Construction began with a rumble of earth and the rhythmic pounding of hammers. Gregor's design was ambitious—insane, even. A house with two floors above ground… and three below. Downey Brighton had nearly choked when he'd first seen the depth measurements.
"No noble in Arbadeen has anything close to this," the guildmaster had muttered more than once. But gold spoke louder than shock, and Gregor had plenty to offer.
The workers dug in teams, layer by layer, shoveling dirt and stone out of an ever-deepening pit. Wooden beams were erected to reinforce temporary walls. Pulley systems creaked under the weight of buckets filled with rubble. Gregor inspected every phase personally, his calculating eyes noting angles, measurements, and structural integrity. Nothing escaped him.
But the underground floors were only part of the marvel he intended to build.
The true revolution… was sanitation.
Indoor plumbing.
Pipes, drains, flowing water, sewage channels—concepts this world hadn't even imagined. Civilians relieved themselves in outhouses or gutters. Nobles used chamber pots. No one had ever heard of a water closet.
Gregor intended to drag this world into a new era with his own two hands.
After ensuring work was progressing smoothly, he rode back into Arbadeen and entered a blacksmith's shop. The air was thick with heat and molten metal. Sparks danced behind the counter where smiths hammered glowing iron.
A burly man with soot-covered skin approached him. "What d'you need, boy? Nails? Horseshoes?"
Gregor placed several rolled parchments on the counter. "I need these made."
The smith frowned. "Blueprints? What are—"
Gregor unrolled them.
Sinks.
Bathtubs.
Shower heads.
Pipes with threaded ends.
And a water closet—complete with a tank, flushing mechanism, pressure valve, and a stainless steel bowl shaped nothing like anything in this world.
The blacksmith stared, slack-jawed. "What in the Emperor's beard…?"
"They must be made of stainless steel," Gregor said. "Not iron. Not bronze. Stainless steel. Perfect to these measurements."
The blacksmith blinked. "A-all of these? This is… specialized work. Expensive work."
Gregor dropped a pouch onto the counter. The clink of gold filled the shop.
"Do we have an agreement?"
The blacksmith swallowed. "Aye… aye, we do. But this'll take time, lad."
"Good," Gregor said. "Take your time. Precision is more important than speed."
Before leaving, he purchased his own blacksmithing equipment—an anvil, hammers of different weights, tongs, a bellows, and several ingots of steel and copper. He hired two cart-drivers to transport everything to his farm, where a small workshop he'd personally built waited.
He would have to forge some things himself.
Because the most important mechanism of all… no blacksmith in Arbadeen could build.
Not yet.
Gregor returned to his farmland workshop with the sun hanging low in the sky. The building was small but sturdy—reinforced with thick beams, ventilated properly, and sealed to contain heat. He set the anvil in place, adjusted the bellows, and lit the furnace.
The fire roared to life.
He took a deep breath.
A steam engine.
The backbone of the industrial revolution in his former world. The machine that transformed nations. The engine that powered factories, trains, ships, and pumps.
This world had no knowledge of it.
Which meant he would bring it forth.
Piece by piece.
Gregor began creating the engine by forging the most crucial component—the boiler. He heated a sheet of steel, hammered it into a curved shape, and folded the edges with meticulous precision. His arms rippled with strength, but even that wasn't enough for perfection.
So he used his gift.
As the metal glowed orange, he placed a hand on it. Heat surged into him, siphoned out of the steel in a controlled pulse. It cooled instantly—hardened in seconds instead of minutes.
He smirked. "Useful."
With calculated cycles of heating and rapid cooling, he shaped metal faster and more precisely than any smith could dream of. When small cracks formed—natural byproducts of metal stress—Gregor touched them and absorbed the kinetic vibration within the micro-fractures, smoothing imperfections as if polishing glass.
Next came the pistons.
He crafted them using a combination of mechanical precision and his energy manipulation. He absorbed excess thermal energy whenever the metal risked warping, allowing perfect circles, smooth rods, and airtight fittings. He compared every piece to the measurements burned into his memory.
Hours passed.
Then the chamber.
The drive rod.
The flywheel.
The pressure gauge.
The safety release valve.
He forged each component, using his powers whenever a task required more than muscle. A stray piece cooled too fast? He fed it a trickle of absorbed heat. A piston jammed during assembly? He absorbed the frictional energy, freeing the stuck parts. The workshop flickered between the roar of fire and sharp sizzles of cooling steel.
Soon he had a barebones prototype: small, crude, but functional.
He mounted the boiler, sealed every seam, attached pipes, and fixed the piston chamber. He connected the drive rod to the flywheel and installed a simple pressure gauge made from a flexible copper membrane.
Then came the moment of truth.
He filled the boiler with water, sealed it, and lit a fire beneath it. Steam built slowly, making the boiler vibrate. The gauge needle twitched. Pressure rose.
The piston hissed.
Moved.
Moved again.
Then it began a steady pump—forward, back, forward, back—turning the flywheel with rhythmic power.
Gregor's lips curled into a grin.
The world's first modern steam engine… was alive.
The machine clattered loudly, puffing controlled bursts of steam from its valves. It was not yet elegant, nor silent, but it worked. With refinement, it would be unstoppable.
He let it run until the pressure stabilized, then extinguished the flame. Steam slowly faded into the cold workshop air.
He stepped back, arms crossed, and studied the machine.
With this, water would be pumped from wells into overhead tanks. With overhead tanks, water would flow down through pipes, providing pressure for sinks, baths, and toilets.
He could build running water.
He could build sanitation.
He could build comfort.
He could build an empire of knowledge in a world ruled by superstition.
And no one would understand how he did it.
Not yet.
Gregor wiped sweat and soot from his forehead. Outside, the construction workers were finishing the first underground level's support beams. The world was shifting, cell by cell, under his influence.
He wasn't merely building a house.
He was laying the first foundation stone of a new era.
One he would control.