CH242 · Rewrite
☕ Support

Chapter 242: New Construction Area

The ceremony ran until midday. Roland had filled two roles simultaneously — commentator and host — and by the time the bell sounded at noon and Echo’s gun salute cracked across the square, he was bathed in sweat and glad it was over.

He climbed to the third floor of the castle, turned toward his office, and stopped.

Anna stood at the door, leaning against the frame with her arms folded, wearing the small private smile she reserved for moments she had arranged.

“What happened?”

“You’ll know when you step inside.” Her lake-blue eyes were bright with it.

This is probably not a trap, he thought, and pushed open the door — and stopped again.

Twelve witches stood in two rows before him, Wendy and Scroll at the front. The moment he appeared, they caught the sides of their dresses and curtsied.

“Keke. What are you —”

Scroll spoke first. “Your Highness. What you did today proved that everything you have told us was true. We sisters are deeply grateful. No words can describe it. Please allow us to continue serving you.”

Roland exhaled. “I almost thought you’d come to say goodbye.”

Wendy couldn’t hold back her laugh. “How could that be, Your Highness? This place is the Holy Mountain we witches have dreamed of. As long as you don’t wish us to leave, we hope to live here forever.”

“And that is exactly what I want.” He looked across their faces. “But there’s no need for such gratitude — helping you was never a selfless act. It also helped me. And I prefer your ordinary selves to this.” He gestured toward the formal rows. “Much more.”

“Humph,” Lily said. “I already said we didn’t need to be so formal. And now he agrees.”

“You readily came along anyway,” Mystery Moon whispered. “Traitor.”

“All right.” Scroll tapped her forehead with the long-suffering patience of someone managing a household. “To the dining hall. His Royal Highness needs to change his clothes.” She turned back toward Roland. “Miss Anna tells me you’ve been going to bed late every evening. Please take care of yourself. You must not fall before the goal is reached.”

“I’m in good health,” Roland said, smiling. “Rest easy.”

The witches filed out, one after another. Only Anna stayed.

“Are you also here to express gratitude?” Roland asked, the edge of amusement showing.

“I suppose the same as the others.” She lifted the corner of her mouth. “No words can describe it.

A pause settled between them.

“And,” he said, “do you also want to live in Border Town forever?”

“No. Not forever.”

The words hit him like a door opening onto cold air. His heart knocked against his ribs. “Why not?”

“Because you won’t stay in Border Town forever.” Anna tilted her head, watching him with that particular calm she had — the calm of someone who has already made the hard decision and moved past it. “Wherever you go, I will follow.”

The warmth that moved through him was not sudden. It was the recognition of something that had always been true — from the first day he had known her, through every moment when she might have chosen differently and had not. The Witch Cooperation Association’s invitation. The critical battles. Each time, she had stayed beside him without being asked.

She stepped forward. Two steps. Then she put her arms around him, placed her head against his chest, and breathed in slowly — as if she were pressing the moment into memory.

“I’m covered in sweat,” he said.

She didn’t answer. She simply stayed.

He gave up and held her.


After lunch Roland took a cold shower, changed clothes, and threw himself back into work.

Karl van Bate spread the map of Border Town across the table between them. Roland pointed to a position along the Redwater River.

“I want a bridge here.”

Karl studied the marking. He was quiet for a moment in the way that skilled craftsmen are quiet — measuring, not stalling. “A pontoon bridge?”

“No. A steel bridge.”

“Your Highness, if I may speak plainly — at this point the Redwater River is nearly a hundred meters across. A stone arch bridge would reach perhaps a third of that at best. The current here is too strong to hold a pier for long, even with stakes as thick as a man. Wooden rafts are the only way to span the whole width.”

“It won’t be stone.” Roland picked up a pencil and began sketching. “Three spans. The middle pier handled by the witches — you’ll only need to prepare the bridgeheads. Build slopes on both ends so the full structure rises high enough that river boats can pass beneath without touching their masts.”

Karl stared at the sketch. “A bridge that reaches into the sky?”

“Six or seven meters of clearance is enough.” Roland set the pencil down. “The south bank needs to be opened quickly, and docks need to be built. A pontoon bridge blocks the river channel. That’s no good for what comes next.”

The expedition to King’s City by river had told him something he hadn’t been able to ignore: within Graycastle’s borders, rivers were roads. Every major city sat beside one. If he wanted to conduct further military operations inside the kingdom, he would need heavy river gunboats — and the firepower on a warship was a different order of magnitude from anything fielded on land. Building ships meant building a dock. A dock meant a bridge that didn’t obstruct the waterway.

“I have no experience with bridges of this kind,” Karl said, not hiding his uncertainty.

“Neither do I,” Roland said. “We’ll go slowly the first time. Build a test bridge onshore, learn from it, then transfer the method to the river. The same way we built the water towers — Hummingbird reduces the weight, Anna welds and assembles. It won’t be as difficult as you’re imagining.”

Karl nodded. “As you command, Your Royal Highness.”

“There’s one more project.” Roland moved his finger to the castle district. “I want to expand the backyard — take in all the surrounding high ground. And build a three-story residence here.”

Tilly’s five witches would arrive next month if things went well. There were no spare rooms left in the castle; they could manage with three to a room temporarily, but the number of witches would only grow. A comfortable living environment was not incidental to his strategy — it was part of it. Nothing convinced people to stay quite as reliably as a life they had no wish to leave.

“A three-story brick house?” Karl asked.

“Not entirely brick. The correct term is brick-concrete structure. The pillars and beams are reinforced concrete — steel bars embedded in a mixture of cement, sand, and stone. Think of the steel as bones inside a body. This kind of structure can be built taller — four, five stories wouldn’t be a problem.”

“Reinforced… concrete?” Karl turned the words over carefully.

Roland explained the proportions, the principles. He acknowledged the practical uncertainty — the difference between a careful mixture and a careless one was enormous, the same gap that separated quality cement from whatever someone in a rural area mixed up themselves with wire in place of rebar. He had seen such houses built during his time in the countryside and knew exactly how wrong it could go. But for a three-story residence, even an imperfect pour would be unlikely to collapse.

More importantly, he wanted Karl to grasp the concept and develop it further himself — to see what reinforced concrete could become as a building material, to carry it forward into something Roland himself couldn’t fully anticipate. That was always the goal: open the door, point through it, and trust the craftsman’s instincts to do the rest.

Karl was quiet for a long moment. “Will you also let me explore it at my own pace?”

“No,” Roland said, smiling. “This one I can teach you.”

Discussion

Suggest a change