Steel, Explosives, and Spellcasters

"... Steel is forged through fierce flames and heavy hammers, and this city is no different! From a few huts made of mud and straw to the steel fortress that stands today on the shores of Rose Lake, we have endured countless calamities—fires! Wars! Famines!"

"But—my beloved compatriots, remember my words—no matter the disaster, they have never succeeded in defeating us. Not even once! From the ashes, we are reborn! And we come back stronger!"

"This city, and the people who live here, possess a spirit—a spirit of courage! Resilience! Unyielding determination! It flows through the veins and bones of every Solingen native, in you, in me. It is this spirit that supports us every time our streets, houses, and warehouses are reduced to ashes, allowing us to rebuild them again and again..."

A man clad in regal purple attire stood at the top of the still smoke-stained and blood-marked steps of the City Hall. He addressed the tens of thousands of citizens gathered in the municipal square with fervent and impassioned words.

His left hand rested on his hip, while his right hand waved dramatically in rhythm with the ebb and flow of his speech.

The dense crowd in the square, like a symphony orchestra under his command, responded with roars of approval and cheers, each louder than the last.

Standing by the window, gazing at the figure on the steps from afar, John Servette sighed, "I am still not his equal."

"As a negotiation opponent, you are more formidable than him—this is not flattery," Winters leaned against the window frame and waited for a pause between rounds of applause to speak. "But I must be honest: Mayor Wooper's talent is something nobody else can replicate."

Listening to the resonating, impassioned, and powerful rhetoric echoing through the square, it was hard to believe these words came from the lips of a timid mayor once dragged out of his home by the gendarmerie.

During the explosion attack on the City Hall, the swift-reacting mayor was the first to abandon the council and his colleagues, escaping through a hidden passage with his guards to his residence, where he resolutely refused to step outside again.

But Paulo Wooper had a unique gift: as long as you dressed him in fine robes, adorned him with a luxurious wig, smothered him with thick powder, and pushed him into the public eye, you didn't have to worry about the rest.

"I used to think Mayor Wooper merely excelled at performance." Winters propped his chin on his hand, speaking in a leisurely tone. "But now I realize, for Mayor Wooper, performance is an uncontrollable instinct. It's not that he's good at acting—he is a slave to his own need to act."

"Steel Fortress needs a leader who can uplift the people's morale," Servette unexpectedly defended Paulo Wooper. "Besides, ever since Adam and Eve were cast out of Eden, no one has been truly free. Mr. Granashi, what are you a slave to?"

"Me?"

The question caught Winters off guard. After thinking for a moment, he earnestly replied, "I might also be a slave to the desire to perform."

Servette's eyes were sharp as blades: "And what role are you playing?"

"At least here, in Steel Fortress." Winters spoke slowly, "I'm playing a protagonist."

Servette gave no clear reaction as he pulled the curtain shut. His face, as ever, revealed little emotion. "Let's go for a walk," he said.

Winters agreed without hesitation.

Servette led the way as the two left the municipal square. They neither rode horses nor took a carriage, nor did they bring guards or wear any insignias or medals that would signify their positions. They simply strolled along streets paved with slag, all the way to the South Bank of the Rose River.

Standing on the South Bank, gazing across at the charred ruins, they saw some townsfolk—those who hadn't gone to listen to Wooper's speech—busy clearing the debris.

Once the warehouses and shops of each business and workshop were claimed, the military lifted the blockade on the South Bank—there wasn't much left worth securing, after all.

The restrictions on the North Shore then eased as well, markets resumed business, churches opened their doors to disaster victims, and some of the homeless were relocated to villages outside the city.

Perhaps the embers had yet to cool, but Steel Fortress was already on the path to rebuilding.

People wiped away their tears, hauled away the rubble and debris, and salvaged any usable stones and timber. Charred logs from the mountains were brought steadily into the city for reconstruction purposes.

"No matter how many times," Servette murmured, gazing at the grimly determined people laboring before him, "I am always in awe of humanity's will."

Winters stood silently, offering no reply.

After a moment, Winters asked, "You submitted a new plan for the South Bank to the City Council?"

"Yes." Servette walked toward a mound of ash and said with little emotion, "The old South Bank neighborhood radiated chaotically around Erwin Church. The streets and districts were jumbled together with no coherent layout. Now that we have an opportunity to rebuild from scratch, we cannot repeat the mistakes of the past."

Winters politely complement, "A far-sighted idea."

Servette observed for a while, then extracted the charred corpse of a rat from the ashes. "Some say that on the night of the fire, all the rats from the South Bank swarmed into the Rose River, only to freeze to death beneath the ice. Those that didn't escape were all burned alive—even the ones in the cellars. Did you witness that?"

"I didn't pay attention."

"I hope it's true," Servette said, solemnly burying the rat's remains back in the ash pile. "Maybe then Steel Fortress can finally rid itself of plagues."

After walking a bit farther, the two arrived at the ruins of the Great Cathedral of Erwin.