The State Barge cuts through the gray-green waters of the Thromium river, its gilded hull throwing long, shimmering reflections across the gentle swells. The humid heat of July 9th, 1300, hangs thick in the air, carrying the heavy, sweet scent of fermented wine from the upper square and the sharp, clean smell of river silt. Along the muddy banks, thick patches of reeds sway in perfect, rhythmic intervals as the wake of the massive vessel presses against the shore. A flock of gray herons takes flight from the shallows, their wide wings beating silently against the bright noon sky as the heavy rhythm of forty iron-tipped oars driving into the current vibrates through the deck planks.
Duke Ferris stands near the ornate brass railing at the bow, his long velvet mantle catching the river breeze. He turns slightly, his face perfectly composed into an expression of calculated, effortless pride as he extends a smooth, ringed hand toward a massive structure looming directly over the wide channel.
"Look upon the water, my friends," Ferris announces, his baritone voice carrying effortlessly over the steady splash of the oars. "There stands the true engine of our northern trade. A monument built from the raw earth and the sweat of five hundred foreign laborers—the Emporium."
The structure is immense, a brutalist mountain of heavy, dressed granite blocks and thick oak timbers anchored directly into the deep bed of the river. Huge iron-reinforced floodgates hang open at the base, where three deep-draft merchant cogs are currently moored, their thick hemp lines taut as they bob against the stone piers.
His elderly butler, Eldric, steps forward with a stiff, precise bow, his voice dry and mechanical as he continues the explanation for the gathered crowd of nobles.
"Massive fortified granaries built directly over the water where trade ships dock to load freshly milled flour," Eldric says, his pale eyes scanning the rows of massive wooden hoppers. "Operating without a single day of interruption for nearly ten springs now, ensuring the grain of the entire valley remains under His Grace's direct lock and key."
Onaga stands a few paces back, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studies the complex system of external pulleys and heavy counterweights lifting massive sacks of grain into the high stone lofts. His delicate face remains perfectly still, but his fingers twitch slightly against his belt where his charcoal pad rests.
"It's the Grand Granaries," Onaga murmurs under his breath, his voice devoid of emotion.
Hano leans over the rail beside him, his hyperactive gaze dicing from the iron cranes to the heavy chains holding the dock platforms in place. A sharp, frustrated sigh escapes his lips, his shoulders dropping with an aggressive twitch.
"Aldo's eyes would light up if he saw this," Hano says, his voice dropping into an energetic, irritated whisper. "He'd be counting every single rivet on those cranes."
"Certainly," Onaga replies simply, his gaze shifting back to the dark water swirling around the granite foundations.
Beside them, a visiting Baron from the western provinces steps closer to the Duke, his fat face flushed with the residual heat of the midday wine as he stares up at the towering stone walls of the granary. He shakes his head in slow, theatrical disbelief, his heavy gold chains jingling against his silk vest.
"An extraordinary achievement, Your Grace!" the Baron praises, his voice rich with practiced sycophancy. "The elaborate construction of this Emporium... it is truly magnificent. The scale alone proves that your personal estate is entirely unmatched in this kingdom."
Another Baron, wearing an embroidered doublet of deep crimson, nods in vigorous agreement, his fingers stroking his trimmed beard as he looks at the massive trade ships loading flour.
"That's right," the second Baron agrees, his tone dropping into a low, steady rumble. "It is not surprising at all that his Thromium is universally recognized as the richest duchy in the entire northern part of the kingdom of Heilop. The sheer volume of grain moving through these gates is staggering."
A young Baroness, her pale skin protected from the sun by a delicate lace parasol, steps toward the opposite rail. Her sharp, dark eyes catch a silhouette further down the river, where the channel narrows into a formidable stone throat. She points a slender, gloved finger toward the structure, her brow furrowing with innocent curiosity.
"And what is that building ahead?" she asks, her voice high and clear. "The one with the high towers straddling the main current?"
Ferris adjusts his posture, his small, cold smile returning to his lips as the ship draws closer to the defensive line.
"That is the Toll Bastion," Ferris explains smoothly.
The Toll Bastion rises from the water like a grey cliff—an imposing, turreted customs fortress constructed from heavy basalt blocks that straddles the entire river entrance. Its high walls are pierced by narrow arrow slits and heavy ballista ports, while two massive iron chains hang ready near the water's surface, capable of being cranked taut to tear the hull out of any vessel attempting to pass without permission. A dozen armed guards in the Duke's livery pace along the high battlements, their halberds glinting in the harsh sunlight as they look down at the passing barge, collecting duties on every single grain shipment that attempts to leave the valley.
