Morning crept into the Leonhardt estate like a thief afraid of being caught.
Sunlight slipped between curtains that had seen better tailoring, pooling on marble floors scratched by years of neglect. Outside, the wind carried the distant bray of animals that should have been sold long ago.
Kang Dojin, newly trapped in the body of Lord Leonhardt, sat at a heavy oak desk that groaned every time he leaned on it. A half-finished map of the manor lay before him—an improvised top-down sketch made from memory and guesswork. Ink blotches dotted the parchment like battle scars.
He sipped lukewarm water, staring at the lines until they blurred.
So far he had confirmed three things:
The estate was enormous.
Half of it was structurally unsound.
Everyone in it had the collective competency of a wet mop.
His door burst open without warning.
"Good morning, Young Master!" a cheerful voice announced.
Dojin glanced up. The maid from yesterday—he still didn't know her name—entered with a breakfast tray stacked precariously high. Steam curled from a bowl of porridge that smelled faintly like regret.
"Gerald said you wished to begin inspecting the grounds," she said. "You'll need your strength."
He eyed the gray mush. "Is this… edible?"
"Of course, my lord. Cook used extra salt today."
"That explains everything."
He set the spoon down after the first bite. "Where's Gerald?"
"In the courtyard, arguing with the stable boys. They claim the eastern stables are haunted again."
"Haunted?"
"Yes, my lord. The horses refuse to enter, and one of the boys swore the haystack growled at him."
Dojin pressed his fingers against his temple. "Right. Ghost hay. Priority one."
The maid blinked. "…Pardon?"
"Never mind. Show me the courtyard."
***
The moment he stepped outside, a wave of cool air met him—crisp, damp, carrying the earthy scent of rain-soaked soil. The courtyard stretched wide, paved with uneven stones that had long surrendered their alignment. Puddles glittered in the dips, reflecting the main manor like a cracked mirror.
Gerald stood near the fountain—an elaborate marble thing shaped like an angel spilling water from a jar. The jar, Dojin noted, was chipped and leaking from the wrong side.
"Good morning, my lord," Gerald greeted, bowing stiffly. "I have gathered the staff, as requested."
A group of servants stood in a hesitant cluster behind him: two maids, three laborers, and one man who looked like he'd lost a fight with both sleep and sobriety.
Dojin clasped his hands behind his back, surveying them. Their uniforms didn't match. Half the boots had holes. One man's shirt had been buttoned unevenly—an offense to geometry itself.
"Excellent," he said dryly. "An army of excellence."
They exchanged uncertain looks.
He pointed toward the fountain. "Does anyone know why that's leaking?"
The oldest laborer stepped forward, scratching his head. "Because it's cursed, my lord."
"Cursed."
"Yes, my lord. Every year it leaks more. We patch it with plaster, but the plaster disappears overnight."
Dojin crouched, running a hand along the fountain's base. The marble felt warm, faintly humming with energy. He frowned. "Not cursed. Mana interference. The water's enchanted to purify itself, but someone mixed natural limestone with mana-sensitive quartz. They're repelling each other."
Blank stares.
He looked up. "In simple terms: bad material choice."
More blank stares.
He straightened. "All right. New rule. From today, no one touches the fountain except me. If it explodes, it's my fault."
A maid gasped. "Explodes?!"
"Figure of speech. Probably."
***
He spent the next hour walking the grounds, trailed by the uneasy procession of servants. The manor loomed behind them—graceful from afar, pitiful up close. Cracks spider-webbed across walls like old scars. The garden's irrigation channels overflowed into soggy patches that smelled of algae.
Everywhere he looked, neglect whispered from the stones.
He knelt near one of the channels, scooping a handful of water. A faint blue shimmer rippled through it. Mana again. Interesting.
If water here carried trace mana, it might reinforce itself naturally under guidance. In theory, he could shape mana currents the same way he'd design hydraulic flow—redirecting pressure, stabilizing stress. The possibilities prickled along his mind like sparks.
