They arrived at Elondria's gates shortly before dusk. Up close, the gate looked sturdier than Yivanna expected—thick timbers banded with iron, scars of old repairs along the hinges. Outside the walls the road was little more than a rut in the dust; inside, the silence felt heavy, like a space waiting to be filled.
They drove through the gate and rolled along a ribbon of packed earth. People were scarce; the few who appeared at doorways or at crossroads stared at them openly, curiosity and caution stitched into their faces. A child followed the carriage for a few yards, then darted away when a guard turned.
The trip from gate to the city-lord's estate took five long hours. Yivanna spent most of that time counting potholes and silently begging for modern conveniences.
System—give me a teleport link. Or a car that drives itself. Or a drone. Anything. she thought, imagining a car folding into existence like in some terrible instant-gratification commercial.
She'd asked the system for a car earlier; the system had replied with its usual brand of efficiency—"Blueprint reward pending. Raw materials must be located or produced by host." In other words: Yes, but you still have to invent civilization first.
They finally reached the estate just as the sun bruised the horizon. The place was bigger than she'd pictured. Medieval noble estates tended to be sprawling, but this one had the kind of room that made one think in measurements: wings, inner courtyards, small houses attached to a main hall. There were training greens, a trimmed knot of a garden, a row of stables with sluggish horses. The architecture was earnest timber and stone; it had the weighty, permanent feel of things that had been built to last.
Yivanna stepped down from the carriage and did what she always did when she saw space that screamed "potential": she started listing improvements.
"Indoor pool. Tennis courts. Glass windows large enough to read in the rain. A greenhouse here." She rattled them off with the speed of someone doing mental profit projections.
Nanny Dina blinked. "Your Highness… what are those?" she asked, genuinely baffled.
"You'll see," Yivanna said with a conspiratorial grin. "Taste improvement is part of civilization. I'll bring taste back to Elondria."
Nanny Dina only smiled, which made Yivanna half-serious and half-plotted in a way that felt deliciously familiar—like signing a contract with herself.
Inside the main house she found a massive bedroom—high-beamed, a bed the size of a small ship, a hearth black with recent fires. No blinking lights. No heating vents. No soft hum of a refrigerator that told you the future was stable. It was all very... authentically old.
She sank onto the mattress and let out a long breath. The ancient charm had its appeal, but she'd be honest: she preferred thermostats.
Then the system pinged, sharper than a bell and less polite.
> —OMNITECH CIVILIZATION SYSTEM—
Host: Yivanna Ashford — Location: Elondria (District: Main Estate)
Mission Brief: Establish sustainable living and defense infrastructure for Elondria.
Primary Objectives:
1. Restore agricultural productivity — make Elondria's lands fertile and reliable (food is priority).
2. Upgrade military readiness — train the current force into an effective fighting unit.
3. Stabilize civilian life — basic shelter and tools to prevent societal collapse.
Rewards upon completion (phased):
• Phase A: Blueprints — improved farm implements, garden irrigation plan, and seed rotation guide.
• Phase B: Blueprints — basic cement house designs (low-cost, durable), and stove & cookware production specs.
• Phase C: Blueprint — stone-and-mortar road method and training manual for coordinated military drills.
Notes: Raw materials and labor must be supplied by host. Resource discovery and workforce management are prerequisite sub-tasks.
The system's tone was brisk and annoyingly practical. Yivanna suppressed a snort.
So no instant factories. Got it. The system is a stickler for process. And by "process" it means a lot of physical labor and bargaining with people who still think sanitation is witchcraft.
She sat up. The objectives were exactly what she'd expected. Food, shelter, and a real army—not showy banners, but competence. All things a CEO could measure and improve.
She pictured the first moves: irrigation ditches carved along the lowlands, crop rotation schedules posted in the square, a smithy producing sturdier plowshares. She imagined the knights trained in formations that looked tidy enough to impress, not just swing swords like angry trees.
Okay, she told herself. Plan A: don't die of malnutrition. Plan B: turn this into profit later. Priorities in that order.
She glanced at Keagan, who stood by the doorway with his arms folded—still alert, still watchful. He gave the faintest nod as if to say: lead and I'll follow.
"Tomorrow," Yivanna said aloud, loud enough for the few lingering servants to hear, "we begin training at first light. Keagan—assemble the men."
"As you command," Keagan replied, respectful and steady.
"And Nanny Dina," Yivanna continued, softer, "make a list of what the kitchens lack. Pots, pans, cups. Anything that breaks, I'll replace, but I want a count."
Nanny Dina's eyes dilated with practical hunger—a manager's expression. "Yes, Your Highness. I will start at once."
Alone for a moment, Yivanna let her mind run numerical: five hundred knights. A measly force by imperial standards, but five hundred bodies with spears were better than staring at empty fields. She thought of her old world—supply chains, inventory, logistics. It felt almost criminally simple to her: materials plus know-how plus manpower equals results.
She didn't sleep much that night. The bed was too big, quiet too loud, and her head buzzed with a thousand little calculations. Plans for trenches. A modest oven design. Rotation schedules. A training syllabus that began with marching in lines and ended with flank maneuvers.
When she finally closed her eyes, it was with a businessman's confidence rather than a refugee's fear.
Tomorrow we start, she thought. Elondria doesn't know what's coming.