The sound of hooves and armored footsteps reached Gregor long before the visitors themselves appeared at the edge of his farmland. He stood beside the workers—who were already becoming accustomed to the strange but useful machine that pumped water for them—when a small procession crested the hill.
At the head were four men in full plate armor, each polished bright enough to reflect the morning sun. Their blue capes fluttered behind them, emblazoned with House Winchester's sigil: a stone tower crossed by two silver spears. Behind them rolled a dark, lacquered carriage pulled by two white horses.
Gregor wiped his hands on a cloth and waited.
The procession halted a dozen paces from him. One of the guards stepped forward and struck the ground with the butt of his spear.
"Presenting His Lordship, Count Collin Winchester, Lord of Arbadeen."
The carriage door opened, and a young man stepped down. Twenty-five at most, dressed in finely tailored blue and silver, his posture sharp enough to cut steel. His eyes scanned Gregor once—calculating, inquisitive—before coming to rest in a calm, reserved expression.
Gregor bowed politely. "My Lord."
Count Collin nodded in return. "Gregor. I trust this morning finds you well?"
"Well enough, Count Winchester. How may I help you?"
Collin's lips twitched slightly. "It is not every day someone stands their ground against my city guards. Especially someone as young as yourself."
Gregor remained quiet, neither confirming nor denying.
The count continued, "Your actions… have attracted attention. And interest." He folded his hands behind his back. "I have come to ask whether you would consider entering my service. Arbadeen has use for capable individuals."
The guards straightened, as if expecting Gregor to kneel immediately.
But Gregor simply smiled—calm, respectful, unafraid.
"I appreciate the offer, my Lord. Truly." He bowed again. "But I cannot accept. I have no wish to bind myself to any noble house."
There was a subtle shift among the guards, a tension in the air. Rejecting a noble—especially the ruling lord—was dangerous. Yet Gregor's voice carried no arrogance or challenge. Only certainty.
Count Collin, to his credit, showed no anger. If anything, he seemed… intrigued.
"No wish to serve?" he asked softly. "Not even for privilege, protection, or opportunities?"
Gregor shook his head. "I prefer to stand on my own feet, my Lord."
Collin studied him, trying to unravel the strange youth before him. No fear. No hesitation. Not even the slightest sign of nervousness. As though refusal were the most natural thing in the world.
"…Very well," the count said finally. "But it would be a shame to let talent go to waste. If you truly do not seek service, is there anything you do seek?"
Gregor's eyes gleamed slightly. "Actually, yes. A private place to speak."
That caught the count off guard. "…Speak? About what?"
"About how to cripple every noble house in Arbadeen so severely," Gregor said quietly, "that wiping them out afterward would be as simple as blinking."
The guards shifted again—their hands drifting toward their weapons.
Collin raised a hand. "Stand down."
His eyes, however, sharpened like drawn blades.
"Gregor," he said, "you will explain this. Now."
"Not here," Gregor replied. "This is not a conversation for open air."
After a long moment, Collin nodded. "Lead the way."
Gregor brought him into the makeshift workshop beside the partially built structure. The rhythmic chugging of metal echoed through the space, steam hissing from a large iron machine. Pipes vibrated gently, carrying water from the well to the elevated wooden tanks.
The count stared. "…What in the Emperor's name is this?"
"The beginning," Gregor said, gesturing toward the engine. "A machine that uses steam to pump water. No mana. No magic. Pure engineering."
The pistons slammed rhythmically—thunk, hiss, thunk, hiss—pushing water faster than ten men could draw it.
Gregor watched the count's amazement grow.
"With this, workers don't waste time hauling buckets," Gregor continued. "I can pump thousands of liters a day with a machine made from metal and fire."
Collin slowly circled the device. "A… steam engine." The word felt strange on his tongue.
Gregor nodded. "And this is only one application."
He leaned against a workbench.
"Imagine, my Lord: mills powered without rivers. Forges that run hotter with less coal. Looms operated by machines instead of dozens of laborers. Mines pumped dry in minutes instead of days. Transportation no longer dependent on horse or mage."
He paused.
"Imagine the entirety of Arbadeen industrialized."
Collin blinked. "Industrialized…"
Gregor's smile sharpened. "Machines replacing manpower. Production increasing tenfold. Wealth pouring in like rain after drought. Trade exploding. Innovation spreading. Factories, workshops, new weapons, new infrastructure… a city no noble could ignore."
He tapped the engine lightly.
"With this technology under your control, the nobles don't stand a chance. They cling to old power—land, tenants, and levies. But if Arbadeen becomes the heart of the empire's advancement? If the Emperor hears of this?" Gregor shrugged. "He would drag you to the capital himself and appoint you to a high position."
Collin's hands trembled slightly—not with fear, but with burning exhilaration.
"Gregor… this could change everything."
"That's the idea."
Silence filled the workshop, broken only by the steam engine's steady rhythm.
Collin finally exhaled. "I need time to think."
"Understandable," Gregor replied. "Before you leave… may I make a small request?"
The count raised a brow. "Name it."
"Books. Mostly on the history of this land, and anything concerning magic—abilities, theories, classifications. I'll return them, of course."
Collin found himself nodding before he'd even finished processing the request. "Yes… yes, of course. I'll have Johnson deliver them by evening."
He studied Gregor one last time. The youth's posture. His unflinching gaze. The confidence that bordered on unnatural.
What sort of boy rejects a noble without fear?
What sort of mind thinks in terms of reshaping the world?
Whatever Gregor was… he was not ordinary.
Collin returned to his carriage, the guards resuming formation around him. As he settled into the cushioned seat, he gave a single order to the butler.
"Prepare the requested books. Deliver them by evening."
As the carriage rolled away, Collin Winchester looked back at the strange workshop and the boy standing before it.
A boy who had just offered him a new future.
Or a new empire.