“I didn't expect it to rain in the God-Forsaken Land.”
On the pitch-black city wall, Irene rested her chin in her hand, leaning against the parapet as she gazed up at the gloomy sky.
Dark clouds blanketed the sky, making it feel as though the entire world had been draped in a thin veil.
The rain was heavy, but it couldn't wet her mage robe. An invisible barrier deflected all the rainwater, sending it cascading down the sides.
Although black dragons typically favored damp environments, this black dragon with an otherworldly soul was different. She hated the feeling of wet clothes clinging to her skin.
Taking a deep breath of the rare, cool air following the rain, Irene felt some of the frustration in her chest dissipate.
A month had already passed since she woke from her slumber. During this time, her active mind had been occupied daily with either pondering the messy history of the gods and the Beastkin Empire or studying the power armor blueprints.
She had made some progress on both fronts, but nothing groundbreaking.
Regarding the chaotic war between the gods and the Beastkin Empire, Irene suspected that the ancient beastkin had allocated their skill points incorrectly back then. They had accidentally unlocked the technology tree, advanced rapidly to the peak of prosperity, and then flown a spaceship right into a war against the gods.
While many mysteries remained unexplained, the outcome was clear. Just as history recorded, the beastkin had lost and were banished to the God-Forsaken Land. However, the gods didn't seem to have had as easy a time as the official records claimed. Based on the information currently available, they had likely suffered heavily as well.
Furthermore, someone seemed to have unleashed some kind of memetic virus, causing the living beings of this world to forget that history and rendering them incapable of researching the technology left behind by the ancient beastkin.
Only the gods themselves could possess such awe-inspiring power.
Irene had experienced this firsthand recently. If she went too long without looking at those blueprints, she would quickly forget their contents.
She had originally worried that forcibly studying these blueprints might attract the attention of the gods. After all, back in the spaceship, she had been addressed as “Your Grace.”
If Irene hadn't known she was a transmigrator whose past life had absolutely nothing to do with this world, she might have actually believed she was some kind of hidden powerhouse in her previous life.
Still, for safety's sake, Irene had only attempted a superficial study to see how the supposedly non-existent gods would react. If anything went wrong, she would immediately follow her instincts and stop courting death. Yet, after a month of experimentation, nothing had happened.
This put Irene's mind at ease. After all, the ones who had rebelled with high-tech weapons were the ancient beastkin. What did that have to do with her, a chromatic dragon?
Chromatic dragons were faithful believers of Auntie Tiamat, making them absolute “good dragons.”
Now, she was simply trying to avoid wasting resources by doing a bit of archaeology and putting old things to good use. What harm could there be in that?
However, while the blueprints didn't look difficult, she quickly realized what it meant to step outside one's field of expertise once she began researching them.
Despite having the blueprints, Irene knew absolutely nothing about materials science. After messing around for ages, she had only managed to construct a fragile lump of iron that fell apart at the slightest touch, and it was still missing its most crucial power source.
To put it in simpler terms, she had created a cheap knockoff that broke at a touch and lacked the blueprints for the “battery.”
Over the past ten thousand years, while the armor's exterior remained intact, its internal components had degraded terribly. The parts responsible for powering the armor were long ruined, and they weren't even detailed in the blueprints.
It was likely that the old mage hadn't been able to crack it either.
With Irene's half-baked skills, figuring it out on her own was completely out of the question.
She had only recently figured out how to use the steam trains, after all.
“This is really giving me a headache,” Irene muttered, rubbing her temples helplessly.
“If only I could hire a few dwarven master smiths to help with the research. Those guys are top-tier when it comes to smithing and forging equipment. Maybe they could even modify the design to create a mana-powered version of the power armor.”
But Irene was only complaining. If she were actually asked to share these excavated secrets with outsiders, she would absolutely refuse.
Splish, splash, splish, splash...
The sound of splashing water drew near. Irene didn't even need to look to know it was the old kobold.
