Technocracy 101:Rise Of The Steel Empire

Location: Oslo – Grain District → Lower Guard Barracks → Storage Quarter Tannery

Time: Day 380 After Alec's Arrival

The ash was cold now.

No longer soft. It bit against the skin like sand scraped over stone — gritty and clinging. The scent had settled into something old and bitter: damp smoke soaked into wool, metal scorched by flame, a memory too stubborn to fade.

Alec knelt in the ruins, fingers trailing along the blackened line near the wall of the third storehouse. What looked like chaos wasn't. The fire had moved with purpose — arcs of grain dust, deliberately laid. A cut-through line of burn meant to collapse the structure on itself, not blow it apart.

It hadn't been a message.

It had been a technique.

Behind him, Meren shifted beside two guards, arms crossed but shoulders stiff. The smell, the silence — none of it sat right with him.

"The locals are shaken," he said. "We've increased patrols."

"Too visible," Alec replied without looking up.

Meren frowned. "You want fewer guards? After arson?"

"I want smarter guards," Alec said, rising. He shook soot from his hands, slow and deliberate. "People hide when they see swords. They speak when they see scribes."

Meren opened his mouth to argue, thought better of it.

"I need the labor rosters from both grain yards," Alec said. "Last two weeks. Names, not summaries. And I want the hand-copied versions."

"I'll send for them—"

"No. You'll get them. Personally. And not from the guard's copy. From the scribe's log in the western vault."

There was a pause. Meren blinked. "Why?"

"Because whoever forged the official ledger thought it would be the only one checked. They altered the master list. They won't have touched the backup."

A longer pause now. Meren's tone changed — lower, more serious. "You think it was one of ours?"

Alec's expression didn't shift. Just the faintest tightening at the corners of his mouth.

"It's always one of ours. The question is who sold the map."

Later – Barrack Side Quarters

He didn't call anyone in.

Didn't summon, didn't interrogate.

He sat.

East corner of the break quarter. Same place workers came to rest their boots and scrub their hands raw with lime soap after night shifts. No uniform. No posture of command. Just a man listening.

He asked the same thing, over and over:

"What was different about that morning?"

At first, the answers were vague. Cautious.

"The smoke didn't smell right.""Tools were in the wrong place.""One of the carts was heavier.""Lanterns were missing."

Then someone said, "There was a man I didn't know. Had a Midgard tunic. Clean, too clean. Said he was a new shift, but… no one saw him again."

And then a voice clearer than the rest — a boy, maybe seventeen, still with sawdust under his nails.

"I saw him leave," he said quietly. "Through the north alley. Just before the smoke."

Alec leaned in. "Describe him."

"Tall. Pale. Gloves on. No beard. Said he had overseer clearance. But he didn't show a pass. Just… walked in like he belonged."

"Would you know him again if you saw him?"

"I think so."

Alec didn't push.

"Report to the old mason's tent tomorrow morning. You'll have new duties."

The boy looked startled. "Am I in trouble?"

"No. You're being promoted."

The boy blinked — stunned. Alec was already rising.

Afternoon – West Wall Storage Sector

The rosters came just past midday — a thick stack of ink-stained pages, some still dusted with ledger chalk.

Alec laid them side by side. The official version and the duplicate.

Two names stood out immediately:

Reder – mason's apprentice.Thorn – supply hauler.

But Reder had been in Sundheim that day. Verified by toll slips and delivery stamps.

And Thorn? Thorn had been dead for three months.

Sloppy. The kind of mistake made by someone who didn't expect to be checked.

Someone who thought Alec wouldn't bother.

Evening – Rear Quarter, Tannery Sector

The smell hit first — vinegar, old lime, the reek of hide stretched too thin over splintered racks. The tannery paths were quiet, most workers gone, only the end-of-day shuffle remaining.

Alec moved like he belonged, hands tucked behind his back, face unreadable. No one stopped him.

He reached a low shed near the back, half-shadowed by crates of salted hide.

Inside, a boy was bent over a bench, brushing muck from boots with practiced strokes.

Alec stepped into the doorway. The boy turned just enough to see him.

"Can I help you, my lord?"

"I need polish," Alec said, voice casual. "Something that cuts through ash."

The boy turned to reach for a jar.

He hesitated — just for a heartbeat.

Alec was behind him before the jar left the shelf.

"One question," he said softly. "Who paid you?"

The boy froze. His hands didn't shake — not yet — but sweat crept along his brow.

"I don't—"

"Don't lie," Alec said, still calm. "You're not in trouble. You're in danger. The ones who started that fire? They won't reward silence. They'll clean up after themselves."

A pause. Then, a whisper.

"I didn't set it. I didn't know they'd— I was just told to unlatch the door. Just that. No one was supposed to be hurt."

Alec didn't blink.

"But you opened it."

A nod. Small. Shameful.

"I didn't know the whole storehouse would go," the boy murmured. "They said it would scare people. That was all."

Alec reached into his coat, pulled out a silver badge — a blank Midgard Company token. No rank, no mark. Just weight.

He placed it on the bench.

"Go to the barracks. Ask for Meren. Show him this. Say nothing else. He'll keep you under guard. And from this point on, you work for me."

The boy looked at the badge, eyes wide, uncertain.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked, voice cracked.

Alec didn't hesitate.

"Because the system I'm building only works if people like you don't vanish."

That Night – Alec's Study

The window was open.

The ash smell had faded now, but he could still feel it on his sleeves, caught in the seams of his coat.

On the table before him: a list. Three names.

One confirmed. Two ghosts.

No signature. No flag. No crest.

Just intent. Cold. Clean. Calculated.

He read the names again.

Then, beneath them, wrote one final line:

They drew first blood with ash.

I will answer with silence——and fire that doesn't go out.

He folded the page.

Lit its edge.

Watched it curl into flame in the brazier beside him.

No trace left behind.

Just the sound of paper turning to embers.

And a war beginning where no one could see it yet.