pillar before it could break.

Others caught the same idea, and within moments, a half-dozen workers flew down from elsewhere on the scaffolding, reinforcing the damaged pillar with extra wood and bracers. The overseer ordered that the rope be re-tied soon after, to the collective chagrin of those still stuck on harnesses. But the structure would not collapse. For now. It could not be helped. Despite all their bluster, the Herons only provided limited resources for repairs.

"Break!" the overseer shouted once secured. Torin breathed easy, not even caring that his break would be much shorter since he lost too much time sinking back to ground level. He collected the daily rations with the other workers: blackened bread smaller than his fist, and thinned soup containing a morsel of stringy meat. His fingers tore greedily into the bread, lest he chip a tooth biting straight into the crust. Pilas stared at his own soup with a frown.

He was a wormy man, at least twenty years Torin's senior, and always had something to complain about.

"There's dust in my soup," Pilas said.

"There's dust in everyone's soup," Torin pointed out.

"Why can't they give us clean soup for once? We used to at least get clean soup."

"I've never had 'clean' soup." Pilas shook his head.

"You don't understand. They always were kinder with State projects. Us masons got it good, we did." He set the bowl down.

"I don't know how they expect us to eat this." Torin guzzled his bowl and sopped up the rest with his bread, the grease making it more tolerable. Then, he calmly placed his fingers on the other man's bowl.

"No reason to let it go to waste then." Who cared about a little dust? Food was food. Only then did Pilas yank the bowl back like it was his sole possession. Torin watched boredly as the other man gagged on the free meal before finally surrendering the bottom third back to him. Should have saved the bread when you had the chance, Pilas. The soup tasted as bitter as always, but stayed manageable with this little remaining.

"Ah, there's the little Dove," Quinto said with a slap of his bronze-colored palm.

"Heard you were the one to save the statue today." Torin shrugged, ignoring the jab about his status as a State-sanctioned ward.

"If the pillar went, the rest of the scaffolding would have gone with it. Guess what would have happened to me and a hundred others then?"

"The State should count itself lucky the walls are so high. One strong breeze and that whole behemoth will come toppling down." He was right, of course. The statue of Markus Augorus Septyn had been built after the First Crusade when conqer– when liberating this territory. The original architects sculpted the statue from blocks of pure granite, but because of its weight, wizards cast protective spells to reinforce the joints.

Those joints were then braced with nullium—a metal that blocked the flow of mana—to ensure their spells' power remained insulated for the generations that followed. But the nullium had corroded over the centuries like most of Vrisgard's infrastructure. Only by replacing each strip could they prolong its longevity. That's where this group of expendable workers came in. This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

"The Great Swan protects," Torin said noncommittally. Quinto leaned in.

"Do you ever wonder what would happen if the statue fell?"

"We'd be in a lot of trouble," Pilas said.

"The overseers would go straight to the Storks, but don't think they'd look kindly on us either." He squirmed, as if the mere thought could harm him. But Quinto did not stop, his voice falling to a whisper.

"I think it would be very interesting if the pillars broke. It might even be seen as poetic justice from the Fringe. What do you think of that?" This was dangerous territory. Quinto had only arrived recently and remained in good health. He might have been a prisoner of war as claimed, or he might be an Owl implanted to seek out malcontent. There was only one way to be certain.

"Death lies at the Fringe," Torin said, meeting him in the eyes. Quinto grinned devilishly.

"Yes, but whose death? My tribe took down plenty before the Doves caught me. There would be many more if we had a larger force." Pilas nudged away. Torin said nothing, but he couldn't have been more disappointed. Quinto spoke too openly to be an Owl, but lacked the subtlety to survive here for long. Even though he caught the double meaning that Torin intended, he did not have enough sense to remain quiet about it. Especially next to a worm like Pilas. Further conversation served no purpose.

Quinto would be gone within a week. The rest of their shift went uneventfully. A few Bronze-Rank Ravens applied the protective spells while the workers ate, and then Torin spent the afternoon hammering fresh nullium into place. His segment completed before long, though it would take a month before the full project finished. Until then… Only one strong breeze, Torin fantasized, though hopefully with him standing far, far away.

Torin walked through the windswept streets of the Residential District on his way back to Cornelius's manse. Between the crumbling dwelling-homes where a hundred laborers could be housed at once, passed the alleys where dogs fought for scraps, passed the derelict shop where a dead body awaited removal. The stream came next. Its bridge still sat unrepaired after all this time. The State had taken its engineer in the dead of night without warning or replacement.

Since then, someone else placed wooden planks across rocks as an alternative, though the planks had already started to rot. No doubt this happened because of the alchemical waste flowing down from the State District. Torin entered another intersection. A youthful face stared into his own from a sign that hung two meters tall, colored in the same red-and-white as the Avinum State flag." Vigilance Ensures Peace," the sign said in bold, black letters. Torin kept moving with a yawn.

