POV: [POV Ryan First-Person] [Tense: Present]
06:00 a.m. - At the Old Lumber Shed, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (30 September 2025)
The shed smells like sawdust and bad decisions.
I'm standing in the middle of it at six in the morning with ten borrowed gold, a notebook, and zero employees. The floor leans east. One beam has a knot the size of my fist. Three windows are cracked.
I paid twelve silver a month for this.
(Ten gold sounds like a lot until you open a ledger.)
I drag the warped table to the center, sit down, and start doing the math nobody wants to do on day one.
Loan: ten gold. Twelve months. One silver interest per moon. Rent: twelve silver per month. Materials: unknown. Revenue: zero.
I stare at that last line for a while.
The guild laughed at my pens yesterday. Baldric told me to come back when the war calmed. Lady Isolde told me the timing was wrong. Draemyr got me through the castle door and then walked away to deal with actual problems.
Everyone is thinking about one thing. Crossbows. Iron. Supply lines. Bodies.
Not writing instruments.
(So. Adapt.)
I draw a line down the page. Two columns.
Left — what I have: the nib design, Murdock's furnace method, guild trade permission, and Bromar's name on a piece of paper. Right — what I need: consistent iron, a workshop that can actually produce something, and one buyer who matters.
The iron cap is the whole problem. One-fifth of the garrison mine is not enough for volume. In wartime, the garrison gets priority. I can't argue with military logistics. I can find a second source.
I write: ask Bromar about northern traders.
Then I write: crossbows.
I stare at that word.
I hate that it's the right move. I'm not a weapons manufacturer. But a workshop that learns to produce crossbows faster than the current armory rate is a workshop the castle will fund. And a funded workshop can make pens when the killing slows down.
The method is identical regardless of what comes off the line. Divided labor. Standardized parts. Consistent output. The crossbow is the proof of concept that gets me into the room.
(I really do hate this.)
A knock. The door opens. Bromar fills the frame the way a boulder fills a doorway — completely, with no gap on either side.
He looks at the shed. Looks at the table. Looks at my notebook and the word crossbows underlined twice.
"You're early," I say.
"I'm always early." He steps inside. "Murdock said you had plans."
"I have questions. The plans depend on your answers."
He pulls up the stool, sits, folds his arms. The beard rings chime once.
"Ask," he says.
I flip the notebook toward him and tap the right column.
"Iron, a furnace, and the real armory production rate. In that order. Everything else I can figure out."
He reads the column slowly. His expression doesn't change. That is, I've learned, how Bromar shows he's taking something seriously.
He sets the notebook down.
"The bottleneck is the wood stock," he says. "Not the metal. Nobody's solving that problem."
I write: wood supply chain.
"How long to build a small furnace in this space?"
He stands and walks the perimeter with his hands behind his back, reading the shed, looking for the structural integrity the landlord clearly lied about.
"Three days," he says. "Twelve silver. Materials additional."
Almost a month's rent. I do the math in under a second.
"Agreed," I say.
He picks up his coat.
"And Mercer." He pauses at the door. "You said you don't know what you're doing. That's the first honest thing anyone's told me in a business meeting in years."
He leaves.
I look at the notebook.
One line at the bottom, boxed: Make one finished nib. Have it in my hand before the next conversation.
Zero revenue. Positive expenses. Day one.
(At this rate, I'll be enlisting in the infantry by Friday just to get a free meal.)
---
01:00 p.m. - At The Central Square, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (1-2 October 2025)
The central square smells like roasted nuts, unwashed bodies, and low-grade panic.
I'm standing on a borrowed wooden crate in the middle of it. The afternoon sun is punishing. All around me, the reality of a medieval wartime economy is in full, depressing swing. It's a strange blend of high fantasy and absolute poverty. A guy who looks like a half-elf is desperately trying to sell dented iron pots. A hedge-mage in a frayed robe is offering to mend boots for copper pieces. Everyone is moving, everyone is hustling, and everyone looks like they haven't slept a full night since the border fell.
Hope is a luxury commodity right now, and nobody in this square has the coin for it.