Just past the shadow of the fortress, the river widens again into a stretch of exceptionally fast, churning currents. There, anchored in perfect, staggered lines across the white water, sits a massive fleet of Floating Watermills. These are ornate, wheel-powered grinding barges, their dark timber hulls reinforced with iron bands and held steady against the rush of the river by thick underwater cables. Massive wooden waterwheels churn the foam on either side of each vessel, turning with a deep, rhythmic thump-clack, thump-clack that vibrates through the riverbed. The barges rise and fall gently with the current, processing massive quantities of grain directly on the water without requiring a single foot of shore-based land or expensive foundation work.
Ferris points a long, elegant finger toward the watermills, where dozens of dusty, white-coated millers are working diligently on the open decks, hauling heavy sacks of wheat from smaller skiffs into the grinding mechanisms.
"A system designed to utilize the natural force of the northern currents," Ferris says, his chin tilting upward.
A visiting Baron gasps, his eyes wide as he counts the parallel lines of grinding vessels stretching across the wider bend of the river.
"That's not just a few watermills," the Baron exclaims, his voice cracking slightly with astonishment. "It's many lines of watermills! An entire industrial fleet on the water!"
A heavy, stunned silence settles over the noble guests. They stare at the endless turning wheels, overwhelmed by the visual display of total economic control.
Hano, however, feels a hot, burning anger rising in his chest. His fingers grip the polished wood of the railing so hard his knuckles turn a stark, bloodless white. His chest heaves with a short, jagged breath as he glares at the industrious millers.
Damn it, Hano rages inside his own mind, his teeth grinding together until his jaw aches. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Ferris isn't some stupid, idiotic villain ruler who wastes his treasury on gold statues and loose women. This guy actually knows how to invest in infrastructure. He's building granaries, floating mills, customs forts... Oh my god, where is my evil ruler? Where is my incompetent warlord that we're supposed to easily overthrow? How are you supposed to start a peasant rebellion against a guy who keeps the mills running this efficiently?
Onaga stands beside him, his expression a mask of pure, cold analysis. He notes the precise alignment of the barges, the depth of their drafts, and the volume of flour being produced every minute. The contrast between the wealth on display and the structural reality of the kingdom is staggering. Thromium is so rich, its coffers bursting with grain and trade silver, yet the greater kingdom of Heilop is still drowning in catastrophic debt, its outer provinces starving and its armies unpaid.
Hano can no longer contain the volatile frustration boiling inside him. He spins around, his sharp voice cracking with unhinged intensity as it rings out across the lower deck, completely disrupting the polite murmur of the nearby merchants.
"Only the Duchy of Thromium in this entire kingdom can make money!" Hano yells, his hands gesturing wildly toward the massive stone towers. "Most of Heilop's eastern provinces can't even afford proper iron rivets for their frontline vanguard armor, and this guy is building water canals inside of a pedestrian highway!"
The sudden outburst causes a pair of visiting Baronesses to flinch. They adjust their silk shawls with quick, defensive movements of their elbows, turning their backs to the young boy as they begin to whisper fiercely to each other, their lips curling into expressions of deep disdain.
"How incredibly annoying," the first Baroness whispers, her fan fluttering with a frantic, irritated speed. "At a normal gala, everyone shows off their finest silk dresses, their family jewels, and their exotic animals. But this Ferris guy... he's dragging us down the river just to show off something so utterly commonplace as flour and granaries."
The second Baroness scoffs, her nose wrinkling as she glances at a dusty miller hauling a sack nearby.
"I agree completely," she replies in a low, biting hiss. "It's vulgar. He's treating a noble celebration like a merchant's accounting house."
The State Barge continues its steady course, sailing past the grinding barges and entering a deep, artificial cut in the granite cliffs. Ahead, the river drops sharply into a lower basin, but instead of a dangerous rapid, the path is blocked by a monumental structure of carved grey stone and massive brass-hinged floodgates—The Merchant Lock.
The lock is an architectural marvel, its towering stone walls decorated with deep reliefs of historical sea captains and mythical sea beasts. As the barge approaches, the massive brass gates groan, slowly swinging shut behind them with a heavy, metallic boom that echoes through the canyon. Large underwater sluices open with a roaring hiss, and the water level inside the stone chamber begins to drop smoothly, allowing the massive trade vessels to navigate the steep drops in the river without a single scratch to their hulls.
The noble guests look up at the towering stone walls surrounding them, their initial annoyance quickly evaporating into a chorus of involuntary praise for the sheer grandeur of the engineering.
