Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

The long queue squirmed forward slowly. Everyone passing through the checkpoint was meticulously searched, Fuller included.

A sergeant holding a long halberd scrutinized Fuller with a gaze reserved for criminals. Two soldiers approached Fuller, gesturing for him to spread his arms.

Feeling uncomfortable under such scrutiny, Fuller turned his head toward the Rose River.

In the middle of the river, a group of militia, led by someone who looked like a soldier, were cautiously fishing debris off the ice.

The wheel-lock pistol Fuller carried was quickly discovered—of course, he hadn't planned to conceal it anyway.

The halberd-holding sergeant took the pistol from one of his men, frowned, and asked in a hostile tone, "What's this for?"

"Self-defense," Fuller answered quietly.

The sergeant inspected the gun chamber and powder pan, finding neither bullets nor gunpowder. "Empty?"

Fuller felt slightly embarrassed. "It's just for scaring people."

The sergeant shook his head and placed the gun in a box inside the checkpoint booth. "Pick it up on your way out."

"Sure, sure."

Since the night the army took over the Steel Fortress, the small chapel bridge and nearby buildings had been requisitioned by the stationed troops and were still being used as the temporary command center to this day.

Following the instructions, Fuller stepped into a shop at the bridgehead.

The shop's original furnishings had been cleared out, and the counter was entirely covered with maps.

Inside the counter, an inexplicable number of shelves had been crammed in; to make room for so many shelves, the interior partitions of the room had all been removed.

Several clerk-like individuals moved between the shelves, busy organizing documents, while a few service soldiers continuously carried crates of archives into the room.

Behind the counter sat an officer with bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair. Upon seeing Fuller enter, the officer raised his eyelids slightly. "Name?"

"Fuller. Ernest Fuller."

"Did you bring the deed?"

Fuller nodded vigorously. "I brought it."

"If you brought it, hand it over!"

Still warm from Fuller's body, the workshop deed and ownership proof for the Forge were placed on the counter.

The officer glanced at them, turned around, and gave a few instructions. Several clerks immediately began searching the shelves.

After a while, one of the clerks brought a duplicate copy over to the counter.

Comparing it with the duplicate stored in the City Hall, the temporary clerks, assigned by the city government, confirmed the authenticity of the deed and gave a small nod toward the officer.

The officer took the deed, marked the location on the map, then rang a bell to summon a messenger. Without looking up, he told Fuller, "He'll take you there."

Fuller wanted to ask something else, but the officer was already impatiently urging, "Next!"

The messenger took the map, saluted, and walked toward the door. Fuller followed him out of the shop, still bewildered.

Outside, the messenger asked proficiently, "Got a lot of stuff in your shop?"

"Quite a bit."

"Then let's go get a cart first." The messenger led Fuller toward the stables. "And we'll call a couple of militia to help move things."

Thinking of his warehouse, Fuller hesitated. "One cart might not be enough."

"Ha, don't worry. Every gentleman I've met today has fretted about needing more than one cart," the messenger replied with a grin. "Only to find when we get there that one cart doesn't even get filled."

The messenger drove the cart with Fuller and two militia aboard, leisurely heading out from the bridgehead camp.

Walking through the current Old Town, it was easy to lose one's sense of direction, as the once narrow and shadowy streets and alleys had undergone a complete transformation.

What were once workshops, churches, and plank houses had now all turned into ruins. Without any landmarks to guide, one could only look to the distant, still-surprisingly-standing spire of the ruined Erwin Great Cathedral.

The Fuller family workshop wasn't hard to find. A short walk along the riverside, and you'd reach it. But accepting the workshop's current state took Fuller some time.

The workshop walls had collapsed. The roof had caved in. The two Forges, once the pride of Fuller's father and grandfather, now lay buried under the rubble.

The warehouse, formerly large enough to fit two heavily loaded carts, had only a small stretch of soot-blackened wall stubbornly standing.

The messenger let out a whistle. "See if there's anything worth taking with you."

Fuller stepped into the collapsed warehouse, ensuring no one else could see his tears.

Truth be told, he'd never thought he liked this workshop: too noisy, too cramped, and there was always that beam he'd bump into by accident.

But now, in this moment, a wave of sorrow rose inexplicably within him. Not because of material losses, but because the traces left by his grandfather and father had been erased.

"This space is huge. We can't clear it all ourselves," the messenger approached. "Want me to go find a few more people?"

"No, no need," Fuller replied absentmindedly. He sniffed hard, then, relying on memory, headed toward what should have been the warehouse shelving and began clearing the topmost layer of debris and charred wood.

The two militia silently stepped forward to help as well.

After a fire, wooden structures, even if not completely burned, often became carbonized and light to move.

With coordinated effort, they had just shifted a few thick beams when one of the militia suddenly let out a startled cry. Following the militia's gaze downward, Fuller couldn't help but shudder as well.

Underneath the beam lay a partially burned corpse. The exposed skin was charred, cracked, and revealed deep red flesh underneath.

The messenger came over, glanced at it, and gave the beam on the corpse a casual kick. Without any surprise, he concluded, "A looter, trying his luck in the chaos. Poor bastard got crushed to death by the falling roof."