Rewrite That Witch
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Chapter 1252: The Design Bureau of Graycastle

The factory was in the southern suburbs, somewhere past the highway’s end, on a rutted road that turned the car’s smooth silence into something considerably less comfortable.

Garde had offered a ride; Roland’s battered minivan was parked back at the apartment building, and he was not sorry to leave it there. The rear seat was deeper and softer than his couch at home. There was a small freezer built into the panel behind the front seats, stocked with champagne on ice. Roland accepted a glass, mostly out of courtesy, and wished it were a cola.

Beyond the window, the city dissolved into construction. Trucks and excavators crawled over raw ground; the roar of machinery reached them even through the closed glass. A banner above the site read CLOVER CONSTRUCTION CORPORATION LTD. in the high, bright lettering of something newly hung. Further on, rows of pile foundations stood like exposed vertebrae in the earth.

“We’re building a car dealership,” Garde explained, watching Roland study the site. “Alternative fuel vehicles. It took quite a while to get approved — only a few months ago, in the end. The construction division is handling it now. It’ll transfer to manufacturing once the shell is up.”

That explained why Garcia had stopped mentioning the apartment building lately. The Group’s attention had simply moved elsewhere.

“And the factory?”

“Scheduled for demolition.” Garde lifted a hand before Roland could speak. “It was an agricultural machinery plant. It went through several restructurings and couldn’t keep pace with modernization. Since you have a specific use for it, I’ve asked the demolition supervisor to hold off. He agreed.”

“What about the staff?”

“Mostly gone.” Garde gave a small shrug. “One old technician near retirement age, and a dozen workers. They’re on my family’s books. Once the dealership opens, they’ll transition to new roles.”

Roland considered this. It sounded unreliable, the sort of plan that might unravel at the first obstacle. But it was a beginning, and that was more than nothing. He wasn’t going to open a proper design bureau with top engineers at the first attempt anyway.

When the car stopped, his heart dropped a little further.

The plant was barely five hundred square meters — corrugated steel walls gone the deep orange of old rust, the floor under a crust of grime thick enough to muffle footsteps. Machine tools sat under shrouds of dust and grit, their outlines almost indistinguishable from the floor. The building had the specific desolation of a place abandoned long enough that even the emptiness had aged.

He followed Garde upstairs to the manager’s office, from which came voices.

“I don’t know when they’ll finally knock it down. Feel like I’m growing mold out here.”

“It’s not so bad, doing nothing. You won’t get a raise at the new place anyway. Probably work overtime every day. I’d rather stay.”

“Nonsense,” an older voice cut in, dry and flat. “Young men should be proactive.”

“Proactivity gets you nothing. If I could retire now, I’d walk out this morning.”

“Speaking of retiring — Master Xie, isn’t it soon for you? I heard the boss asked you several times. He wouldn’t say anything if you stopped showing up.”

“I like it here.” A pause. The older voice again, quieter. “Nearly thirty years. I’d like to stay until they tear it down.”

“Can I take some pictures, at least?”

“Idiot! Photos aren’t the same!”

“Hold on — I hear someone on the stairs — ”

Rustling. The sound of chairs. By the time Garde’s secretary opened the door, every person in the room was in vigorous occupation of something. Documents were being organized. Keyboards were being typed on. The industry of people caught idle.

“Mr. Garde — ” Shock moved through the room like a wave. These workers had clearly been expecting a different superior.

It reminded Roland, oddly, of a government inspection arriving unannounced at a village.

“I came to show a friend around,” Garde said. His gaze settled on the oldest man in the room. “You’re Master Xie? I’ve heard you’ve been here several decades.”

Roland looked at him. Late fifties, perhaps just sixty — nearly bald, with a few thin strands of hair draped across his scalp. A large pair of reading glasses sat too far down his nose bridge to do much work. He was small and hollowed-looking, a discolored thermos in one hand. His eyes were dark and quick, alive in a way his face wasn’t.

Except for those eyes, he might have been anyone’s retired neighbor on any apartment building stairwell.

“Yes, sir,” Master Xie said, the deference of a long-time employee smoothed into habit. He worried at his thermos. “Twenty-nine years. Twenty-nine precisely.”

Roland’s initial enthusiasm sank. A real craftsman, in his experience, didn’t wear his experience so apologetically. He was already composing an online recruitment post in the back of his mind.

“He did good work,” Garde said, with the warmth of someone who had never seen the work. “My young friend is interested in taking over this plant. Show him around, give him a sense of it.”

“Al-alright,” Master Xie stammered. He gave Roland a long, startled look. “But isn’t the plant going to be—”

“If he likes it, we’ll keep it open.”

The burning in Master Xie’s eyes when they found Roland’s face was immediate and unmistakable.

“How should I address you, sir?”

“Just Roland.”

“Mr. Roland — please follow me!”

He led Roland down to the plant floor with the energy of a man who had been asked to perform something he’d long given up expecting. He was about to begin a tour of the plant’s history when Roland interrupted him.

“That can wait. I’d rather know about you. What did you actually do here?”

Master Xie blinked, recalibrated, and began. “Everything, more or less. I started as a fitter. Promoted to workshop supervisor, then assistant plant director. When it was busy, I covered three or four people’s posts — supervising the assembly line during the day, teaching repair work to the young workers at night.” He touched the bridge of his glasses. “My eyes went eventually. I stopped working the front.”

“Design experience?”

“Some.” Not a boast — just a fact being laid on the table. “I didn’t go to university, but I taught myself. The plant ran night school once. Pencil and ruler work, not computers — after the Group set up a design department, nobody looked at hand drawings anymore.”

Roland stopped walking. “If I wanted a tracked tractor — something completely unlike what’s available on the market — could you build one?”

Master Xie’s expression shifted. Something rose in it that hadn’t been there before. “A tractor?” A small laugh, involuntary. “Mr. Roland, I’m not exaggerating — I could build one with my eyes closed, given a few apprentices to assist.”

“Why didn’t the Clover Group put you in the design department?”

“Everything’s on computers now. Robotic arms, automated processes. The people from the old plant — they all moved to sales or administration.” A flatness came into his voice. Not bitterness, exactly. Just the fact of it. “There was nothing there for me to do.”

Roland turned to face him. Everything he’d written off in the first five minutes rearranged itself.

The unremarkable exterior — that was simply how a man looked who had spent thirty years inside work rather than promoting himself. The deference — that was a team leader who had learned that modesty kept the floor running. The lack of computer skills — that made the Design Bureau’s bookkeeping considerably cheaper.

“Very well,” Roland said, nodding slowly. His lips pulled into a smile he hadn’t planned. “Very well.”

Master Xie stared at him. “Sir?”

“The plant stays open,” Roland said. “I’m going to convert it into a design bureau. You’ll be chief designer.”

“A design… bureau?”

“That’s right.” Roland extended his hand. “Welcome to the Design Bureau of Graycastle.”

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