Chapitre 74: Micah - 7.0
"I wish the world had just one mote of you in each of everyone." A feeble old man airily whispered as I held his hand, "I leave to you everything. Can he see me? Al, I am sorry."
His grip went limp; I do not know why, but I felt a small part of me die as his hand fell beside the bed. I wept. I closed my eyes as tears gushed down my face. I blinked my eyes and I saw a tombstone in a hollow. Two simple lines centered on the face of the granite.
Here rests Magnar Munthe.
He died as he lived, with magical affectation.
I fell through the world, landing in a chair. A man with the skin and face of a lizard sat reading a book opposite the table in front of me. He felt oddly familiar, like an old friend you haven't seen in decades.
He looked up from his novel, "Is it tea time already? I do hope you brought the—"
Then, his face contorted, and his body bulged. The color of his scales darkened as his eyes frosted over. Wings sprouted from his back, and he opened his maw, lunging at me.
He hissed, "SUPPER!"
His jaw closed around my head, and I felt warmth trickle down my chest. I stumbled backward in a panic. Master pulled me up with a helping hand.
"Why the dreadful face?" he asked as he dusted off my shoulders.
Three spears burst from his chest, blood splattering onto my face. I shot awake, breathing heavily. I frantically ran out of the makeshift house Uncle, Pascal, and I had set up, falling to my knees at the center of several such shelters.
The night stars twinkled overhead, and the chill of the air nipped at my nose. I clutched my heart, my blood racing and my vision wobbling. I fell over and rolled onto my back, panting heavily as the world encroached around me. I passed out.
"Micah! Micah, wake up!" Pascal's voice pierced the fog of my sleep. I blinked my eyes open to see his concerned face hovering above me, shaking me gently.
I sat up slowly, the events of the nightmare still haunting me. "What... what happened?"
"You passed out in the middle of the camp," Pascal replied, helping me to my feet. "Come on, let's get you some food."
Uncle approached, carrying a pot of herb soup. The warm, savory aroma filled the air. "Cheap but delicious," he commented with a smile, ladling some into a bowl and handing it to me.
I shrugged off their kindness, barely acknowledging their concern. "Thanks," I muttered, taking the bowl and retreating to the workshop atop the special barracks.
I buried myself in plans and diagrams. Tools and materials laid strewn around me. I scribbled away notes for improvements to my armor, the battlements, the city's planning. The familiar routine of work was a welcome distraction.
Hours passed, the morning light giving way to the afternoon. I lost track of time, my focus entirely on the tasks at hand.
Master Beswick entered the workshop accompanied by two of his captains, his presence filling the space with a quiet authority. "Progress report on the production of my defenses, Squire" he requested, his tone calm but firm.
I looked up, my eyes tired and my mind weary.
"I need more time," I pleaded. "There's still so much to do."
Master's brow furrowed, a hint of frustration in his eyes. "The timeline was three weeks, Micah. It has already been three months."
His words struck a nerve.
I lashed out, my voice rising. "I've had to plan the reconstruction, build the artifacts, learn swordsmanship, exercise... it's too much!"
Master Beswick looked shocked, his eyes widening at my outburst. He turned to leave, his expression a mix of disappointment and concern.
"We'll discuss this later," he said quietly, closing the door behind him. "Privately."
I stood there, seething with frustration and guilt. But the work called to me, a relentless taskmaster that demanded my attention. I re-engrossed myself in my projects, scribbling notes and making adjustments, trying to drown out the chaotic whirl of emotions.
As the day turned to night, the workshop grew dim, the only light coming from the the glow of my tools and the radiance of the crystals needed for the pylons. I worked until my hands ached and my eyes burned, pushing myself to the limits of focus.
I stood before my workbench, fingers stained with ink and dust, staring at the two nearly finished pylons in front of me. Their imposing structures were a testament to weeks of meticulous labor. I wiped my brow, leaving a streak of soot on my forehead, and leaned closer to inspect my handiwork.
The heart of each pylon was a marvel of magical engineering. At its core lay a cluster of mana crystals, each one painstakingly engraved with intricate magic circles.
"Each crystal must be precisely nested into the fittings to ensure optimal mana flow," I muttered to myself, trying not to mess up. "Any deviation could result in a catastrophic failure."
I consulted my diagrams, double-checking the specifications. I delicately connected the engravings between the couplings and the crystals with latex to allow the proper flow of mana through the system.
Around the heart of the pylon, the exterior was crafted from stone, engraved with runes and sigils. These symbols were not just decorative; they are crucial element of the pylon's design. The same runes and sigils that had lined the prison walls I employed here, designed to absorb magic from the user and channel it into the crystals.
I traced the engravings with my fingers. "Once the mana is amplified by the crystals, it's expelled through the back of the pylon as a potent spell or stream of raw energy."
"Recharging the crystals with ambient mana," I mused, flipping through my notes. "A self-sustaining system. As long as there's mana in the air, these pylons will remain functional."
I compared the two newly completed pylons with the ones I had already finished. "Each one is an improvement over the last. The alignment of the crystals is more precise, the engravings sharper. I must achieve perfection for the final product."
Satisfied with my progress, I covered the pylons with a protective cloth and left the workshop. The evening air was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of the forge. I made my way to the smithy, where the blacksmiths were working late, as usual, to rush the production of the firearms and projectiles.
The clanging of hammers and the hiss of steam greeted me as I approached. The smiths, their faces grim and determined, glanced up briefly before returning to their work.
"Evening, lads," I called out, stepping into the glow of the forge. "How's your progress?"
One of the senior smiths, a burly man with a thick, red beard, looked up from his anvil. "Making good time, Micah. Should have another batch of projectiles ready by dawn."
"Excellent," I replied, nodding appreciatively. "I know it might be a challenge, but in one more month we need a stockpile of 30 projectiles per firearm."
The smith grunted in acknowledgment, his focus already back on the glowing metal in front of him. I watched for a moment, admiring their skill and dedication. Each piece they crafted was a work of art, designed to defend our home and our lives.
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone