Dimitry sat on his castle guest room bed, staring at the black quartz relic cradled in his palm. Learning its secrets was a prospect that once excited him, tempted him to forgo a night of sleep in pursuit of visions that could change the world forever: modernized gunpowder production, cannon shells, and revolvers. From gunsmithing to ammo manufacture, he wanted to know it all. Every nugget of information would help him support the only refuge open to him—Malten.
That was why he gritted his teeth and squeezed the relic like a hand therapy ball. However, no matter how desperately he willed it to enlighten him, Dimitry witnessed the same scenes over and over.
A faceless man firing a cannon. The assembly of a flintlock musket, including knowledge of its components. Someone loading an arquebus. An assortment of outdated guns, carved horns, and barrels with clumsy rifling he couldn’t replicate. Black powder. Piles of charcoal, sulfur, and potassium nitrate.
The relic that promised to contain ‘Homeworld Expertise’ did exactly that, but neglected to specify whose expertise it was.
Dimitry saw a 10-pounder Parrott rifle firing at an American Civil War reenactment.
Dimitry examined and read the plaques describing a disassembled flintlock musket in a museum exhibit.
Dimitry watched an old documentary on the advent of late medieval era black powder and arquebuses.
All experiences he recalled tonight for the first time in over a decade.
His ‘expertise’.
But he still didn’t know how to produce screws or machining tools.
The relic only showed him what he once learned but forgot, explaining why the eerily familiar scenes seemed to emerge from the recesses of his mind. The golf ball-sized orb rolled across Dimitry’s palm and fell onto his blanket with a wool softened thump.
What a waste.
He could have used it to recall the production of antimicrobials, pharmaceuticals, and valuable reagents like potassium cyanide. How much organic chemistry, physics, and microbiology did he lose out on? There was a wealth of forgotten memories to comb through, and yet Dimitry spent one of three relics on something he never studied.
Was its information even accurate? What if his muskets or cannons exploded on use because of his surface-level understanding of their construction? What was the best way to use cache rewards from now on? Could he still renovate Malten’s metal industry?
Dimitry laid down and closed his fatigued eyes, carefully considering each question. His thoughts included nitroglycerin and trinitrotoluene for blast mining and killing heathens, hybrid plants and selective breeding to improve farming yields, optical lenses to build microscopes. All advancements that required years and an industrial base to accomplish.
Trifles magic sidestepped.
Armed with an understanding of relics, ideas brewed in Dimitry’s mind all throughout a sleepless night. Before putting them into action, he had to establish the infrastructure his plans required.
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An early morning chill whistled through the shattered stained glass windows of an abandoned cathedral. At one point, the building was a purveyor of hope for the pious. Now, it did so again for the godforsaken and homeless, whose whispers echoed throughout the inner sanctum.
Sated on pottage and roasted meat resembling mutton, a woman hid her calloused hands under a tattered cloak. Her eyes, full of expectation, watched a surgeon walk over a spotless granite floor. What she desired was clear. The same was true for the broken-toothed man across the room and the twenty other refugees between them. In a country where thousands lived on cold streets or in cramped hovels, they sought the most priceless commodities obtainable: housing, food, and jobs.
Dimitry intended to provide all of those from the start, but the efforts his aspiring employees made in his absence only solidified his decision. He ran his finger along a marble pillar’s plinth to discover a complete lack of dust on its flutings. The carved walls were no different. Neither were the nooks or crannies of countless protrusions on this floor or the others.
With all the mold and rotting fecal matter gone, repurposing this cathedral into a hospital became viable. The partition near the entrance had the features of an emergency room. Not only was it sectioned off from the inner sanctum, but its proximity to the outside allowed it to accept critically ill patients without delay. Then, after stabilization, porters would transfer them to the larger medical unit, which would oversee everything from childbirth to simple wounds.
A possibility due in part to Saphiria’s efforts. Before Dimitry left for Waira, plague victims from the countryside busied him and his staff, crowding every bed and mattress he had. Introducing modified preservia blankets to Amphurt and other nearby settlements fixed that and, combined with low mid-month heathen numbers, made now the perfect time to put the cathedral into service. The goal was to prepare before the night of repentance’s arrival.
A problem of its own.
Dimitry examined the eager faces of his potential employees. With promises of food and payment, they cleaned a massive building, along with its many rooms and four towers, with nothing but dust rags and water sourced from the well outside. Would the primal desire for necessities drive them forever? Was their intention to flee to a safer country once their needs were met? When stone giants charged Malten’s walls, would they abandon their duties?
If so, the results could be disastrous. There was no way to know for sure if his workers would crumble under the pressure of a collapsing city, and Dimitry couldn’t support a hospital full of dying patients on his own.
That was why preventative measures were necessary.
Although underhanded, they would save countless lives.
His gaze traveling from one refugee to the next, Dimitry smiled. The first step was to make them feel needed and irreplaceable. “You have all done a fine job cleaning this cathedral. No matter how hard I’ve looked, I couldn’t find a single piece of dirt anywhere. Never in my life have I had the pleasure to work with anyone so motivated and dedicated. Your efforts have truly won me over.”
One girl in her early twenties gave him a gracious bow, but most waited excitedly for something else.
A reward.
Dimitry had to make them commit. He reached into his pouch for five small silver coins—the wage a poor laborer received in a month. “Five silver marks are the compensation everyone here will receive at the end of today as a sign of my appreciation.”
Their excited chatter rose in volume.
“You can take it with you to buy clothes, food, and anything else you desire. Don’t bother wasting it on work supplies like uniforms. They will be provided to you. In addition, look forward to an enchanted heated bathtub, clean bedding, and two daily meals.”
A man jumped off the floor and rubbed his hands together.