I hold up a handwritten sign. It reads: TECHNOLOGIA.
(I am literally standing on a box, promising high wages to desperate people for a company that currently exists only in a rotting shed. I feel like a scam syndicate boss recruiting for a shady call center in Southeast Asia.)
I take a breath and pitch my voice over the noise of haggling and crying kids.
"Good citizens of Dawnspire! I am hiring! Immediate openings for energetic, willing workers!"
A few heads turn. In this economy, the word 'hiring' is louder than a gunshot.
"We offer a flat monthly salary," I shout. "Five silver coins. Paid on time. No military conscription involved."
The chatter in my immediate radius stops. People start drifting toward my crate. Five silver isn't a fortune, but it's guaranteed food.
An elderly woman in a patched shawl pushes her way to the front, eyeing me like I just offered to buy her soul. "Five silver for what, exactly? What is this 'Technologia'? And how do we know you actually have the silver?"
"Madam," I say, keeping my voice steady. "We are manufacturing writing instruments and logistical tools for the war effort. Not swords. Not shields. The things that make sure the swords and shields get to the right place. It's safe work, it's indoors, and it pays."
A rough-looking guy with a scar across his jaw leans against a merchant's awning. "Five silver," he scoffs. "You look like a stiff breeze would knock you over. Why should we trust a newcomer passing through?"
"Because the military relies on supply lines, and supply lines rely on ink and paper," I say, meeting his eyes. "Orders get smeared, troops die. I'm fixing the communication bottleneck. You don't have to trust me. You just have to trust the math. The Crown needs what we're making."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Math and military contracts. They understand that.
"Sign this paper," I say, waving my ledger, "and join me in bringing this kingdom into a new era of technology in the Technologia company!"
A guy in the back raises his hand. "What in the hells is 'technology'?"
"It's an old word," I say without missing a beat. "It means 'getting things done faster so we don't all die poor.'"
The guy nods slowly. "Makes sense."
A young woman with bright blue hair—dye, or magic, I don't ask—steps up. She's got soot under her fingernails. "I worked in a blacksmith's shop before the master got drafted. I know my way around a forge. But what's the actual job? What are we doing?"
"Divided labor. Standardized parts. I'm building an assembly line," I tell her. "You won't be building a whole product; you'll be perfecting one piece of it. I need smiths. I need woodworkers. I need people who can just lift heavy things and follow instructions."
"And the workspace?" asks a broad-shouldered man covered in sawdust. "Where are we reporting?"
"Oh, you're gonna love it," I lie smoothly. "Very rustic. Open concept. Maximum airflow. Close to nature. We're finalizing the interior today. Just sign the paper."
(If they see the slanted floor and the fist-sized knot in the Old Lumber Shed before they sign their names, I am going to lose half of them to the infantry recruiters.)
But the hook is set. The desperation of the square works in my favor. Five silver is five silver. They start lining up.
I spend the next two hours writing down names, assessing skills, and shaking hands. The skepticism fades, replaced by a fragile, nervous kind of excitement. They want this to be real. They want a reason to wake up tomorrow that doesn't involve waiting for a casualty list.
As the sun starts to dip, the crowd disperses, and I step down from my crate. My throat is raw.
I open the notebook and look at the day's yield.
---
Technologia - Initial Payroll Roster
Total Enlisted: 20 Monthly Burn Rate: 100 Silver (10 Gold) (Note: I currently possess zero gold. This is a tomorrow problem.)
Labor & Logistics (10)
- Farmhands (4): Aldwin, Brecken, Corra, Desta
- Construction (3): Fenwick, Grael, Holt
- Stable Hands (2): Idris, Jemma
- Miner (1): Ruvik
Manufacturing / Assembly (5)
- Basic Smiths (2): Garret, Lorcan
- Woodworkers (2): Minna, Norvel
- Potter (1): Elara
Admin / Sales (5)
- Apprentices (3): Peter, Celia, Lira
- Market Hustlers (2): Saren, Sariel
---
I close the notebook.
Twenty employees. A rotting shed. A furnace being built.
Now all I have to do is invent an industry before payday, or twenty angry people are going to throw me in the river.
