Chapter 32: Flexing (Part 3)
Blackstone, Wall Construction Site
After the initial discussion inside the conference tent, Tara brought the chiefs around the village so they could see Blackstone’s progress with their own eyes.
Their first stop was the wall construction.
At first glance, it looked exactly like what anyone would expect from people building a wall. Earth, stones, and thick wooden logs were being hauled around as villagers worked nonstop assembling the structure.
The strange part was the two wooden contraptions being used to move the heavier materials.
One was a massive triangle-shaped structure that easily lifted thick logs into position on top of the wall. The other was a long horizontal beam that villagers could rotate to move massive stones with surprising ease.
A crane. And a lever.
The crane pulled heavy logs from the bottom of the earth mound all the way to the top of the hill, while the advanced lever—complete with a counterweight—allowed villagers to position logs and stones precisely where they needed them on the wall.
Ancient tools, yet they drastically reduced the amount of labor needed for heavy lifting. A true blessing especially for a settlement with limited manpower.
“What the hell is that weird ugly thing?” Cynthia scoffed.
Which unfortunately, wouldn’t be understand by most people that born in Border Prison since they never seen tools like these before.
“T-that’s a crane… and a lever,” Drak muttered in disbelief.
“Oh?” Tara smirked. “As expected from a dwarf, Drak. You instantly recognized what they’re for.”
“The last time I saw construction equipment like this was over a hundred and fifty years ago…” the dwarf muttered quietly. “Before I was sent to Border Prison.”
His eyes stayed locked on the tools.
“And now… you have them?”
“So what?” Cynthia muttered dismissively. “What’s so special about it?”
“Can’t you see?!” Drak snapped irritably. “How many people are even working on that wall right now?!”
He pointed toward the villagers hauling materials around the construction site.
“Maybe… fifteen? Twenty?” Cynthia guessed with a tilt of her head.
“Without those tools,” Drak said, still staring at the crane and lever, “you’d need sixty people. Maybe a hundred for a wall this size.”
“That’s right, Drak,” Tara said proudly. “I only assigned sixteen villagers to this wall construction, and it’s expected to finish before summer ends.”
Then she turned toward Cynthia with a smug grin.
“I believe even you understand what that means, Cynthia.”
“Tch…” Cynthia clicked her tongue irritably. “So you still have enough people left to do other work. Guess you got lucky scavenging those tools intact.”
“Hm?” Tara tilted her head innocently. “Oh? But we didn’t scavenge them.”
Then she leaned closer toward Cynthia and Drak, her grin widening.
“We. Built. Them.”
“W-what?!” another chief suddenly blurted out. Another dwarf. “That kind of smooth woodworking would need proper metal tools to make!”
“Tara…” Drak muttered carefully, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you actually…”
Tara’s grin only widened further.
---
Blackstone, Smithy
Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank.
Every chief froze with their jaws dropped.
Inside a riverside hut, several Blackstone villagers worked nonstop around a blazing furnace. One man was melting rusty goblin weapons and armor while another hammered glowing iron against an anvil, producing the unmistakable sound of metalworking.
A smithy. A real, functioning smithy with furnace, anvil, hammer, everything.
“Y-y-you built a smithy?!” Drak stammered.
“Yep,” Tara replied casually. “No more risking our lives diving into dungeons just to scavenge rusty weapons and broken armor. Now we can practically make a proper one ourselves.”
Drak and the other dwarf chief looked completely entranced. Like moths pulled toward a flame, both of them unconsciously walked toward the smithy, their eyes locked onto the furnace and tools.
“How long has it been…” the other dwarf muttered quietly.
“Too long…” Drak answered.
They began touching the unused hammers, the anvils, the metal tools, almost reverently. For dwarves, being a blacksmith or not, a smithy was more than a workplace. It feels like home.
Tara then raised her voice toward the other chiefs.
“Listen up, everyone!” she declared. “Sure, the agros have walls, farms, blacksmiths, and armies.”
Then her tone sharpened.
“But look at this!” she shouted proudly. “I have walls! I have a smithy! And soon, I’ll have farms too!”
She paused dramatically, letting the words settle.
“And with all of you joining me…” Tara continued, her grin turning fierce, “I fucking swear we’ll have a fucking army.”
The chiefs stared at her in silence…
Even Cynthia looked shaken now.
---
Village Square – Nighttime
Later that night, Blackstone held a feast to accommodate the guests.
The eight village chiefs sat together around the same table while their escorts—people whose job descriptions definitely did not involve heavy thinking—spent their time eating, drinking, and dancing around the bonfire alongside the Blackstone villagers.
“Even their milk liquor tastes better than mine,” Cynthia sighed after taking a long gulp from her mug and wiping the froth from her lips.
