The State Labor Ministry building occupied a carved-out section of Seleun'mhir's mountain face, its entrance framed by massive pillars of grey granite that had stood for three thousand years. Misaki stood in line with other refugees, waiting to receive his work assignment from officials who approached job placement with the methodical precision of people who understood that infrastructure built today would serve citizens for centuries to come.
"Haruto, Misaki." The clerk examined his refugee documentation with professional detachment. "Background: astronaut-engineer from another world. Class designation: The Jack. Skills assessment indicates mechanical aptitude, structural knowledge, mathematical reasoning." She looked up, her weathered face showing perhaps two hundred years of administrative experience. "We're assigning you to the State Engineering Corps. Mountain bridge reconstruction project. Report to Senior Engineer Kalth'ren at the northern pass workshop tomorrow morning."
"Thank you," Misaki said, accepting the assignment papers.
Behind him in line, Riyeak received his own posting—general labor crew for the mythril quarries. The fifteen-year-old giant didn't complain, simply nodded acceptance. Manual work suited his massive frame, and the quarries paid decent wages even for unskilled refugee labor.
Lyria had been assigned to the communal kitchens alongside Millia, M'lod's former cook who'd survived the exodus north. The two women had immediately established efficient workflows, combining Lyria's healer's knowledge of nutrition with Millia's decades of experience feeding large groups on limited resources.
The workshop occupied a converted warehouse near the northern pass, its interior cluttered with precisely organized chaos—timber stacks sorted by grade and age, coils of mythril cable strong enough to bear crushing weight, tools that showed the wear of centuries of use, and drafting tables covered in engineering diagrams for projects spanning multiple generations.
Senior Engineer Kalth'ren was a woman of perhaps four hundred years, her grey hair bound in practical braids, her hands bearing the permanent calluses of someone who'd spent three centuries building things that would outlast kingdoms. She studied Misaki with sharp brown eyes that had evaluated thousands of workers over her long career.
"You're the otherworlder engineer," she said without preamble. "The one who built that two-saw device in M'lod before everything went to hell."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Can you do mathematics? Real mathematics, not just counting copper?"
"I have a degree in aerospace engineering from my world. I can handle structural calculations, load distribution analysis, materials stress modeling—"
"Good. You'll need it." Kalth'ren gestured for him to follow her to a large drafting table where a partially completed bridge design lay spread across the surface. "Last year's snowstorm took out the Kresh'val crossing. Two hundred sixty meters between mountain peaks. The old bridge was four hundred years old, built from Rulwood and iron—adequate for its era but never properly maintained. It finally gave way under accumulated ice weight."
She pulled out survey documents showing the gap: sheer rock faces on both sides, a six-hundred-meter drop to the valley floor below, wind patterns that could tear apart improperly designed structures during storm season.
"We need a new bridge. Permanent. Built to last at least six centuries before requiring major reconstruction." Kalth'ren pointed to the material inventory. "We have access to Seleun'mhir mythril for the primary cables—stronger than any other metal, resistant to corrosion, maintains integrity across extreme temperature ranges. Mountain pine for the walking surface. Local granite for the anchor foundations."
Misaki studied the survey data with growing professional interest. This wasn't village-scale construction—this was serious infrastructure engineering requiring genuine expertise.
"What's my role?"
"You're the structural engineer. I'm assigning you an apprentice—young man named Thel'mor, sixty years old, talented but inexperienced. The two of you will design the bridge, calculate load requirements, supervise construction crews, and ensure the final structure meets state safety standards." Kalth'ren's expression was absolutely serious. "If this bridge fails in the next two centuries, it's your name that goes in the failure records. Your reputation. Your professional legacy."
The weight of that statement settled on Misaki's shoulders. In a world where people lived eight hundred years, infrastructure failures were remembered for generations. Engineers who built things that collapsed killed their professional credibility permanently.
"I understand," Misaki said. "When do we start?"
"Tomorrow at first light. But today—" Kalth'ren gestured toward the door where a young man waited nervously. "Meet your apprentice. Thel'mor, come here."
The apprentice was sixty years old but looked barely out of adolescence by Seleun'mhir standards—practically a child beginning his career. He had the eager intensity of someone who understood he was learning skills he'd use for the next seven centuries.
"Sir," Thel'mor said, offering a respectful half-bow to Misaki. "I'm honored to work with you. The reports of your two-saw innovation reached the Engineering Corps. Senior Engineer Kalth'ren says you think differently—that your otherworld knowledge provides fresh perspectives on old problems."