Onaga takes immediate advantage of the slow, steady descent. He reaches into his tunic, pulling out a small, leather-bound charcoal pad. Moving with silent, mechanical efficiency, his fingers fly across the coarse paper, sketching the basic shape, the counterweight tracks, and the structural brass hinges of the lock system, his mind logging every single engineering detail for future utility.
The water stabilizes, and the front gates swing open with a long, grinding screech of metal against stone. The captain of the barge steps onto the upper bridge, raising a heavy brass horn to his lips as he shouts down to the deckhands below.
"Prepare the lines! Watch the clearance! We are passing under the Aqueduct of Plenty!"
Ahead, spanning the entire width of the river valley, rises a massive, sculpted stone bridge of ancient design. It is a double-layered structure; the topmost level carries a wide, rushing irrigation channel that brings fresh mountain water directly to the outer fields of the city, while the lower deck houses a sprawling, covered pedestrian market corridor that connects the agricultural outer sectors to the dense urban center.
On the lower walkway, immense crowds of common people pass back and forth like colonies of ants, their collective voices buzzing in a low, constant drone of conversation that sounds like a distant storm. Scattered further along the horizon, a few more large aqueducts rise against the orange-tinted sky, their stone arches framing the setting sun.
Hano watches the distant crowds intently, his anger fading back into a state of innocent, wide-eyed curiosity. He reaches out, his hand catching Onaga's sleeve and pulling it hard to draw his attention to the market bridge.
"Look at the size of that span, Onaga," Hano whispers, his eyes tracking a wagon moving across the lower deck. "They've got an entire marketplace built inside a water pipe."
Onaga doesn't lift his eyes from his sketchbook, his charcoal pencil putting the finishing touches on a gear assembly.
"I know," Onaga says quietly.
Duke Ferris steps back toward the center of the deck, his voice rising once more to cut through the hum of the crowd.
"Do not think this is the extent of our infrastructure," Ferris announces, a sharp gleam of satisfaction in his cold eyes. "It is not just a few aqueducts in this prosperous Thromium. Look ahead to our primary commercial crossing."
He points directly toward The Great Bridge of Coins. The structure is a heavily fortified, massive double-decker stone bridge that forms the central artery of the lower city. The top level houses the Duke's official gold exchange offices—elegant timber-framed buildings with slate roofs where foreign merchants must convert their coinages under the watchful eyes of crossbowmen. Below, the lower level is a chaotic, bustling wet market, where stone stalls jut out directly over the water, packed with fishmongers, vegetable sellers, and local traders shouting their prices into the humid air.
Hano's breath hitches in his throat as the barge glides closer to the lower stalls. His sharp eyes lock onto a familiar figure standing near a stone pillar on the lower deck of the bridge. It is Aldo, their team captain, his dark hair messy as he holds a heavy leather sack of silver coins, deep in negotiation with a local money-changer.
"Captain?" Hano gasps out, his voice full of sudden, bewildered surprise. "Why aren't you at the gala? You're hiding down there in the fish market instead?"
Beside them, Officer Watkins, Aldo's immediate military superior in the Professional Central Army, leans over the brass railing. A slow, lazy smirk crosses his weathered face as he looks down at his subordinate.
"I asked him to exchange those regional coins for me, kid," Watkins says, his tone light and conversational.
Onaga and Hano both nod slowly, their eyes tracking Aldo as he finishes his transaction and secures the heavy sack to his belt.
Watkins lets out a short, dry chuckle, shaking his head.
"I was just joking," Watkins adds, his expression sharpening as his gaze drifts toward the narrow alleys branching off from the bridge market. "Actually, I was planning to have him go on an inspection tour through the lower quarters. The PCA wants to help your Duke with security against the atheists and the unruly people currently gathering in the slums."
Onaga pauses his sketching, his charcoal pencil hovering a millimeter above the paper. He tilts his head slightly, his face completely neutral despite the pulsing mark on his collar.
"Who are the atheists and the unruly people?" Onaga asks, his tone devoid of inflection.
Watkins's smirk disappears, his jaw tightening as he looks toward the dark, narrow alleys where the commoners are packed into dilapidated houses.
"We call them The Red Demons," Watkins states coldly.
Hano's face immediately lights up with an intense, hyperactive excitement. He bounces slightly on his heels, his hands clenching into fists as his imagination takes over.
"Are they really demons?" Hano asks, his voice rising with thrill. "Like, actual horned monsters from the abyss? Are we finally embarking on a real demon-slaying mission? Becoming actual Demon Slayers? This is exactly what I've been waiting for!"
