Chapter 238

Chapter 238

The troops sent by the royal direct command are progressing smoothly with their tasks.

Contrary to the content of the report, Dwayne’s expression was not bright.

The smooth progress meant that a huge budget was being drained in real time.

‘If it’s for war preparations, it can’t be helped, but this is too tight.’

Complaints were starting to emerge from the Maclaine fiefdom. He swallowed a sigh. While he believed that he didn’t need to report matters he could control within his purview, the bitterness in his stomach was unavoidable.

“If that’s going well, then it’s about time we started the dam construction, right?”

Hoping that the additional policies to be implemented wouldn’t create further grievances, he nodded heavily.

“Yes. We will mobilize enough workers and pay them a fair wage. But if we are to finish the construction within the designated period, we’ll need someone with definitive experience...”

“Call upon the elite from the golem tower, including Clayton, and the dwarves who have experience with dam construction. Make sure the construction ends before the winter.”

“...Understood.”

As Dwayne’s delayed response followed, a soft voice came from behind his departing figure.

“Just a little bit more. Hang in there. Just one more year. Then things will be much better.”

Whether he guessed the deep anxiety underneath the comforting words was adding even more strain on his mind was uncertain.

* * *

“Lalalala~”

Lately, it’s become common for me to hum out of sheer joy.

For good reason:

‘The owner is the king of this country, and I am the king of the magic workshop.’

Hammar combed his hair neatly in front of the mirror and started humming again.

He checked again how well his pomade-slicked back hair, exposing his handsome forehead, matched his luxurious red silk clothes before he left the room with his hands clasped behind his back.

But as the tranquility of the room faded, a rough cacophony of noise aggressively filled his ears.

“Hurry up on line 3! Why is it taking so long just to flatten a metal plate!”

“Accident on line 1, two human craftsmen. Call the emergency team! Quickly!”

Boom. Crash. Whirrr.

“Line 2 is complete, moving on!”

The dwarves and human craftsmen buzzed about intensely beneath the railings.

The noise they created was hard to call pleasant, but to Hammar, it sounded like music.

As soon as he opened the door, Temar, who had been waiting, stuck to him like a shadow.

“How’s the progress?”

“There are so many orders, it’ll probably take several more months at least.”

“Due to the soldiers’ equipment?”

“Yes.”

“50,000 suits are no joke. But we’ve got to do it if it’s asked. Do bear with me. Take good care of the craftsmen.”

“I’m aware.”

“And what about the... knights who took that thing?”

“They’ll come back as soon as they fall. But considering the volume, maybe once more will suffice?”

“That’s good, then.”

Everything was moving smoothly.

‘The workshop, many times larger than the hidden village I once lived in, now moves at my beck and call.’

His fingertips tingled pleasantly as if the workshop was part of an enjoyable sensation spreading through his mind.

He knew an easy way to amplify this good mood even further.

“How about a beer?”

“Here it is, ready for you.”

“As expected. Temar, unlike most dwarves, you’re quite perceptive.”

Grinning ear to ear, he took the beer mug hanging from Temar’s hook hand.

Gulp. Gulp.

‘He sure drinks well.’

The beer was so refreshingly consumed that one might wonder if a cooling spell had magically been applied without his knowledge.

“Ah! That’s the taste!”

Just as Hammar marveled at the flavor, a loud sound crashed from inside the open door.

A flash of red light and a cacophony erupted within.

Hammar froze on the spot with his beer in hand.

It was the sound he least wanted to hear—a nightmare of a noise.

“Pardon?”

“Apart from the talents investigated by Sir Clayton, if any other mages wish to join, we’ll welcome them all. That is closer to the vision I have in mind.”

* * *

“Rejected again? Why on earth?!”

“The Tower Master is deeply grieved by the recent disgraceful events. Until a future strategy for the tower is decided, he wishes everyone to tighten their belts...”

“Bullshit!!”

Max, an elder of the fire magic tower and a 5th-circle mage, was furious.

As his outburst released a sudden surge of killing intent, the mage dispatched with the Tower Master’s order collapsed on the spot, shaking with fear. Max, however, felt no desire to apologize or comfort him.

He wasn’t particularly cranky by nature.

It was just that the funds he had requested for over a year had been denied again, and the bearer of this damned news had to be the third disciple of Tower Master Freymer.

“Get out now, Fenon. And tell the Tower Master if he won’t support my research, I’ll truly leave the tower this time!”

“But, Master, I can’t do anything...”

“Then pass on the message!”

“Yes, yes. Ah, understood!”

As Fenon scurried out of the lab, Max collapsed wearily in his chair, exhaling deeply.

“Is he targeting me to this extent? Has the Tower Master completely lost his mind?”

A successor for the nearly ninety-year-old Freymer Tower Master.

The phrase he first heard 20 years ago when he reached the 5th circle had since become invisible chains tormenting him.

Initially, it was only subtle ostracism, but five years ago, after he published research that halved the casting time of the 5th-circle spell Flame Blast, the obstruction became blatantly direct.

His research funds disappeared, budgets were unfairly allocated, and every move he made faced interference or opposition from the Tower Master and Elders Council.

Worn down by such repetitive events, he had no choice but to feel exhausted.

“What rotten practice. Those high-ranking mages...”

As he sighed deeply, suddenly the door slammed open.

“Master!!”

It was his disciple, Lapel.

His usually calm and collected disciple, uncharacteristic of a fire mage, was frantic.

Seeing his agitated state, Max asked the reason rather than scolding him.

“What’s happened?”

“The, the royal! There’s an invitation from His Majesty and the golem master for you!”

“An invitation?”

As Max questioned, Laple, with trembling hands, pulled out a document and read it out loud, trying to maintain composure.

“The kingdom intends to establish the Maclaine magic tower as the nexus for its mages, recruiting talents from all factions.”

Max watched his disciple, swallowing hard as if unable to believe his words.

“The decree was based on a recommendation by Mage Clayton to recruit Max of the Fire Magic Tower as a top priority. Should you become part of the Maclaine magic tower, you’ll receive overwhelming support—inclusive of any mage following you. If you’re willing, respond promptly. By the name of Maclaine, any mages departing from their towers will be protected from harm.”

Crack.

The wooden goblet Max held crumpled, emitting a burning scent from the handle as the fire mana naturally manifested.

“Master!”

Startled by Lapel’s outcry, Max withdrew his hand and stood up abruptly.

“......I must go.”

“Master?”

“I’m leaving this shitty tower right now!!”

Lapel watched his master, who was running around the lab with screams of jubilation, in stunned silence.

And that day.

Max, the elder of the fire magic tower, and his sixteen disciples left the tower.

Six elders from the five major magic towers, all facing similar situations, along came forward to declare their departure from their respective towers and join the Maclaine magic tower.

The count exceeded 150 people, including seven 5th-circle mages who were the primary targets, 22 additional 4th-circle mages, and 70 3rd-circle mages.

This was effectively the power equivalent to a single magic tower.

Everyone invited had accepted.

Moreover...

“......Other mages are also making inquiries.”

“What?”

Apparently, more mages than they anticipated had grown dissatisfied with the long-standing culture of the magic towers.