"Let's hope that's true," Misaki replied, returning the gesture. "What's your background?"
"Three years of basic structural training. Two years in material science. One year of surveying work." Thel'mor pulled out a leather-bound journal filled with meticulous notes and diagrams. "I've studied the old Kresh'val bridge design extensively. The failure points were predictable—inadequate drainage channels allowed ice accumulation, the Rulwood support beams showed rot damage from moisture exposure, and the iron connection points experienced metal fatigue after four centuries of thermal expansion and contraction."
Misaki felt genuine respect for the young man's thoroughness. "Good analysis. So we design with those failure modes in mind."
They spent the rest of that afternoon at the bridge site itself, measuring distances with precision equipment that used mythril wire and weighted markers to calculate exact spans across the gap. The wind at this elevation was brutal—cold air from the mountain peaks colliding with warmer valley currents to create turbulence that would stress any structure built here.
"Two hundred sixty-three meters, four centimeters," Thel'mor called out, reading the measurement device. "Margin of error plus or minus six centimeters accounting for wind deflection."
Misaki recorded the numbers in his own notebook, his engineer's mind already sketching preliminary designs. Suspension bridge seemed most appropriate—two massive mythril cables anchored into the mountain faces, vertical support cables descending at regular intervals to hold the walking surface, with lateral stability cables to prevent dangerous swaying during high winds.
The anchor points would be critical. Seleun'mhir construction philosophy emphasized foundations that literally became part of the mountain—drilling deep into solid granite, filling the bore holes with concrete mixed from local limestone and volcanic ash, embedding the mythril cable ends in the foundation concrete so the entire system functioned as a single integrated structure.
"Four months," Kalth'ren had said. "That's the timeline. The northern passes need this crossing operational before next winter."
Four months to build something that would serve this nation for six centuries. The responsibility was staggering.
That evening, back in the refugee quarter, Misaki found Riyeak collapsed on his bunk, his massive frame showing genuine exhaustion for the first time since leaving M'lod.
"How was the quarry?" Misaki asked.
"Heavy," Riyeak groaned. "I've carried shield and weapon for years. I thought I was strong. Then they had me moving mythril ore blocks all day. My back is discovering muscles I didn't know existed."
Lyria appeared with food—simple but nourishing stew that Millia had perfected over her long career. "Eat. Both of you. Engineering and quarry work burn calories differently than combat, but they're equally demanding."
As they ate, a familiar presence entered the refugee common area. Eldrion—Varaken the Storm-Tongue, the Archon of the Seventh Circle, the World's Strongest Mage—looked somehow smaller now, his tremendous power banked and controlled after weeks of remaining hidden.
"Varaken," Misaki said, using the ancient mage's true name. "We heard you'd been in Seleun'mhir for a mage meeting. Since before we arrived."
"Yes." Eldrion settled into a chair with the careful movements of someone who'd lived three hundred twenty years. "The mountain kingdom's Arcane Council invited me two weeks ago—after my rather dramatic display killing those soldiers. They wanted to understand what happened. Ensure I wasn't planning to unleash Storm Tongue magic across their territory as well."
"And?"
"And I convinced them I'm simply an old man who defended his village. Nothing more." The mage's eyes held depths of sadness and resignation. "I've spent fifty years hiding from my past. But that display—that moment of fury—it's put my name back in circulation. Kings will hear. Kingdoms will remember. The peace I built for myself is over."
Riyeak looked at the ancient wizard with concern. "What will you do?"
"Stay here. Remain with the refugees. Perhaps teach some magic to those with aptitude." Eldrion managed a weary smile. "I'm too old to fight wars anymore. Let the young mages handle continental politics. I've had my centuries of that nonsense."
Misaki thought about his bridge project—four months of work that would serve for six centuries. About Thel'mor, sixty years old and just beginning a career that would span seven hundred years of building and designing. About Eldrion, three hundred twenty years old and finally admitting he was too tired for the conflicts that had defined his youth.
Time worked differently here. Lives stretched across centuries. Decisions made today echoed for generations.
His bridge would still be standing when everyone in this room was elderly. Possibly when they were dead.
The weight of that reality pressed down on him—not crushing, but grounding. Serious. Real.
"Ten copper per week," Kalth'ren had said about his wages. "Plus accommodation and meals. Standard state engineering compensation for a four-month project."
It wasn't much. But it was honest work. Building something that mattered. Creating infrastructure that would serve this mountain nation long after Misaki himself was dust.
For now, that was enough.