Chapter 69: The Failed Project

Watching the little old man beam with excitement, it was clear he looked like someone who’d been out of work for two weeks and had finally landed a new job. This image completely shattered the lofty, enlightened sage impression Gawain had previously held of him. Now Gawain was certain: the shabby robe, the worn-out hat, the scruffy beard—none of it was some deliberate hermit lifestyle. The man was genuinely poor.

In this moment, Gawain couldn’t help but whisper to Amber, “Are you sure this guy you brought in… is really reliable?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Amber replied cheerfully. “His personality might be a bit odd, but you’ve seen for yourself, haven’t you? At least his druid skills are real. And you’re not the kind of stuffy noble who judges people by their background or sticks rigidly to rules. You always say talent is what matters most, right?”

Gawain hadn’t expected Amber to have overheard his muttering and then use it to score a point against him. He could only smile wryly and, out of curiosity, ask, “By the way, how do you know him?”

A little old man who looked like the disgrace of all druids paired with Amber, the so-called disgrace of elves, wasn’t exactly a mismatch—but Gawain was still curious. Did they just bond over being outcasts in their respective groups?

Unexpectedly, the old druid, who had keen ears, caught Gawain’s whispered question and turned with a chuckle. “Sir, I’ve known Amber’s foster father for a long time. I watched this little girl grow up. By tradition, she should be calling me ‘uncle’…”

Amber immediately rolled her eyes. “You? You don’t look a day over a mischievous kid, and you want me to call you uncle?”

“I see, so you two have that kind of connection,” Gawain nodded in understanding. He’d heard Amber mention her foster father before—a human rogue, basically a thief working among the lower classes.

Amber swayed her head and said, “He used to be pretty close with my foster dad. Back then, they called themselves the Nightwalkers, aiming to be the most notorious thieves in the southern lands. But they never made a name for themselves.”

Gawain frowned instinctively and looked at the old man. “You used to be a thief?”

“That was a long time ago, a long time ago,” the old man waved his hands quickly. “I don’t do that anymore. These days, I make an honest living.”

Gawain found it amusing. “So you switched careers because you couldn’t make it as a thief?”

“Because my skills were terrible,” Amber scoffed nearby, clearly unimpressed. “He got caught stealing from a corpse and got beaten up badly. He was never cut out to be a thief, nor a druid. And now, it seems, not even an antiques expert or a cook.”

Gawain blinked. “How did you get caught stealing from a corpse?”

“Mainly because there were over two hundred people around, paying respects at the grave…”

The old man could only laugh awkwardly. Despite being older, he was surprisingly easygoing with Amber’s teasing. Judging by their banter, this wasn’t the first time she’d mocked his thieving skills—especially now, since Amber not only stole from the dead but also managed to bring one back to life.

Though, technically, it wasn’t exactly “stealing” at the time…

After a few more casual exchanges, Gawain suddenly realized he’d forgotten something important. “By the way, what’s your name?”

The old man placed a hand on his chest and gave a somewhat awkward bow. “Pittman Lauren, at your service. Just call me Pittman.”

“Good. Pittman, you can rest for now. I’ll arrange for someone to take you to your quarters. As you’ve seen, this place is still in its infancy. The living conditions aren’t great yet, but if you work as hard as my people do, this will soon become a prosperous and comfortable new home.”

Pittman’s face lit up like a flower. “For those shiny little darlings, I’ll do my very best.”

The eclectic druid followed the escort out of the tent, leaving Amber and Gawain exchanging glances. After a brief pause to gauge the atmosphere, the half-elf smiled awkwardly and tried to slip away, only to be grabbed by Gawain.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going to help patrol around the camp!” Amber protested, hopping on the spot. “Hey, let go of me!”

“First, explain what you meant by ‘dug up a seven-hundred-year-old antique’—I haven’t forgotten that line.”

“Eek—”

Everything in the camp was moving forward, but not all was smooth sailing.

In a courtyard on the west side of the workshop area, Rebecca stared blankly at the object before her.

In front of her stood a strangely shaped kiln, built from fire-resistant bricks and a mud mixture laced with quartz sand. It looked like a giant bowl turned upside down. On either side of the “bowl” were simple runes meant to increase heat and control the fire, while at the bottom was a kiln door recently opened—previously sealed with mud. It resembled a brick kiln, but it wasn’t used for firing bricks.

