Gregor reached Arbadeen seven days after leaving the carnage behind. The journey was uneventful, the road quiet and the wagon heavy with hidden wealth. Arbadeen itself came into view as a modest but bustling town tucked between low hills and farmland. Smoke curled gently from chimneys, windmills turned lazily in the distance, and the fields swayed under the autumn breeze.
He didn't enter the town immediately. Gregor had no intention of settling amid the noise, rumors, and prying eyes. Instead, he veered off toward a farmland patch about three miles outside the town proper—an old wooden farmhouse, a stable in need of repair, and several acres of fertile land. An elderly farmer was tending to a stubborn donkey when Gregor approached on horseback.
"You the owner?" Gregor asked.
The farmer straightened his back and wiped his brow with a rag. "Aye. This is my land. Looking to buy some eggs, boy?"
"No," Gregor replied. "I want the property."
The old man blinked as if unsure he'd heard correctly. "The… whole farm?"
Gregor opened one of the sacks he'd brought for the occasion, revealing gleaming silver and several thick gold bars. The farmer's jaw went slack. Gregor spoke calmly, "Twice what it's worth. In full. Right now."
He never needed to negotiate. The farmer didn't even ask his name.
Within an hour, ownership was his.
Gregor wasted no time. He hauled water from the well, filling a wooden tub in the backyard. The water was freezing cold, but he didn't so much as flinch as he stripped and washed the dried sweat and grime from his body. Days on the road and the lingering smell of battlefield smoke clung stubbornly to his skin. He scrubbed until the water turned murky.
Afterward, he cut away the uneven, overgrown ends of his hair with a knife, then trimmed it neatly with a pair of rusted shears he found in the farmhouse. Jet-black strands fell to the ground. His new reflection in the small bronze mirror surprised him.
Sixteen years old. Black hair, piercing green eyes. But those features only told part of the story. His body was no ordinary teenager's—lean, sculpted, powerful. Absorbing foreign energy, living off stolen magic, pushing his muscles beyond human limits, surviving slavery… together they had reforged him into something sharper than steel. A young man with the frame of a predator.
By dusk, Gregor had dug large pits behind the farmhouse. He buried the majority of his spoils under several feet of packed earth—gold, silver, enchanted items robbed from Red Scorpion corpses, and everything else too dangerous or conspicuous to carry around. The farm was quiet, isolated, and perfect. No one would find anything here unless they knew where to look.
As night settled in, he saddled a fresh horse purchased from a neighboring ranch and rode into Arbadeen under the glow of lantern-lit streets.
The city was livelier than he expected. Merchants shouted, children darted between stalls, and the aroma of roasted meat mingled with fresh bread and sweaty laborers. The atmosphere buzzed with trade. Gregor slowed his horse as he approached the market.
He hadn't expected much. To him, this world was primitive—a medieval patchwork of swords, magic, and superstition.
Which is why he froze when he saw it.
Cement.
Real, unmistakable cement being mixed by workmen at a construction site. A foreman barked orders beside a wheelbarrow filled with gray paste. Workers spread it along the foundation of a new building with metal trowels. Perfect consistency. Smooth finish. Durable mixture.
Gregor dismounted and slowly walked closer, eyes narrowed. He crouched, brushing a finger across a dried portion on a discarded wooden board. The texture confirmed it—this wasn't crude mortar. This was cement that matched, perhaps even exceeded, early modern quality.
How?
How did a "backwards civilization" have advanced concrete technology?
And if they had reached cement…
What else might they have?
Gregor's mind raced. Cement was the skeleton of infrastructure—roads, buildings, fortifications, sewers. With it, one could build modern structures, shape landscapes, and wield an advantage unmatched in a world that still fought with swords and torches.
His decision was instant.
He needed to build. But not a small farmhouse. Something larger. Something designed with his knowledge. Something worthy of someone who planned to rise far beyond a mere slave's fate.
The next morning, Gregor was back in Arbadeen, this time on horseback with a deliberate posture that suggested purpose rather than curiosity. He wore clean clothes stolen from the Red Scorpions' stash—simple but neat. His hair was tied back. His expression unreadable.
His destination: the Masons Guild, the heart of construction in Arbadeen.
The guildhall was a stone building with a tall arched doorway, its facade decorated with carvings of tools and architectural patterns. Inside, the air smelled of sawdust, chalk, and old contracts. Men in aprons and dust-covered clothing carried papers and tools from room to room.
A middle-aged man with a thick mustache and a well-fitted vest approached him. "You look a bit young to be seeking work," he said with a measured smile.
"I'm not here to work," Gregor replied. "I want to hire the guild."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Do you now? And you are…?"
"Gregor." He didn't offer a surname.
The man extended his hand. "Downey Brighton. Senior member of the Mason's Guild. I oversee medium to large construction contracts." His handshake was firm. "What do you need built?"
Gregor reached into his saddlebag and withdrew rolled parchment, placing it on the nearest table. Downey opened it, expecting crude sketches drawn by a naive youth.
Instead, his eyes widened.
The blueprint was detailed. Precise. Perfectly proportioned. Clean, straight lines indicated walls, windows, stairways, and load-bearing structures. Perspective drawings showed a modern-style residence unlike anything Downey had ever seen—smooth concrete surfaces, broad windows, an upper floor with a balcony, and a slanted roof engineered for efficient water drainage.
"This…" Downey breathed. "Who designed this?"
"I did," Gregor answered calmly.
The guildmaster stared at him. "Do you have any idea how advanced this is? The measurements, the foundation principles, the reinforcement technique—this isn't a house, this is a marvel." He tapped the parchment with trembling fingers. "And expensive."
Gregor's lips curved into a slight smile. "I can afford it."
Downey looked up sharply. "How soon do you want the project to begin?"
"As soon as possible," Gregor said. "But only with workers you can trust."
Downey nodded, still studying the blueprint as if it were written by the gods themselves. "I… think we can arrange that."
Gregor leaned slightly forward. "Then let's begin."
Downey Brighton, a man not easily impressed, felt a chill of anticipation. Whoever this boy was, he wasn't normal.