---
08:00 p.m. - At The Old Lumber Shed, Dawnspire, Aurelthorn. (2 October 2025)
The Old Lumber Shed sits just outside the central ring of the city, backed right up against the riverbank. It's highly convenient for water access and waste disposal. It is significantly less convenient for employee morale. When I led my twenty fresh recruits out of the city square and down to the riverbank this afternoon, the silence was deafening. They looked at the slanted roof. They looked at the cracked windows. They looked at the fist-sized knot in the main support beam. The illusion of a grand tech startup evaporated into the damp river air.
A burly guy from the construction crew crossed his arms, kicking a loose, rotten floorboard. "I'm so disappointed in this workplace environment," he announced to the group. "I don't think this company is gonna live too long."
"Yeah," I said, leaning against the warped doorframe. "But it's a workplace that guarantees your monthly salary, plus a five percent profit-sharing pool for all founding employees. If this place collapses in a week, you literally have nothing to lose."
He scoffed, looking around at the absolute squalor. "Ha. Nothing to lose? You want me to build a forge, fix a roof, and work for you for a month before I see a single copper. You might just vanish with our labor or bid away our money. How can I trust your mouth?"
I didn't argue. I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the very limited, highly borrowed loan money I was supposed to be strictly rationing. I pulled out a single silver coin.
I flicked it through the air.
He blinked, his hands shooting up to catch the silver against his chest.
"I forgot to mention," I said, staring him down. "First-time hires get paid their first week in advance."
The mood of the crowd instantly fractured. Three guys took the advance silver, turned around, and immediately walked back toward the city taverns. (I consider that a cheap severance package for unmotivated scammers. Good riddance.)
But the other seventeen? They looked at the silver in the construction worker's hand. They looked at the rotting shed. Then, without another word, they rolled up their sleeves, grabbed the tools they had brought, and started tearing out the bad wood. The advance pay bought the one thing my grand speeches couldn't: actual trust.
Now, it's 8:00 p.m. The workers went home an hour ago.
The shed still smells like river mud and sawdust, but the floor is mostly level, and the debris is cleared. I drop onto the wooden stool beside my makeshift table and let out a heavy, rattling sigh. My hair is matted with sweat and dirt.
"I didn't sign up for this," I mutter to the empty room.
I am currently juggling the roles of CEO, head recruiter, HR officer, accounting clerk, and lead engineer.
(I am a software engineer. In my old life, if a server crashed I hit refresh. If my mechanical engineering fails in this medieval shed, a high-temperature furnace explodes and takes my eyebrows off. The stakes are wildly completely different.)
The dream of building an empire in a fantasy world sounds great until you realize an empire requires you to personally sweep up rat droppings on day one.
A soft, warm snort breaks my spiral of self-pity.
From the shadows of the back stall, Snowball steps forward. His majestic, branching antlers scrape lightly against a low beam, and his glossy fur catches the moonlight bleeding through the cracked windows. He walks over and firmly nuzzles his heavy, regal head against my drooping shoulder.
I let out a tired chuckle, leaning my weight against him. I run a hand through his fur, feeling the steady, rhythmic warmth of a creature that doesn't care about burn rates or supply chain logistics.
"Thanks for the support, Snowball," I whisper. "I really don't know what I'd do without you."
He looks at me with massive, kind eyes. No judgment. Just quiet loyalty.
I take a deep breath, looking around the empty, drafty space. It's a dump. But it's a dump with a newly leveled floor and seventeen people showing up tomorrow at dawn.
"From now on, this is our home, buddy," I tell him, sitting up straighter. "Actually, no. It's not just a home. This is the Technologia Company factory. We have to build tools, draft products, and construct a workspace all at the exact same time. But we're going to build something amazing here. I swear it."
Snowball lets out a low, rumbling whinny, stomping one hoof against the patched floorboards.
"Tomorrow, we draft the crossbow parts and finalize the nib press," I say, the determination finally starting to out-yell the exhaustion. "I might not be a mechanical engineer, but I know how to learn. And if we can get those pens and tools to the front lines, we buy this kingdom time. And we buy ourselves a future."