"Is something wrong, my lord?" Gerald asked.
"Everything," Dojin replied absently. "But this—this is promising."
He rose, brushing dirt from his hands. "Gerald, fetch me a bucket, a length of rope, and anyone sober enough to dig without injuring themselves."
The butler hesitated. "To… dig, my lord?"
"Yes. If this soil is as saturated as I think, the foundation walls are absorbing moisture. We'll need to divert runoff before it seeps deeper."
One of the servants whispered, "The young master's speaking in tongues again."
Dojin ignored him. "And someone bring me a crystal core. A small one, from the storage room."
Gerald blinked. "A core, my lord? For what purpose?"
Dojin smiled faintly. "An experiment. If mana can erode a structure, it can also reinforce one. We just have to teach it manners."
***
They assembled the requested items with the nervous energy of people fetching tools for their own execution. Dojin rolled up his sleeves, inspecting the edge of the courtyard where the ground dipped slightly toward the western slope. Mud squelched underfoot—confirmation of seepage from last night's rain.
Perfect.
He drove a stick into the ground, marking the spot, then gestured for the laborers to start digging a shallow trench. Their movements were sluggish, uncertain, and wholly uncoordinated.
"Stop," he said after two minutes. "You're throwing the soil the wrong way. You want the displaced dirt on the downhill side, not uphill."
"Why's that, my lord?" one asked.
"So gravity can do its job without filing a complaint."
The man frowned, clearly unsure whether gravity was a person or a monster.
Dojin sighed. "Never mind. Just watch."
He grabbed a shovel, tested its weight, and began digging himself. The servants stared in horror—nobles didn't dig. But his motions were efficient, almost rhythmic, the practiced precision of someone who'd actually done fieldwork.
"So the young master truly has lost his mind," one maid whispered.
"Perhaps it's a fever," another murmured.
Dojin smiled without looking up. "If it is, pray I stay sick. The place might survive my insanity."
A few of them laughed nervously, the sound fragile but genuine.
***
By noon, a narrow channel stretched across the courtyard, guiding excess water toward the lower slope. The soil glistened, dense and dark. Dojin set the small mana core at the trench's mouth and knelt beside it.
Mana hummed faintly within the crystal—a steady, pulsating rhythm like a living heartbeat. He touched it, and a tingle ran through his fingers, climbing his arm in a warm rush. It wasn't unpleasant, merely foreign, like static electricity given intention.
He exhaled slowly, focusing. In theory, if mana responded to will, then it could be directed through a medium—perhaps water, perhaps soil—if the conditions were right.
"Let's see if physics and fantasy can get along," he murmured.
He pressed his palm to the mud beside the core, guiding the faint blue light outward. To his mild surprise, the energy followed—seeping through the wet soil in thin glowing veins, tracing the trench's shape. The water shimmered, particles aligning into faint geometric patterns.
Behind him, someone gasped. "It's glowing!"
"Of course it's glowing," Dojin said. "That means it's working."
The glow stabilized, fading gradually into transparency. When he removed his hand, the water flowed cleanly, the trench walls firming instead of collapsing inward.
He grinned. "Mana-reinforced soil stabilization. Not bad for a first try."
The servants looked at one another, whispering prayers in case it exploded later.
***
That evening, as the last light faded, Dojin stood by the trench watching water glide smoothly downhill. The ground held firm, the flow steady. A simple fix, but the beginning of something far larger.
He could work with this.
The Leonhardt estate might be a disaster, but even disasters could be rebuilt—with the right mix of logic and madness.
He turned toward the manor, its windows flickering gold in the twilight. For the first time since waking, the weight in his chest felt lighter.
Tomorrow, he'd start mapping the entire drainage system. After that—the western wall.
But for now, he allowed himself the smallest smile.
"One trench at a time," he whispered. "That's how civilizations begin."