Chapter 71: The Sphere’s Stirring

Those experimental records were the hard-earned proof of how Gawain’s “Earth experience” clashed painfully with the rules of this world. He had them bound into volumes, encrypted in Chinese, treating them as his closely guarded secret.

Nearly eighty percent of the experiments had failed.

This meant that although this world appeared habitable—its natural environment even somewhat resembling Earth’s on the surface—its underlying laws were fundamentally different. It operated under an order utterly foreign to Gawain, where various supernatural forces, including magic, played a significant role.

No, perhaps calling them “supernatural” was no longer appropriate. In this world, conjuring a fireball by hand and chanting to gods was the natural order.

Yet Gawain didn’t simply give up and go to sleep. On the contrary, this incredible world only fueled his determination.

He believed every law could be deciphered, every phenomenon had deeper rules. Humans should revere nature, but reverence should not mean surrender. Since these extraordinary powers truly existed here, they should be studied as real phenomena—just like wind, rain, thunder, and gravity back on Earth. His “Earth experience” might not apply directly, but his way of thinking—honed in an age of information explosion—surely surpassed that of the conservative nobles and pedantic scholars trapped in medieval mindsets.

Besides, not all his experience was useless.

Gawain picked up two transparent lenses resting in the corner of his desk—cheap synthetic crystals (cheap only compared to natural magic stones). The most skilled craftsman in Tanzan had spent two days grinding them into a convex lens and a concave lens, exactly as Gawain requested. Holding them one behind the other before his eyes, he adjusted their positions until a clear image appeared.

Though he couldn’t yet measure the speed of light, at least light still behaved according to the laws he knew.

That meant a telescope could be made—a cheap, mass-producible “Eagle Eye” for the common folk.

All that remained was to lower the cost of synthetic crystals and solve the inefficiency of manual grinding.

Beyond optics, the fact that waterwheels could run proved something else: while the microscopic laws might differ greatly from Earth’s, many intuitive, macroscopic physical laws here were probably similar.

So there was still much to explore.

After jotting down notes about the telescope in his memo, Gawain yawned deeply and finally noticed the camp had fallen completely silent. Night had long since descended—it was time to sleep.

His ears were sharp enough to catch faint snores and murmurs from nearby—Betty and Amber sleeping next door. Listening to Amber muttering about getting rich even in her dreams, he couldn’t help but shake his head with a smile.

Yeah, time to wash up and get some rest.

As darkness deepened, the last flicker of light in the tent was snuffed out. A tranquil blackness enveloped everything, like the legendary Night Lady’s veil protecting dreamers. Gawain emptied his mind and slowly drifted into sleep.

Only when all falls into darkness do the faintest glimmers, usually overlooked by everyone, get a chance to show themselves: beside Gawain’s desk, a subtle glow began to emerge—from the large basket next to it, filled with the waste residue from Rebecca’s “cement” experiments.

…

Some in the camp remained awake after nightfall—not the “workers” of the Cecil Steelworks (Gawain had renamed the forge and given the old blacksmith some materials on the new production system), but the loyal soldiers on night watch.

The militia on the late shift, clad in armor, walked along the fire-lit paths, exchanging posts at sentry points. A squad passed through the southern storage area and arrived at a tent isolated from all other facilities on the camp’s outskirts. The squad leader, a middle-aged warrior with a full beard, confirmed the password and recognition tokens with the outgoing shift, then glanced at the tent with a teasing smirk.

“That thing asleep?”

“Of course,” shrugged the soldier going off duty. “What else can a stone do besides sleep? I don’t see the point of guarding it. It’s just a stone sphere. Nothing’s happened all these days. Lady Hetty keeps casting all kinds of spells on it every day, but no effect…”

“Better watch your mouth,” the incoming squad leader warned. “This is the duke’s order. He commanded us to guard it. Got a problem with that?”

“Of course not, of course not,” the other quickly replied, glancing down at his finely crafted armor glowing faintly with magic. “I should be thanking the duke. Never thought I’d get to use gear like this in my life. Feels like I’m a proper knight lord or something…”

“Don’t get your hopes up about this thing actually doing anything.” The new squad leader patted his shoulder. “Go get some rest.”

Yawning soldiers left, and the bearded leader took over the watch with his four men. Two soldiers stood guard at the tent’s entrance while he lifted the flap and stepped inside.

The roughly one-and-a-half-meter-diameter “stone sphere” sat quietly in the center. The ground beneath it was dug into a shallow pit to keep it stable. Around it stood several thick wooden stakes, connected by ropes woven with magical threads that glowed faintly in the night—mostly for psychological comfort.

Besides that, the tent held a few wooden racks and a desk. The racks displayed some magic crystals and alchemical potions, while the desk was weighed down by some hastily scribbled manuscripts—research notes left by Hetty.

Unfortunately, those notes showed no progress.

“This thing really hasn’t changed at all,” one soldier muttered, pacing around the sphere. He resisted the urge to tap it twice with his spear. “I heard it’s a relic from the ancient Gondor Empire. Thought it’d be something impressive.”

The squad leader rapped the soldier’s head. “Enough chatter. Just check for cracks or if it’s moved. Once you’re done, you all get out. Come back in half an hour to relieve me.”

The soldiers grumbled but began their inspection. The leader casually surveyed the tent’s contents, but the moment his gaze shifted away from the sphere, a faint, almost static-like sensation crept over his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Survivors of the Cecil disaster were no ordinary folk. Even a militia captain like him would be a squire at best in other noble domains. Instantly alert, he pressed a hand to the sword at his waist and drew it halfway out. “Something’s wrong!”

But the tingling “electric” feeling vanished the next second. The two soldiers, having tensed up gripping their spears, exchanged confused looks. One glanced at the captain. “Boss… maybe you’re just too nervous?”

“No, I definitely felt something…” The captain was puzzled, but mid-sentence he noticed the faint magical glow on one soldier’s enchanted breastplate had suddenly gone out. “Lock! Your armor!”

The soldier named Lock looked down and gasped softly, “Ah!”

Just as he cried out, the dimmed glow returned, a faint magical aura covering the armor as if nothing had happened.

Then the other soldier’s breastplate did the same—first the glow vanished, then it reappeared. The captain also saw the magical sheen on his own sword fade briefly.

He drew the sword fully. “Stay calm! Slowly back away. This place…”

Before he could finish, a strange force tugged at the sword, as if invisible hands were pulling it toward the sphere in the tent’s center. The captain instinctively resisted, shouting, “Get help! The sphere’s acting up!”

Lock immediately dashed for the door, but halfway there, a tremendous force gripped his armor—more precisely, it was dragging the armor itself. The powerful pull lifted him off the ground, smashing through the stakes and ropes around the sphere, and then slammed him firmly against the “stone ball.”

Terrified, Lock struggled to remove his armor and break free, but the force was so strong the armor’s clasps locked tight. Despite several attempts, he couldn’t escape. Meanwhile, the captain felt the sword’s pull grow stronger until he lost his grip. The sword whistled through the air and clanged against the top of the sphere.

The sword’s tip hovered just half a palm’s width above Lock’s head.

Lock rolled his eyes upward at the blade and finally shouted hoarsely, “The sphere’s alive!! Something’s happening!!”

His shout echoed through half the camp…

The captain stared dumbfounded at his empty right hand, then looked up and exchanged a glance with the other soldier inside the tent.

His own armor hadn’t been pulled away, and the other soldier hadn’t lost anything either.

So this “stone sphere” was selective about what it sucked in?

(End of chapter)