I stand up, patting his neck one last time.
"Let's get some rest," I say, pulling my bedroll out from under the table. "Tomorrow is day two."
Zero revenue. Positive expenses. Seventeen employees. One very good Antlersteed. I close my eyes on the wooden floor, and for the first time since the border fell, I fall asleep in under a minute.
---
POV: [POV Third-Person Omniscient] [Tense: Present]
09:00 p.m. - The Western Front, Borders of Drakensvale. (16 September 2025)
The battlefield is a meat grinder of mud, steel, and screaming.
Sovereign Lord Malakar stands astride his armored demonic mount on a ridge overlooking the slaughter. He does not smile. There is nothing to smile about. Below him, the Belmara Empire's forces—vampires, demons, and the restless undead—are slamming into a wall of one hundred and fifty thousand entrenched Drakensvale soldiers.
Beside him, Morrigan Nightshade has to shout to be heard over the deafening crackle of offensive magic.
"Our vanguard is stalling, Sovereign!" she yells, her vampiric features tight with calculating anxiety. "The undead do not tire, but Drakensvale has the numbers! They are rotating their shield walls every hour. If we don't break the center soon, we will be flanked!"
Malakar grips his reins. "Press the attack! Feed the ghoul battalions into their left flank. They fight with fear; we fight with eternity!"
A horned General rides up the ridge, his mount violently kicking aside a stray corpse. He is bleeding from a gash on his shoulder, his chest heaving.
"Sovereign!" the General barks, throwing battlefield protocol to the wind. "This is a meat grinder! We are bleeding our forces dry against the strongest army on the continent!"
"State your point, General, before I take your tongue," Malakar snarls.
"Aurelthorn!" the General yells, pointing furiously toward the east. "The Kingdom of Aurelthorn is practically defenseless! Their army is shattered. If we pivot and strike them, we seize their grain, their supply lines, and their ports! We fight a war of attrition here when free resources sit untouched to our east!"
Malakar's eyes flash with crimson fire. He looks at the General. He looks at the blood-soaked valley.
He knows the General is completely, mathematically correct. Attacking Drakensvale first is a monumental tactical blunder. But Malakar cannot admit the truth: he physically cannot order the attack on Aurelthorn. Whenever he looks at the maps of Aurelthorn, the voice of their dark god, the Red Moon, goes violently silent, filling his mind with an impenetrable, static dread.
So, Malakar lies. He spins his limitation into a divine military doctrine to preserve his army's faith.
"You lack vision, General," Malakar booms, his voice laced with manufactured arrogance. "Aurelthorn is a dying dog. What threat are they? A few ships to annoy our naval fleets? Let them rot in their own poverty!"
The General stares at him, baffled. "But the supplies—"
"We break the spine first!" Malakar roars, silencing him. "We crush Drakensvale, the true power! When the strong fall, the weak Kingdom of Aurelthorn will surrender without a single blade being drawn. That is the will of the Red Moon! The hard path is the righteous path!"
(It is not the will of the Red Moon. It is the effect of a choice. Hundreds of miles away, sitting in a rotting lumber shed, a weak, nerd software engineer named Ryan Mercer possesses a passive rule called 'Safe From The Red Moon.' Malakar's grand, self-righteous military campaign is, in reality, in some dreamer's hands.)
The General swallows his tactical arguments, bowing his head to the religious authority of his Sovereign. "As you command. But we must change tactics here. We cannot just push the center."
Morrigan wipes a speck of blood from her cheek, her eyes narrowing at the Drakensvale lines. "Then we stop fighting them face-to-face. Deploy the Legion of Shadows."
Malakar nods slowly, relieved the conversation has shifted away from his strategic embarrassment. "Do it. Send them behind the trench lines. Butcher their commanders in the dark. Break their morale from the inside."
He turns his mount back toward the carnage, projecting an aura of absolute, terrifying control. The clash of titans continues, a brutal struggle of light and dark, dictated entirely by a divine ruler who has no idea he is being geas-locked by a guy trying to invent a fountain pen.