Subtitle: Where visions from another world awaken the inventors of this one.
Ray had started to give more modern ideas to the five inventors. He had thought about it long and hard. With everything else going on, he realized he wouldn't be able to spend much time with them. So instead, he began assigning them work—seeds of knowledge without the full tree. He didn't go into all the details. He just traced runes in the air, a swirl of light and intent, and showed them how things could move, how they should behave, and how the impossible might become possible.
Since Ray wasn't an engineer in his past life, his contribution was abstract—concepts, not blueprints. He provided the shape, the movement, and the logic of design. And yet, that was more than enough for inventors like them. Like dry sponges dropped in water, they absorbed every idea, every flickering vision of the future. Ray planted the seeds. What grew was up to them.
He had learned something from Rick that struck a chord. Rick's obsession with flying transportation wasn't born out of ambition—it came from grief. Once, as a child, Rick had gone on a journey with his father, riding a beast tamed by a hired beast tamer. But something had gone wrong. The tamer had been killed by an enemy during the trip, and the beast had gone berserk. It flung both Rick and his father into the sky. Then it turned to attack. Rick survived, but only because his father died shielding him from the fall.
From that day on, Rick had vowed to create a form of flight that didn't rely on unstable beasts.
Ray gave Ricky the idea of a plane. He sketched the elegant body, the wings angled for lift, the weight and thrust dynamics, and the whirring propeller that cuts through air like a blade. He detailed lift, weight, size, thrust, and drag. He even gave him an idea of how the interiors might look—how a pilot should sit and what instruments should lie at their fingertips. He poured into Ricky every image, every memory of his past life's machines of flight.
In return, Ray gained something unexpected—knowledge of spatial formations from Rick. With it came the tantalizing promise of teleportation. But it came at a steep price—crystal stones. And the farther the distance, the greater the cost. Another mystery. Another challenge.
From Agatha, Ray learned of dreams born from hardship. She had always longed to become an alchemist, but poverty stood in her way. No master wanted to take her in. So she charted her own path. She traveled far and wide, gathering plants, learning from the world rather than people. One leaf at a time, she experimented. One root at a time, she created.
Though not the most skilled alchemist, she had become something else entirely. The most knowledgeable plant specialist in the Richard Kingdom—perhaps in the entire continent. Her collection of rare plants had become legendary. Sects and nobles from distant lands came to buy from her gardens. But still, she was stuck. Growth was too slow. Demand is too high.
Ray, a man from a world where no plant from this realm had a counterpart, had little to offer in terms of traditional methods. He couldn't suggest watering schedules or chemical fertilizers. They meant nothing to spiritual flora. So he turned to what he did know—environmental control. He shared ideas of formations that could increase spiritual energy density. Then he described the greenhouse effect from his world, explaining how heat and light trapped inside a space could enhance growth.
But his final suggestion changed something in Agatha's eyes: time formations. By manipulating time within a closed space, she could perhaps accelerate plant growth without altering their properties. He also began reading and offering suggestions from the alchemy books—soil preferences, spiritual compatibility, and plant behavior. While Agatha already knew most of it, the idea of time and greenhouse-based growth opened a door she hadn't seen before.
Then there was Albert—noble-born, merchant by blood. He spoke with a quiet resentment about the chariots he'd grown up in. Though grand, they were bumpy, rough, and wildly uncomfortable. He loved riding beasts, yes, but the constant jolting and stiffness left him sore and exhausted. Especially when transporting heavy goods—the bulkier the load, the slower the journey.
He had tried to create new carriages, hoping to combine luxury with utility, but all his creations had failed. His experiments cost him dearly until his family cast him out, disgusted by his waste of precious crystal stones. Now, he worked from nothing, building with scraps and resolve.
Ray laughed gently at his story, amused yet impressed. Then, he laid down ideas of modern transportation—cars, trucks, and container haulers. Vehicles that could glide smoothly over roads. He explained the importance of suspension, road design, tires, balance, and chassis strength. Roads, he said, were as vital as the vehicle. Smoother roads meant smoother rides.
Then came Felix, born a fisherman, raised on tides and salt. In this world, there were no vessels suited for water travel. Depending on water beasts was madness—humans could only hold their breath for so long, and those beasts were unpredictable at best.
Felix had tried. Rafts, crude boats—anything that might let him travel further into the ocean. But they fell apart, broke down, and drifted helplessly. Materials failed him. Designs betrayed him. Like Albert, he had tasted the bitterness of failure more than once.
Ray, seeing something of a dreamer in him, began from the basics. He described the boat—its hull, its balance, how it floats. Then ships—larger, stronger, capable of enduring long voyages. Lastly, he described the marvels of his own world—the submarine. But he warned Felix that path would be long and steep. For now, master the boat. Then the ship. The rest would follow.
And finally, it was Ophelia's turn.
She was fire incarnate. Born in the same family as Barbara, but carved from a different kind of stone. While Barbara was a master craftsman, Ophelia was a genius inventor. Her weapons had made her famous. From auctions to warfronts, her name echoed with every blade she forged.
But she had hit a wall. Every kind of weapon she could imagine, she had already made. Daggers that exploded. Swords that hummed with lightning. Axes that drank blood. Now, inspiration eluded her. She was desperate. Hungry. She looked at Ray with starry, wild eyes, as if he were her last hope.
Ray chuckled—half amused, half honored—and began to speak of weapons from a different world. Rifles. Long-range guns. Shotguns. Machine-powered precision that struck from afar. And as he spoke, Ophelia's eyes gleamed. Her lips curved into a smile so wide it bordered on madness. She thanked him over and over.
Ray transferred all this information using formation runes, like divine inscriptions that carried intent and vision. Each of them received a glimpse—a visual manifestation of what could be. A dream they could pursue.
He gave them more ideas, more than any one of them could build alone. But he reminded them: this was just a beginning. They would fail. They would stumble. The future was uncertain, and Ray himself didn't know how all of this would work in a world so different from the one he came from. Magic changed the rules. So he taught them how to infuse runes into their inventions. Wind magic for Rick. Water magic for Felix. Each element, each idea, had to be molded into this world's reality.
When it came time to talk about architecture and construction, Ray asked if they knew anyone capable. Rick stepped forward and assured him he would see to it personally.
Ray gave him a nod of quiet gratitude, his heart full, then turned to leave the workshop. His next stop was to visit his mother.
It was time to begin gathering people—not just allies, but loyal companions who would walk beside him when the world finally turned its gaze.