Gregor's days became sharply divided between three pillars: his own studies, Tobias's physical and mental training, and the development of his industrial projects. Every morning, before the sun even began to rise over the plains of Arbadeen, Gregor was already awake—eyes strained from hours of studying runic theory.
Runes, as described in the books the Count had sent him, were one of the most ancient and misunderstood branches of magic. They were symbols that tapped into elemental concepts, weaving magical principles directly into objects rather than casting spells through the body. But what fascinated Gregor most was not their mystical nature—it was the logic behind them.
Runes were formulas.
Runes were equations.
Runes were programmable magic.
He pored over diagrams of fire-runes, reinforcement sigils, durability seals, and binding glyphs. And the deeper he read, the more he saw opportunity. If magic could be broken down into symbols—if it could be quantified—then it could be reproduced, refined, and eventually industrialized. The nobles relied on bloodlines and innate talent. Gregor planned to rely on intellect and systemization.
Yet while his nights belonged to runes, his mornings and afternoons belonged to Tobias Whale.
Tobias had changed drastically in the weeks since Gregor found him in the ruins of his bakery. The once chubby, grief-stricken man had begun shedding weight quickly under the brutal training program Gregor devised. The regimen was not merely demanding—it was transformative. Gregor had Tobias lifting heavy logs, sand-filled barrels, and anvils. He had him running long distances, performing push-ups, sit-ups, squats, and endurance drills until Tobias vomited or collapsed.
But the heart of Tobias's physical training was Muay Boran—the ancient, brutal predecessor to Muay Thai. Gregor taught him how to turn his elbows into blades, his knees into hammers, and his shins into clubs. He corrected Tobias's stances, built his guard, and drilled strikes into his muscle memory until the motions became as instinctive as breathing.
Even without magic, Tobias was naturally strong—and under Gregor's guidance, he was becoming something formidable. A man built like a fortress, capable of breaking bone with a single elbow strike.
Gregor saw the potential.
And so did Tobias, though he tried not to admit it aloud.
But Gregor's training wasn't only physical. Every evening, he sat Tobias down at a wooden table and talked to him—not about revenge, but about ideology, governance, and strategy. He spoke of nations built on corruption, of systems engineered to fail the weak, and of how power should be structured if one wanted a society where justice and innovation could thrive.
Tobias may not have recognized it, but Gregor was slowly reshaping his mind—guiding his emotions, sharpening his resolve, and turning the once-grieving baker into a man with a cause. Manipulation was too crude a word. Gregor preferred to think of it as refinement. After all, Tobias needed direction. Purpose. Stability. Gregor gave him all three.
And Tobias followed willingly.
---
On Monday evening, after a long training session, Gregor mounted his horse and rode into Arbadeen. He had an appointment with a tailor—a woman named Bethany who was rumored to be the finest in the region. Her shop was tucked away near the merchant district, a modest establishment overflowing with fabrics of various colors and textures.
Bethany herself was a stout woman in her late fifties, with silver hair pinned tightly into a bun and eyes as sharp as needles. She didn't look startled when Gregor presented her with several sheets of paper. She raised an eyebrow, adjusted her spectacles, and began studying his designs.
"Suits…" she murmured. "Coats… trench coats… jackets… shirts… trousers… underwear?"
Her eyes flicked up to him. "Young man, half these designs look like they belong to a distant land I've never even heard of."
Gregor smiled politely. "Then you'll be the first person in Arbadeen to create them. They require precision tailoring and clean lines. No embroidery. No flourishes. Practicality over pomp."
Bethany's fingers traced the outlines of the suits. "And these cuts… unusual. But elegant. Structured. Hm."
He spent the next hour explaining how each piece should fit, the materials required, how seams should lie flat, and even the specific measurements for collars and cuffs. Bethany listened without argument, occasionally asking sharp questions that showed she understood far more than she let on.
By the end, her intrigue had transformed into excitement.
"I will need time," she said finally. "And these designs will not be cheap."
"I expect nothing less," Gregor replied, handing her a pouch heavy with gold coins.
Her eyes widened slightly—this was far more than most nobles paid for entire wardrobes. But Gregor wasn't concerned. Money had begun flowing back into his coffers. Count Winchester was renovating his castle, installing steam engines for water pumping and indoor plumbing. The Count insisted on paying full price for every machine.
And on the counts farmland, irrigation systems fed by steam engines were improving crop yields dramatically.
Progress brought profit.
Profit brought expansion.
Expansion attracted eyes.
And it didn't take long before those eyes belonged to nobles.
---
Several noble houses had spies planted within House Winchester's estate. This was a longstanding tradition—one that Count Collin tolerated because he could not erase it without triggering a civil conflict. Among these houses, one of the most cunning and opportunistic was House Veilbright, ruled by Viscount Jeffery Veilbright.
Jeffery was a man in his early forties, pale-skinned with slicked blond hair and a fox-like smile that never reached his eyes. His network of spies rivaled that of minor intelligence agencies in other kingdoms.
So when whispers of a factory powered by non-magical machines reached him—when he heard rumors of steam engines pumping water without a single spell—his interest spiked immediately.
One evening, seated in his study surrounded by maps and letters, Jeffery received a report from one of his informants.
The spy bowed deeply and handed over a sealed document.
Jeffery opened it, scanned the contents, and his eyebrows climbed higher and higher.
"A factory… secured. Guarded by soldiers loyal only to Winchester… producing machines unlike anything seen before…"
He tapped a finger against his desk.
"And all connected to a boy… a boy who purchased farmland… and is constructing an enormous residence with designs unknown to this world…"
The spy nodded silently.
Jeffery leaned back in his chair, expression sharpening into predatory interest.
"Monitor the factory. Monitor Winchester's castle. And above all…" He placed the report down carefully. "Watch this Gregor Augusta. Closely."
The spy bowed again. "Yes, my lord."
As the man left, Jeffery Veilbright steepled his fingers, deep in thought.
Innovation was dangerous.
Change was dangerous.
And a young man with strange machines and stranger ideas?
That was a threat—or an opportunity.
Either way, House Veilbright would not ignore him.