Sure enough, the footsteps halted beside her. Following a brief moment of heavy breathing, Fido's signature loud voice boomed.
“Your Grace, we have successfully dug the tunnel leading straight to Lord Daviel's location! As you instructed, we reinforced the tunnel with fire magic. Now we just need to lay down the tracks to connect both sides.”
Irene turned around, looked at the drenching kobold, and snapped her fingers to cast a protective barrier over him as well. “Have you managed to get the necromancy spellbooks I asked you to collect?”
“Uh...” Fido, feeling the rain stop dripping onto his head, had wanted to thank her, but he choked on his words upon hearing the question. He stammered for a long moment before hanging his head in shame, his ears drooping.
“I figured you wouldn't be able to.”
Irene had fully expected this. After all, necromancy was a massive taboo in this world.
Although there were quite a few necromancers wandering the continent, most of them—aside from a few exceptionally powerful individuals—could only hide in dark corners like rats in a sewer, constantly terrified of being hunted down by righteous paladins and clerics of the Holy See.
Once caught, their fate was to be thoroughly minced into mincemeat and then burned to ashes for complete purification, eliminating any possibility of them resurrecting themselves with necromancy.
To Fido, Irene's expression remained unreadable. She stepped past him, her voice carrying through the curtain of rain: “Increase the reward. Gold is not an issue. I only care about the results.”
“Yes, Your Grace!”
Hearing his loud response from behind, Irene massaged her temples helplessly. Lately, she had been wanting to learn necromancy more and more.
Even if she didn't resurrect the old mage, reviving a few intelligent creatures would make her life much easier.
Having a bunch of muscleheads as subordinates was truly exhausting. While these beastkin and half-beastkin were great at fighting, they were utterly hopeless when it came to using their brains.
Even when they learned magic, they only learned the simplest, most brute-force spells like Fireball.
To them, as long as it worked, it was good enough. The rest could be solved with brute strength.
After all, brute force could work miracles.
Back when they were just a small tribe, this brainless way of life might have been the best option. But now, as their territory expanded, the drawbacks were starting to show.
For instance, when she was researching magic and power armor, these guys couldn't help at all. At most, they could only act as cheerleaders on the sidelines.
And Fido had literally done just that.
Heaven knew where the guy had found a set of bizarre, midriff-baring outfits. He had forced a group of burly beastkin and half-beastkin men to wear them and bounce around with flails like a cheerleading squad.
When Irene finally lost her patience and asked him why on earth he had done that, his response was that he had heard from human merchants that during human competitions, women would wear such clothes and hold pom-poms to cheer for their favorite contestants.
So, he had imitated them. However, he felt that female beastkin waving pom-poms lacked a sense of power. Thus, he handpicked a group of the strongest, bulkiest men to swing flails instead...
The sense of power was definitely there, but Irene had nearly shut down mentally from the sight...
Still, there was an advantage to having subordinates whose heads were filled with nothing but muscle: she never had to worry about betrayal. Ever since she started keeping them well-fed, these beastkin and half-beastkin had become as loyal as fanatics, completely lacking the complex schemes of other intelligent races.
In their own words: “Her Grace keeps our bellies full, so we reckon we ought to listen to her.”
At this moment, Irene suddenly stopped at the corner of the city wall, turned her head, and added:
“Look for individuals skilled in smithing among the various tribes. Offer them excellent benefits. I need a group of talented people to help me study that pile of scrap metal.”
“Yes!”
Fido hastily replied. As he watched Irene's departing figure, a flame of pure faith and fanaticism burned in his eyes—one that even the cold rain pouring over him again after the barrier vanished could not extinguish.
Once Irene had completely vanished from the wall, the old kobold turned to look at Black City shrouded in the rain. He couldn't help but mutter to himself, “The tribe is changing more and more. Being able to follow such a great Grace is truly bringing honor to our ancestors...”
Rate on N.U.