He used to think the signs watched everyone directly. No matter where one stood, the eyes always followed them. But, like many parts of the State, this was merely an illusion. The sign was just a sign. Neither Torin nor anyone else had anything more to fear. The Hawks patrolling every corner? They were a different beast. Torin walked by a group eying him closely, their forms identical beneath kettle hats and black studded vests, hands near their cudgels as he drew near.

His fingers slid into his pocket, around his Spirit Tag. If they invented an excuse to harass him, Torin had the means to get out. Spirit Tags were runestones that behaved as focuses for [Identify] Skills, providing basic System information relating to his name, level, and current occupation. They verified this identity by scorching the fingertips of any but the rightful owner, an inconvenience that had to be refreshed at a State office yearly with a drop of blood.

Since Torin was the adopted child of a highly respected general, his Spirit Tag deterred all but the most adamant. Thankfully, none in this group seemed interested in confronting him today. Torin brought up his status screen, welcoming the distraction. Name: Torin Maximus Level: 1 Class: Locked Strength: 10 Dexterity: 10 Constitution: 10 Intelligence: 10 Wisdom: 10 Perception: 10 Trait: Hidden All this time and nothing had changed outside his adopted name.

The experience he received over the years eventually filled its jar, glowing brightly with a golden liquid, but that was the extent of his growth. The other jar showing his mana levels remained as empty as the first day he'd seen it. Torin had learned much more about the System over the years. In order to level up and become strong, it was not enough to mindlessly kill monsters or complete physical feats. To build a stronger body, one needed to cultivate a stronger spirit.

To cultivate a stronger spirit, one needed to prepare their body to handle the spiritual strain. Each had different bottlenecks, but both naturally converged at level 1. Neither Torin nor anyone else could raise their level without developing baseline mana first, for mana was the currency needed to power everything from magical Skills to spiritual enlightenment. But mana could not be found in the lifeless air of this factory-city, nor anywhere else in this world.

One could only gain it by absorbing mana crystals refined from nymstone—a physical resource that could be harvested and monopolized. That was how the Avinum State created its empire. By vanquishing every other kingdom during the First Crusade, they captured the bulk of nymstone reserves across the known world, preventing anyone else from ever being able to cultivate mana as effectively. It was not long before the barrier became insurmountable for smaller nations.

Everything that followed came naturally from this choice.

"... The Falcons achieved a glorious victory yesterday against a barbarian horde…" a coarse voice trickled around the corner.

"It will not be long before the Great Swan liberates the entire Southern Fringe!" Ugh, he's still here. When would this Parrot leave? Of all the ones Torin had seen, this man was the most insufferable, somehow obese in a city where everyone else starved. Yet, he still found stable employment screaming gibberish around his neighborhood block. As if the Parrot read his mind, he turned abruptly and cupped chubby palms against bulbous cheeks.

"The Roost of Hens reported a 50% grain surplus in last month's economic report!" he screamed.

"The Avinum State is truly entering a golden age!" Torin kept walking, paying him no mind. The Parrots varied. Some old, some young, all woefully untrustworthy. Their job was straightforward enough: to repeat the messages of the State like town criers, every hour of every day, until their tongues dried out and voices went hoarse, only to start over once the script changed.

"The Gnats tried to kidnap children in Norwich yesterday for some hideous end! Fortunately, our glorious Hawks subdued these vagrants in an unforgettable show of strength!" Oh, how Parrots loved using words like "glorious" and "unforgettable" to describe battles that held no glory and were forgotten in a day, and that assumed these battles happened at all. No one believed a word out of a Parrot's mouth. So why did they engage in these theatrics? For the Parrot, it was quite simple.

They spent years repeating the lies until they believed them, and then the State promoted them into true Herons, forging new messages in their politburo for the next generation of Parrots to repeat. For those who wanted a safe life and cared not for their neighbors' sanity, there could be no faster way to advance in the Avinum State. For everyone else? It was just another tool to drive morale down.

"The restoration of the statue for our glorious leader is moving weeks ahead of schedule!" the Parrot screamed.

"Markus Augorus Septyn will watch over us for another one thousand years!" Torin left the area, his mind calm the moment the shouting dwindled. The sun had reached the edge of the wall, casting golden rays wherever its light found purchase through dark pillars of smoke. He closed his eyes and embraced this rare moment of peace. In this world that had been driven mad, most lost hope. But Torin never could. While the State spent years watching him, he had studied them back.

He understood the truth that they were so desperate to suppress. Everything the State did, from the random seizures to its endless Crusades, was no more than a parlor trick to mask its true fears. Fear of the unknown. Fear of those they dominated. Fear of what would happen should the people ever get the power denied to them. The System still accepted any who fulfilled its prerequisites. No matter how high the State built its walls, that would never change. They did not control the System. No one did.

And after all these years trapped under their thrall, Torin finally had a plan to break free.