Watkins turns his head slowly, staring at Hano with a look of profound, unamused exhaustion.
"The demons you understand... they aren't here, kid," Watkins says, his voice flat. "I don't mean monsters from hell. I mean they carry red flags through the alleys. They have a strange symbol of a hammer and a sickle intertwined on their banners. They gather in the dark and chant about the impoverished rising up to drag the nobility from their carriages."
Onaga's eyes widen by a fraction of a millimeter, his pencil completely stopping against the pad. A cold, strange look of recognition passes over his delicate features.
"On Earth," Onaga says, his voice dropping into a quiet, serious register, "we call them communists."
Watkins blinks, his brow furrowing as he processes the unfamiliar word. He leans closer to the two boys, his interest clearly piqued by the terminology.
"Ah," Watkins asks further, his gaze shifting between them. "So your home realm on Earth... it has this 'communism' as well?"
Hano shakes his head quickly, his excitement dampening into a defensive posture.
"No way," Hano clarifies, waving his hand. "Onaga and I are from the same country, Japan. No communism there. We have a king. An Emperor."
Watkins nods slowly, his expression relaxing slightly.
"Ah," Watkins murmurs. "That's similar to Heilop, then. A proper hierarchy."
He pauses, his sharp military eyes narrowing as he studies the two boys before looking back down toward the market bridge where Aldo is now walking back toward the docks.
"Tell me," Watkins inquires, his voice dropping into a calculating murmur. "In your 204th team... is there anyone actually born in a country with this 'communism'?"
Onaga strokes his chin, his eyes focusing on the water as he runs through the profiles of their fellow conscripts.
"Yes," Onaga replies calmly. "Aldo... he's from Vietnam."
Watkins stands completely still, stunned by the revelation. His eyes drift back to the distant figure of the captain, who is currently helping an old woman pick up a dropped basket of cabbages near the market stalls.
"That guy?" Watkins mutters, his tone full of profound disbelief. "He doesn't seem like someone who's a poor, desperate radical demanding to exterminate the nobility and divide up the wheat and bread. He's too quiet."
Suddenly, Duke Ferris steps between them, his large frame blocking their view of the bridge as his booming voice interrupts the conversation.
"Look to the eastern bank!" Ferris commands, his arms spreading wide as the barge clears the shadow of the Great Bridge of Coins.
The bright afternoon sunlight seems to fade instantly as the massive shadows of two colossal Catholic churches fall across the water, spaced only a short distance apart along the reinforced shoreline.
The first is The Spire of the Sower. It is a tall, cathedral-like monument constructed from pristine white limestone, featuring a massive, cantilevered cloister that extends directly over the rushing riverbank. Below the stone arches, dozens of wealthy grain merchants and church clerks sit at long wooden tables, utilizing the sheltered space as a private exchange for high-volume grain contracts, their voices echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
Just a few hundred meters further down stands The Cathedral of the Harvest. It is a towering, magnificent cathedral rising from the very center of the urban landscape. Its twin bell towers are uniquely shaped like giant, stacked sheaves of ripe wheat, reaching high into the sky like stone monuments to agriculture. The massive facade is dominated by sprawling stained-glass windows that catch the afternoon light, shifting through brilliant shades of amber, gold, and deep blue to depict the eternal flow of the Thromium river and the bounty of the fields.
The noble guests on the deck let out a collective gasp of genuine surprise. The structures are huge, beautiful, and immensely stylish, completely dominating the skyline of the lower city.
Duke Ferris walks toward the center of the deck, his commanding posture softening into a theatrical display of deep, emotional vulnerability. He looks up at the white stone towers of the Spire of the Sower, his eyes glistening with sudden moisture.
"I was not always the master of this domain," Ferris begins, his voice dropping into a low, somber cadence that commands the attention of every noble on board. "A humble priest raised me in my youth... he once saved my very life, pulling my broken body from the freezing depths of this very river when I was nothing but a drowning boy. In eternal gratitude to the heavens and to him, I constructed the Spire of the Sower with my own treasury."
He turns his head slowly toward the Cathedral of the Harvest, a single tear escaping his eye and rolling down his handsome cheek. He takes a short, trembling breath, his voice cracking with a performance of pure sorrow.
"And my wife..." Ferris weeps, his hand gripping the brass rail as if to steady himself. "My beautiful wife, who passed from this world eight springs ago. She was a duchess who loved nothing more than to cultivate the wheat fields with her own hands. She was so generous... so very beautiful. Her hair was golden, like fields of ripe wheat ready for the scythe, and as soft as silk to the touch. Her eyes... they were a marvel of the gods. Her left eye was a deep, crystalline purple, her right eye a burning, vibrant red. She died... she died in a terrible, unyielding summer flood that tore through the lower valley."
