Sleep wouldn't come.
Misaki lay on his pallet in the communal quarters, staring at the ceiling beams while his mind churned through calculations and timelines and impossible logistics. Sera breathed softly beside him, one small hand clutching the edge of his shirt even in sleep. Kyn made the occasional baby noise from where Feya held him, both of them peaceful in ways that felt increasingly fragile.
Twelve months. They had twelve months to complete fortifications that should take three years. Vel'koda'mir forces already positioned inside Seleun'mhir territory. Stone's End's population swelling with refugees who needed protection he couldn't guarantee.
The numbers didn't work. No matter how he ran them, the mathematics of construction timeline versus threat assessment produced only one answer: they wouldn't be ready.
His eyes finally closed somewhere past the second hour of night cycle.
And he dreamed.
The Ruins of Kel'shara rose around him, exactly as they'd appeared seven months ago during his first dungeon expedition. Level One—the Stone Halls—stretched in every direction, their dark stone surfaces covered in geometric patterns that suggested mathematical precision far beyond medieval construction capabilities.
But it wasn't the patterns he focused on this time.
It was the walls themselves.
The Predecessors who'd built this place five thousand years ago hadn't constructed straight vertical surfaces. Instead, each wall curved inward as it rose, creating a subtle but distinct angle that Misaki's engineering mind immediately recognized as structurally significant. The curvature wasn't decorative—it was functional, distributing weight in ways that allowed greater height with less material thickness.
He walked forward, his dream-self remembering with perfect clarity details his waking mind had overlooked during the terror and chaos of actual exploration. The walls tilted inward at approximately fifteen degrees from true vertical. The curvature created natural compression points that transferred load downward and outward simultaneously. The result was a structure that achieved remarkable height while maintaining relatively modest base width.
His hand touched the ancient stone, and suddenly he was seeing more than just ruins. He was seeing cross-sections, stress distribution patterns, material requirements. His astronaut engineering training merged with seven months of hands-on construction experience and the adaptive problem-solving that his Jack class seemed to enhance.
The walls curved inward. The height was achieved through angle rather than mass. The compression points created strength that straight vertical construction couldn't match.
Earth had built structures like this. Not medieval castles—those relied on thickness and height through sheer material volume. But modern architecture, where understanding of physics allowed elegance instead of brute force. Where angle and curve could accomplish what thickness couldn't.
The Stone Halls of Kel'shara had been built by a civilization that understood these principles five thousand years before Vulcan's current engineering knowledge had developed. Ancient technology preserved in dungeon architecture that nobody thought to study because they were too busy fighting the monsters inside.
And Misaki, standing in his dream with one hand on walls that had stood for millennia, understood exactly how to build the fortifications Stone's End needed in the time they had available.
He woke with the solution burning in his mind.
Sera stirred as he sat up, her small voice mumbling something about the tools before she settled back into sleep. Misaki carefully extracted his shirt from her grip and moved to the small desk near the window where moonlight—Kre'shala's pale glow—provided just enough illumination for sketching.
He worked in silence, his pencil moving across parchment with rapid precision. The basic concept first: walls that curved inward as they rose, achieving greater height through geometry rather than materials volume. Then the calculations—stress points, compression distribution, material requirements compared to current straight-wall design.
The numbers were beautiful.
Current design: fifteen meters tall, six meters thick at base, tapering to three meters at top. Material requirement: enormous. Timeline: impossible.
Curved design: twenty meters tall, four meters thick at base, tapering to two meters at top. The inward curve—fifteen degrees from vertical—created compression arches that distributed weight more efficiently. Natural structural reinforcement without additional material.
Same stone volume. Greater height. Faster construction because less total material needed per section.
His hand cramped from sketching, but he couldn't stop. Details emerged—the angle calculations, the foundation requirements, the way the curve would interact with the concentric wall concept he'd already proposed. The old deteriorating wall would remain as inner defense. The new curved wall would rise outside it, taller and stronger despite using equivalent materials.
There was one problem.
The curve created challenges for mounting siege equipment. Traditional trebuchet and ballista platforms required vertical walls or specific angles that the inward lean didn't naturally support. The dwarven specialists had designed their weapons for conventional architecture.
But Misaki had ideas about that too. Earth engineering had solved similar problems. Cantilever mounting systems. Adjustable platforms that compensated for wall angle. Techniques that medieval Vulcan engineering hadn't developed because they'd never needed to—conventional walls worked fine for conventional weapons.
He sketched until his fingers were numb and the parchment was covered in technical drawings that would have looked at home in any Earth aerospace engineering document. Cross-sections. Elevation views. Stress distribution diagrams. Material requirement calculations. Construction phase breakdowns.
The first light of dawn—Ulth'rk beginning its daily rise—found him still working, surrounded by papers that represented either brilliant innovation or catastrophic miscalculation.
"Misaki?"
