Gregor's house wasn't particularly large—certainly not larger than the townhouses or estates that the Arbadeen nobility occupied. If anything, its footprint was modest. But size had never been the point. The masons whispered about the walls reinforced with unusual layering techniques, the underground levels carved out with mathematical precision, the calculated distribution of weight, the stone cut at angles no one used, the hidden shafts and ventilation tunnels whose purpose no one understood.
It was not the dimensions of the home that intrigued Arbadeen.
It was the style.
The design.
The impossibility of it.
Workers spoke in taverns about a strange young man who had bought farmland three miles outside the city and turned it into a construction site unlike any Arbadeen had ever seen. Rumors spread of a machine—some metal contraption that could move on its own. A machine that could draw water from the earth. A machine that ran without magic.
That last detail startled people more than anything else.
A machine with no mage powering it?
Impossible… and yet Gregor had made it real.
So it was only a matter of time before the city guards arrived.
The first hurdle.
The corruption hurdle.
Arbadeen's city guards were not a single uniform force. They were a collection of envoys from the noble houses, loaned to the city to "maintain balance." In truth, the only house that refused to participate in this arrangement was House Winchester—Count Collin would never stoop to such politics.
The guards carried the crests of other lesser nobles, and they acted as police only in name. In practice, they were one of the largest gangs in the city. Extortion, harassment, bribery, intimidation—those were their real duties.
Gregor had known they'd come.
He simply didn't care.
It was a hot Friday afternoon. The workers were preparing sand-lime mixtures, sorting timber, and measuring stones for the structure above ground. The basement levels were complete and left to set, forming a cool subterranean foundation beneath the earth.
Gregor was in his workshop, sharpening the blade of a kukri he had forged days earlier, when shouting erupted outside.
"Oi! You lot! Off your feet—now!"
"Drop those tools!"
Gregor's eyes narrowed. He sheathed the blade, wiped his hands, and stepped out.
Ten guards in mismatched armor formed a semicircle around the workers. Their helmets bore symbols of three different noble houses, and each man carried either a cudgel or a spear. Their leader—a thin man with a hawkish face and narrow, suspicious eyes—was shoving one of the bricklayers.
"I said drop it! Are you deaf, peasant?"
The worker stumbled, nearly falling over the stack of stones beside him. Others froze, their faces tight with fear.
Gregor approached calmly.
He wore a loose, lightweight shirt rolled at the sleeves, simple trousers, and well-used work boots caked with dust. At his waist, secured by a sturdy leather belt, hung the kukri—its polished wooden handle gleaming in the sun, its curved blade resting in a leather-wrapped wooden sheath.
He walked with deliberate steps, stopping between the guards and the workers.
"I'm the one in charge here," Gregor said. His voice was steady, cold, and emotionless. "Name's Gregor Augusta. What exactly is the meaning of this commotion?"
The hawk-faced guard turned, sneering. "You are in charge?" He looked Gregor up and down like one might inspect livestock. "You don't look like a noble."
"I never claimed to be one," Gregor replied.
"Then we'll start with the basics," the guard said. "Are you a mage?"
Gregor stared at him flatly. "What does that have to do with anything?"
The guard smirked, tapping his spear on the ground. "City policy. A magic-wielder practicing without noble sponsorship is a threat to the empire. And a non-mage pretending to authority? Also a threat to order." He shrugged theatrically. "So tell me, boy. Which one are you? Makes it easier to decide how much to fine you."
Gregor saw it for what it was.
A manufactured offense.
A trap meant to force bribes.
"I don't owe you anything," Gregor said. "You're outside your jurisdiction. I'm well beyond the city boundaries, on private land. You have no authority here."
A murmur broke among the workers.
The guards stiffened.
The hawk-faced leader let out a dark chuckle. "No authority? Interesting you think so." He stepped forward until he was just breaths away from Gregor's face. "Because we just received a report this morning… about a rogue mage." His smirk widened. "A very dangerous one. Murdered over seventy people in the ghetto."
Gregor didn't blink.
The guard continued, "And guess what? The suspect's name is Gregor." He tapped Gregor's chest lightly with the butt of his spear. "Gregor. Just like you."
The workers behind Gregor paled.
Some took half-steps backward.
The guard leaned in closer, voice dropping into a mock whisper. "You know… if we killed you right here, no one would question it." He straightened. "No one would dare. We'd be heroes. Celebrated for putting down a menace."
His men laughed.
Gregor stared at them with a faint, amused smile.
Then he chuckled.
A low, unsettling laugh that cut through the tension like a blade.
"You're serious," he said softly. "You truly think you can intimidate me with that."
The hawk-faced guard bristled. "What's funny, bastard?"
Gregor's eyes sharpened, his expression shifting into something cold and predatory.
"If I were the man you're looking for," he murmured, voice dropping to a near-growl, "and if I truly killed seventy people…" He took one slow step forward. "Then what exactly"—his tone hardened—"would stop me from ripping the ten of you into pieces right here?"
A chill fell over the field.
The guards stiffened instinctively, hands tightening around their weapons.
Gregor didn't move aggressively. He didn't flare magic. He didn't even raise his voice.
He just asked—and the question alone froze the blood of hardened men.
The hawk-faced leader swallowed, but forced a shaky sneer. "Y-you're bluffing."
Gregor smiled again, but this time there was no amusement in it. Only calculation.
"I don't bluff."
He turned away from the guards entirely, dismissing them as if they were gnats.
"Get back to work," Gregor commanded the laborers. "You are not to stop for anyone. Not for fear. Not for noise. Not for manufactured authority."
The workers exchanged glances—then, reassured by Gregor's calm defiance, they resumed their duties.
Shovels scraped.
Timber was carried.
Stone blocks shifted into place.
The guards watched, humiliated.
Gregor didn't look back at them.
He didn't need to.
His very stance, the harsh line of his jaw, and the quiet lethal aura around him made one thing clear:
If they lifted a hand against him…
They would not leave this farmland alive.
The hawk-faced guard gritted his teeth. His authority had been challenged. Worse, he couldn't force the issue. Something about the young man before him prickled at his instincts.
Something dangerous.
He spat at the ground and motioned for his men.
"Fine. We'll be back," he snarled. "And when we return, Augusta… you'd better have proper documentation."
Gregor didn't respond.
He didn't even turn his head.
The guards marched away in frustration, muttering curses.
When they were out of earshot, Gregor finally exhaled slowly.
Not out of fear.
But out of annoyance.
He knew they would return with reinforcements, or with a noble's backing, or with another pretext.
He also knew that none of them had the faintest idea who they were provoking.
Gregor Augusta—
He would not be intimidated.
He would not kneel.
And he sure as hell would not pay tribute to corrupt dogs wearing stolen authority.