The nobility watches in rapt silence. A few visiting counts look at each other with subtle, highly guarded confusion over the bizarre, heterochromatic description of the late duchess, but they quickly bury it, dabbing at their own eyes to mimic their host's tragic sorrow to avoid the Duke's legendary wrath.
"During her lifetime," Ferris continues, his voice shaking with crocodile tears, "she donated much of her personal wealth to the local priests and the wretched poor of the outer rings. I built this grand cathedral because the priest in Carravinh encouraged my grieving soul, and I feel... I feel this is the only true way left to honor her memory."
While the nobles murmur in symphonic grief, Onaga remains entirely unmoved. He turns his head away from the Duke's performance, his sharp gaze focusing instead on the massive, interlocking grey dikes lining the riverbanks. The barriers here are remarkably uniform, stretching far into the distance as part of a massive, hyper-engineered flood control network. The seams are perfectly true, resembling heavy industrial sheet-pile walls rather than standard medieval stonework.
Eldric, the butler, notices Onaga's intense scrutiny. He steps up beside the boy, his voice low and dry.
"Traditional earthen dikes can easily fail via internal seepage or the burrowing of wild river pests," Eldric explains, his mechanical tone a stark contrast to the Duke's weeping. "His Grace solved this by employing specialized earth-affinity conscripts from the outer labor camps. They drove massive, interlocking alchemical basalt plates vertically down into the very core of the riverbed, creating an absolute waterproof barrier. It allows His Grace to build his palaces right up to the water's edge without fear of the seasonal floods."
The butler looks past Onaga, ensuring his voice carries to the nearby merchants and officers who are listening.
"These reinforced cutoffs create a completely uniform structural footprint," Eldric continues, his hand tracing the clean line of the gray wall. "Highly durable and exceptionally space-efficient."
Hano scratches his head with a quick, jerky motion, his face twisting into an expression of deep, psychological defeat as he listens to the butler's technical explanation.
Damn it, Ferris, Hano mutters internally, his shoulders slumping as he stares at the basalt reinforcements. He's not incompetent at all. He's got industrial flood engineering hidden in his walls. How can we possibly make a successful revolution against a guy who actually protects the city from drowning? The people won't revolt if their basements stay dry. This world is completely rigged against our narrative.
Duke Ferris suddenly snaps out of his sorrowful posture, his tears vanishing instantly as he turns back to the crowd with his practiced, charming smile fully restored.
"Thank you, everyone, for your deep sympathy," Ferris announces, his voice instantly regaining its cheerful, authoritative ring. "The sun is turning, and we shall now return to our original spot in the grand square for the evening dinner."
The State Barge begins its slow, wide turn in the center of the deep channel. It is at this exact moment that a loud, clattering noise echoes from the rear gangway.
Comtois, who has spent the entire afternoon in the lower holds enjoying various local beers and imported ales, emerges onto the main deck. His uniform is slightly disheveled, his face flushed a bright, cheerful pink as he climbs aboard the upper deck, stumbling slightly before planting his heavy boots right between Onaga and Hano. He lets out a loud, satisfied belch, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I've come for dinner," Comtois announces with a wide, lazy grin, his eyes blinking against the late afternoon light.
Onaga flinches slightly, startled by the sudden, loud appearance of the heavy soldier. He adjusts his stance, his delicate brow furrowing with mild annoyance as his branded collar strains against his tunic.
Hano looks up at Comtois, his mouth dropping open as he stares at the man's cheerful state.
"You only just arrived for dinner?" Hano asks, his voice cracking with disbelief. "You missed the entire tour! You missed the granaries, the mills, the whole economic lecture!"
Comtois sways slightly with the motion of the boat, reaching into his coat and pulling out a half-empty clay flask of dark liquid. He offers it toward the two boys with a slow, heavy nod.
"Would you like to try some of the ale they keep in the lower galley?" Comtois asks, his speech slightly slurred but enthusiastic. "It's delicious. Tastes like roasted nuts and old smoke."
Onaga steps back, shaking his head with a cold, decisive motion of his hand.
"No need," Onaga says flatly, his eyes turning back toward the distant docks of the Great Bridge of Coins. "Let's wait for Aldo to come back before we touch anything else."
The sun begins to set on the horizon, casting long, bloody red streaks across the massive stone structures of Thromium as the State Barge glides silently back toward the white marble square.