Lyria stood in the doorway, her healer's bag slung over one shoulder, her expression shifting from concern to curiosity as she saw the scattered technical documents.
"I figured it out," he said, his voice rough from hours of silence. "How to build twenty-meter walls in twelve months with the materials we have."
"You haven't slept," she observed.
"I dreamed." He held up the primary design sketch. "Kel'shara. The Stone Halls. The walls curve inward as they rise. The Predecessors understood compression architecture five thousand years ago. We can use the same principles."
Lyria stepped closer, studying the drawings with the careful attention of someone who'd learned to trust Misaki's engineering instincts even when they seemed impossible. "This is..."
"Either genius or insanity," Misaki finished. "I need to present it to Syvra and the dwarven engineers. If it works—really works—we can complete the fortifications ahead of schedule. If it doesn't..."
"Then we're exactly where we were yesterday," Lyria said practically. "No worse off. Show them."
The engineering meeting convened in Stone's End's planning hall—a large room that had been converted into technical headquarters for the fortification project. Tables covered in architectural drawings. Scale models of wall sections. Material inventory lists. Tool maintenance schedules. The organized chaos of major construction coordination.
Syvra stood at the primary planning table with Master Sev'ea and three other dwarven specialists. They were reviewing the current construction timeline when Misaki entered, his collection of overnight sketches rolled carefully under one arm.
"Misaki," Syvra acknowledged. "You look like you haven't slept. This had better be important."
"I'm proposing major design revisions to the outer wall specifications," he said without preamble. "Changes that will increase height to twenty meters while maintaining current material budgets and actually reducing construction timeline."
The room went quiet. Sev'ea's expression shifted from polite attention to sharp focus. "That's impossible. You can't achieve greater height with equivalent materials without compromising structural integrity. Basic physics."
"Not if you change the geometry." Misaki unrolled his primary design sketch on the table. "Current specifications call for straight vertical walls, six meters thick at base, tapering linear to three meters at top. This requires massive material volume to achieve height while maintaining stability."
He placed a second sketch beside the first—his curved wall design. "What if the walls don't rise vertically? What if they curve inward at fifteen degrees from true vertical, creating natural compression arches that distribute load more efficiently?"
The dwarven specialists leaned forward simultaneously, their professional engineering instincts recognizing something significant.
Misaki continued, warming to his explanation. "The inward curve creates compression points every three meters of vertical rise. Weight transfers downward and outward through the curve, utilizing stone's natural compression strength rather than fighting against shear forces. This allows us to reduce base thickness to four meters while supporting greater overall height."
He laid out his stress distribution diagrams. "The material savings at the base offset the additional height requirements. Total stone volume remains roughly equivalent to current design, but we achieve twenty meters instead of fifteen."
"Show me the foundation calculations," Sev'ea demanded, all pretense of politeness abandoned in favor of pure engineering focus.
Misaki produced the relevant documents. The dwarf studied them in silence, his weathered hands tracing the mathematical progressions with the careful attention of someone checking for errors in critical infrastructure design.
"The compression arch principle is sound," Sev'ea said finally. "We use similar concepts in underground architecture where curved tunnel ceilings distribute mountain weight. But translating this to above-ground fortification..." He pulled out his own calculation tools—a compact abacus and measuring instruments that looked more precise than anything Misaki had seen on Vulcan. "Let me verify your load distribution assumptions."
Ten minutes of intense calculation followed. The other dwarven engineers crowded around, checking Sev'ea's work, running their own parallel calculations, occasionally arguing in rapid technical terminology that Misaki couldn't follow but recognized as professional disagreement about methodology rather than fundamental principles.
"The mathematics works," Sev'ea announced, and the grudging respect in his voice was unmistakable. "Twenty meters is achievable with the material budgets allocated. Possibly even twenty-two if we optimize the curve angle slightly." He looked up at Misaki with an expression that suggested he was recalibrating every assumption he'd made about human engineering capabilities. "Where did you learn compression arch architecture? This isn't standard fortification design in any kingdom I'm familiar with."
"My world," Misaki replied simply. "Earth has been building tall structures with limited materials for millennia. We've learned to work with angles and curves rather than relying solely on mass."
"Your world must have formidable engineers." Sev'ea turned back to the designs, his critical eye now searching for implementation challenges rather than fundamental flaws. "However, there's a significant problem. Our siege equipment is designed for vertical wall mounting. Trebuchets and ballista platforms require specific angles for optimal function. An inward-curving wall creates mounting complications that I'm not certain we can solve."
"I have proposals for that too," Misaki said, producing another set of sketches. "Cantilever mounting platforms that extend outward from the wall face, compensating for the curve through adjustable bracket systems. The platforms themselves remain level despite the wall angle."
He demonstrated with diagrams showing the mounting system's mechanics. "Earth developed these for situations where conventional mounting wasn't possible—ships, aircraft, mobile platforms. The principle translates to wall fortifications. The platform weight is distributed across multiple anchor points set deep into the wall structure, utilizing the compression strength we've already incorporated into the design."