Unlike the lively atmosphere around the fire, the chiefs’ table remained quiet. They had too much to think about after today’s tour around Blackstone.
Strong walls, a smithy whose bellows somehow operated by themselves through a watermill connected to the river. A fully equipped woodworking shop. Comfortable pebble-and-stone roads throughout the village.
A proper military training ground complete with targets and organized drills. Hell, Blackstone even had a cavalry squad now, and every single rider used a demon hound as a mount.
But the most frightening thing wasn’t the walls, smithy, or the military. It was what the Blackstone necromancer had said earlier. Alive or dead, they would all join the alliance eventually.
There was no “no” option in that conversation.
“Sigh…”
The chiefs collectively let out exhausted sighs. Good thing Tara wasn’t sitting at the table with them. Still, two chiefs didn’t look troubled at all.
Drak and the other dwarf chief.
“…I’ll join the alliance,” Drak said firmly.
The other chiefs immediately turned toward him.
“So you’re just giving in to their threats now?” Cynthia asked casually before taking another sip from her mug.
“Even without the threats, I’d still join them,” Drak replied. “I’m a goddamn dwarf, for fuck’s sake. I wasn’t born to crawl through ruins and dungeons scavenging rusty scraps like some desperate rat.”
His voice grew louder as he spoke.
“I was born to hammer hot iron! To sharpen blades!” he declared. “But this cursed Border Prison only lets me do that if I become one of the agros’ slaves.”
Drak took another massive gulp before slamming the mug onto the table.
“So yeah,” he said firmly. “I’d rather keep my own damn soul while using their smithy instead of having someone else use my body after I die.”
The other chiefs fell quiet after hearing Drak’s answer.
“I agree with Drak,” the other dwarf chief added firmly, folding his arms. “I’ll join too.”
“Me too.”
“Same here.”
“I’m joining them.”
Three more scavenger chiefs voiced their decisions one after another. Two humans and one elf.
Five out of the eight chiefs had already decided to join the alliance, only three remained hesitant and stubborn including Cynthia.
“Working under that bitch…” Cynthia muttered under her breath.
“Careful with your words,” one of the nearby chiefs whispered nervously. “Their necromancer might hear you.”
But before Cynthia could reply, a group of Blackstone women suddenly approached the table carrying trays full of food. Led by Erika.
“I’m sooo sorry for the wait,” Erika said softly while deliberately brushing her hair back behind her ear. “We just wanted to make sure everything was special for our guests.”
The women began placing dishes across the table. Grilled meat, stew, roasted meat prepared in several different ways.
But unlike the simpler food served to the villagers around the bonfire, the dishes prepared for the chiefs were filled with fruits and vegetables.
Berries, mushrooms, leeks. Everything was arranged carefully around the meat, making the dishes look far more appetizing than anything the chiefs were used to seeing.
The chiefs obviously didn’t understand modern dining presentation or plating techniques that Theo specifically prepared for them. But they still understood one thing immediately. The food looked fascinating, almost heavenly.
And the smell. It smelled absurdly good compared to the plain salted meat they were used to eating back in their own villages.
Some of the dishes carried the rich unmistakable scent of garlic. Others were glazed with honey.
Honey... Why were they using honey on food this generously?
In Border Prison, honey was valuable. Most tribes saved it for medicine, salves, or emergencies. Yet Blackstone was casually pouring it over roasted meat like they had an endless supply.
“Oh, and please try our newest drink,” Erika said softly as she placed fresh mugs in front of the chiefs.
These mugs looked different from the earlier ones, each had a wild strawberry placed neatly on the rim.
Why put fruit on a mug? And more importantly… why did it somehow make the drink look more attractive?
“This milk liquor is mixed with strawberries and honey,” Erika explained with a gentle smile.
Drak cautiously took a sip, and then his eyes widened slightly.
“It’s… so good…” he muttered.
The drink was sweet, creamy, fruity, and smooth, while still carrying the familiar alcoholic kick underneath. Completely different from the milk moonshine they usually drank.
Drak immediately took another gulp, devouring what was basically a gourmet strawberry milkshake with alcohol kick.
But while the chiefs stared at the luxurious food and drinks in front of them, many of them—especially the men—had slowly become distracted by something else entirely.
Erika, and the other women serving the food. All of them somehow looked… polished.
Sure, every village had their own village beauty. But the Blackstone women looked different.
Their skin looked clean and smooth without dirt or blemishes. Their hair looked properly maintained instead of dry and rough like most people living in Border Prison. Even their clothes looked freshly cleaned.
How? Weren’t these women also doing village chores during the day?
And most importantly… Why the hell did every single one of them smell so goddamn good like made of flowers?