It was firing stone—or rather, a mixture of limestone powder and clay. According to the ancestors, if you calcined this mixture and then combined it with slag from the blacksmith’s shop, grinding it into powder, you could create a new building material.

But no matter how she looked at it, it didn’t seem to be working.

In a basket in front of the kiln were the finished products: gray-black, hardened lumps that looked dirty and ugly. Among the various fragments were many hard, brittle chunks. Rebecca had tried grinding some of the fragments with slag into powder, then mixed it with water as instructed by the ancestors. The first batch of test mixtures had dried into something that crumbled at the slightest touch, resembling rotten wood.

There was no way this could be used to build houses.

Rebecca propped her chin on her finger, deep in thought, ignoring the dirt and soot smudged across her face.

For the past few days, she’d been either supervising the installation of the Magic Network No. 1 and the new furnace at the blacksmith’s shop—now renamed Cecil Steelworks—or coming here to fire stone. The young viscountess spent most of her days covered in grime. Yet the knights and soldiers of the domain weren’t surprised—after all, the previous viscountess had a similar style, often blackened by practicing fireball magic, sometimes returning from the woods covered in mud after wrestling wolves. Everyone was used to it.

As for the common folk, who rarely had the chance to see the nobility before but now often interacted with Hetty and Rebecca, they had grown quite fond of and close to the viscountess. Gawain was a strong pillar and protector but felt intimidating to the commoners. Hetty was intelligent and kind but came off as stern and serious. Only Rebecca, who ran around helping everyone with no airs and a friendly smile for all, made people forget she was nobility.

Another important reason was that Rebecca’s fireballs were excellent for clearing land and blasting stone…

Seeing Rebecca lost in thought, the few commoners helping nearby dared not interrupt. They didn’t understand why the duke had ordered such a place to fire stone, but the waterwheel he’d commissioned had already shown its wonders, and the camp’s layout was clever. With the land reclamation progressing smoothly and the new druid on board, everyone trusted Gawain’s plans—even if they couldn’t see the point of firing stone. Still, following orders was never wrong.

After some pondering, Rebecca finally looked up and reached a conclusion:

She wasn’t cut out for this kind of thinking.

With a wave of her hand, she said, “Carry these over and let the ancestors take a look!”

Moments later, Gawain saw the pile of indescribable lumps brought before him.

“This is the ‘cement’ you fired?” he asked in disbelief. If he hadn’t personally ordered it, he could hardly connect those gray-black clumps with the “cement” he knew.

“Oh? So this stuff is called cement?” Rebecca’s eyes widened. “What a strange name.”

Gawain had no time to explain the term’s meaning. Though mentally prepared for setbacks, he still felt a subtle sting of failure. When Rebecca pulled out another basket filled with porous, rock-like chunks, he was certain the project had failed.

“This is the product after mixing the finished material with water, as you instructed,” Rebecca blinked. “It does set quickly, and the surface looks like stone, but it’s actually loose and brittle…”

Before Rebecca finished, Amber suddenly appeared from some corner. “Loose and brittle? Let me try!”

Gawain quickly pushed her back into the shadows and sighed as he looked at the blackened lumps. “Looks like it’s a failure.”

He double-checked Rebecca’s process—from raw materials to production—and found no mistakes. Rebecca had even adjusted the ratios of materials, the heat, and firing times, running multiple cross-tests with four kilns and trying limestone and clay from different sources. The results were always the same.

Once again, this world showed Gawain its peculiar and stubborn nature.

The properties of materials didn’t match. How many of the well-known earthen recipes from memory could actually work here?

Gawain decided that, conditions permitting, he would test every simple method he knew, all the while preparing himself mentally for the possibility that every attempt might fail.

Meanwhile, Rebecca looked up at him with hopeful eyes. This girl, who had finally found a way to help but had failed, seemed to never consider that the “recipe” Gawain provided might be flawed. Instead, she instinctively blamed herself.

“Ancestor… have I disappointed you?”

“No,” Gawain shook his head with a sigh. “Every experiment is a long process, especially when searching for a new material. Keep trying different stones and soils to fire. I’ll give you a few more possible formulas. Just treat this as a long-term project you can work on when you have free time. Just don’t let it slow down progress at the steelworks.”

(End of chapter)