The dwarven specialists studied the cantilever diagrams with expressions ranging from fascination to skepticism.
"This would work," one of them said slowly—a female dwarf whose name badge identified her as Master Kren'da, Siege Engineer. "But it's not dwarven engineering. This is something completely different."
"It's human engineering," Misaki corrected, allowing himself a slight smile. "Earth human engineering, specifically. We've had to develop creative solutions because we didn't always have access to the best materials or the most time. We learned to make angle and geometry do the work that thickness and mass couldn't."
Sev'ea set down his calculation tools and looked at Misaki with an expression that suggested he was seeing him properly for the first time. "You're proposing we revolutionize fortification architecture based on principles from another world, implemented by a twenty-one-year-old who's been on Vulcan less than a year, incorporating design elements from five-thousand-year-old dungeon ruins that nobody's studied as engineering references before."
"Yes," Misaki confirmed.
"That's either brilliant or completely insane."
"Both, probably."
A laugh escaped Sev'ea—genuine amusement rather than professional courtesy. "The Mountain Halls sent me here to build conventional siege weapons on conventional walls. Instead, I'm looking at architectural innovation that our master engineers would want to study." He rolled up Misaki's sketches with careful precision. "I'm bringing these to my senior colleagues. They'll want to examine every calculation, stress-test every assumption, probably argue about methodology for days."
"And if they approve?" Syvra asked, her two-hundred-year-old face showing cautious optimism.
"If they approve, we start construction immediately using the new specifications. Your twelve-month timeline becomes achievable instead of fantasy." Sev'ea met Misaki's eyes. "But understand—if your calculations are wrong, if the compression arches fail, if the walls collapse during construction—people die. Engineers die. Your reputation as Earth human genius becomes Earth human whose arrogance killed workers."
"I understand," Misaki replied steadily. "I've checked the mathematics seventeen times. I'm confident in the design."
"Confidence is good. Accuracy is better." Sev'ea gathered the technical documents. "Give me two days to coordinate with the Mountain Halls' master engineers. They'll verify independently, run their own stress tests, determine if this is viable or wishful thinking."
He paused at the door. "For what it's worth—I think you're onto something real. The compression arch principle is elegant. The cantilever mounting solution is creative. You're thinking like an engineer who's had to solve impossible problems with inadequate resources." A slight smile. "You're thinking like a dwarf, actually. We respect that."
After the dwarven specialists departed, Syvra studied Misaki with an expression that mixed approval and concern. "You worked all night on this."
"I dreamed about Kel'shara. The ruins. When I woke up, the solution was just... there in my head. Like my mind had been processing it while I slept."
"The Jack class," Lyria said quietly from where she'd been observing near the wall. "Adaptive problem-solving. Your versatility isn't just about learning different skills—it's about connecting disparate knowledge in ways specialized classes can't. You saw dungeon architecture, remembered Earth engineering, understood current construction limitations, and synthesized a solution that none of those knowledge sources alone would have produced."
Misaki considered that. His Jack class had shown unexpected benefits before—psychological recovery, skill acquisition versatility, broad competence across multiple fields. Maybe it also enhanced creative problem-solving, allowed his mind to make connections that more focused intelligence wouldn't recognize.
"Whatever the reason," Syvra said, returning to practical matters, "if this design works, you've solved our timeline problem. Twenty-meter walls completed in twelve months becomes a realistic goal rather than desperate hope." She looked at the remaining sketches on the planning table. "Get some sleep. When the dwarves return with their assessment, I want you rested enough to answer their technical questions competently."
"I need to check on Sera and Kyn first," Misaki said. "Make sure they're—"
"They're fine," Lyria assured him. "Feya took them to the communal gardens for morning activities. Sera's teaching other children her letters, and Kyn is apparently charming every woman within visual range."
Despite his exhaustion, Misaki smiled. "He's good at that."
"Sleep," Syvra ordered. "That's not a suggestion. I can't have my primary engineer collapsing from exhaustion before we've even started the revised construction."
Misaki returned to his quarters and fell onto his pallet. Sleep claimed him within minutes.
And he dreamed again—not of ruins this time, but of walls rising toward the sky, their curved surfaces gleaming in sunlight, standing tall and strong while enemies broke against them like waves against cliffs.
Twenty meters of stone and geometry and Earth engineering principles applied to an alien world's desperate need.
It would work. He was certain of it.
It had to work.
Because the alternative—twelve months from now, Vel'koda'mir forces assaulting fortifications that weren't ready—was unthinkable.
The walls would rise. The city would hold. His family would be safe.
Everything else was just mathematics and stone and the determination to make impossible things happen through engineering excellence.
He'd done it before. Built bridges that shouldn't exist, solved problems that couldn't be solved, survived situations that should have killed him.
Building some walls?
That was just Tuesday for the Jack of All Trades.