For a homeless person, Dimitry’s offer was irresistible. It was one he would have gladly taken when he arrived in Ravenfall.
“In return, all I ask for is honesty, hard work, and a dedication to saving lives.” He subtly tapped his cloak pocket to ready a faerie hidden within. She would detect lies while Dimitry forced his workers to agree to a butchered version of the Hippocratic Oath. One that would unearth potential deserters and thieves. “Where I come from, a faraway land called America, everyone in medicine swore an oath.”
Precious pinched Dimitry’s abdomen once—the sign that she found today’s first liar.
Him.
Dimitry ignored her. “I ask you all to do the same. Raise your right hands with me.”
Everyone but Milk thrust an arm into the air. The muscular giant slowly glanced around before doing the same.
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“Now repeat after me: I intend to care for any patient entrusted to me and will dedicate my best efforts to their wellbeing.”
While the refugees mumbled his line back at him, Dimitry scanned the crowd for anyone refusing to speak. Not that it mattered. Even if they fooled him, they couldn’t do the same to Precious. Her emotion sense detected intention, not truth.
There was no escape.
Three pinches against his abdomen: no one tried to lie.
Satisfied, Dimitry gave his prospective employees a pleased nod. The authenticity of their words didn’t surprise him. Most refugees were once plague patients, and, having had cancer himself, Dimitry knew what it was like to wait for death. Suffering true hopelessness compelled people to prevent it in others.
A woman slowly lowered her hand.
“We’re not done yet,” Dimitry said. “Keep it raised.”
“My apologies, Jade Surgeon.”
“Repeat after me: I will show my coworkers the respect they deserve by never stealing from them or burdening them with my share of the work.”
The refugees repeated his words, then came three more pinches.
Dimitry stroked his chin. He expected to discover someone with deceitful intentions by now. Were his workers truly so honest, or did their united efforts to survive cold and famine give them the cohesion they needed to respect each other’s property? Would their mutual trust only last while they had no possessions?
A man’s foot tapped against the floor, his eyes focused on the coins in Dimitry’s hand.
“Very good. Repeat after me one last time.” Dimitry took a deep breath. This was the line that worried him the most. “I will not abandon my hospital duties on the night of repentance when my coworkers and patients need me the most. I will not let fear get the best of me.”
The refugees mumbled his words, sharing uncertain glances with their neighbors.
Two pinches against Dimitry’s abdomen. They didn’t lie, but spoke with mixed feelings. Five silvers and benefits weren’t enough to win their unfaltering service.
They required further convincing.
“Good job, everyone. You can put down your hands.” Dimitry strolled through a crowd of refugees, giving them the coins he promised. “There are a few more things I want to mention. Besides regular pay, you will also receive bonuses.”
Greedy eyes shot at him from every direction.
The response he hoped for.
“Those who show promise through diligence, understanding, and excellent care will have opportunities to undertake jobs with more responsibility and higher wages. Also, everyone will get an additional three silver marks to spend as they see fit a week after each night of repentance as thanks for their efforts.”
Rambunctious shouting filled the inner sanctum. What were hesitant faces and defensive postures became eager once more. It seemed that everyone would risk living in a city in constant conflict with heathens for the right price.
And Dimitry could afford their wages, too. Whatever he paid them, he would make back several times treating nobles. They would rush to receive treatment from the queen’s private doctor and the man who cured the plague.
Dimitry smiled. He aimed to seal the deal with his next line. “Like all of you, I too fear the heathens. Or more accurately, I did. Yesterday, I had the opportunity to treat Her Majesty herself and overheard something interesting. This city might have a secret weapon that can blast away any devil.”
“Does a weapon like that truly exist?”
“Have you met the princess?!”
Leaning against a wall with his arms crossed over his chest, Milk watched Dimitry with suspicious eyes. Little did the giant man know, he would be among the first in this world to use black powder explosives.
All Dimitry had to do now was make them. Even if his first relic wasn’t as bountiful as he hoped, he could still put its knowledge to good use.
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Fur-trimmed cloak snuggling his body, Dimitry stepped out of frigid streets and into a church that was once a hospital. Its interior, filled with patients just this morning, was now nothing more than a hollow husk. The enchanted bedclothes and their purple-skinned residents were gone. Only Dimitry’s employees remained. One carried a crate filled with curtains over his shoulder as he marched towards the domed entrance.
Dimitry stepped aside to let him pass and turned his attention to the vacant granite floor in front of him.
Midday light passing through stained glass windows painted the room and the few chairs and tables resting inside a vivid orange color. Soon, the sparse furniture would be joined by beakers, graduated cylinders, scales, and any other lab equipment one could commission in a medieval city of craftsmen.
Dimitry already ordered glassware. Its measurements wouldn’t be accurate, and the quality of forest glass left much to be desired, but it was a start. He didn’t expect Remora’s first chemistry lab to match one found on Earth.
But it would be enough.
Enough to produce mass quantities of ethanol, soaps, willow bark extract, and, most importantly, black powder.
A single problem remained: would it be in time for the night of repentance?
Stood beside Dimitry was a man with a burn scar on his neck. Clewin’s eyes traveled across the empty floor and walls, studying his familiar yet brand new surroundings. Then, they fixed on three people sitting idle in a corner: two women and a man.
“Can you manage this on your own?” Dimitry asked.
Clewin scratched his short gray hair. “I know you told me I’ll be making medicines and perfumes, but do I really need this much space? The cellar had more than enough for me and Claricia to live and work in.”
“I’m worried it won’t be enough.”
“Really? Back in Volmer, I concocted all manner of potions in a shed.”
“Potions?” Dimitry stroked his chin. “You’ve mentioned them before. Do they do anything interesting?”
“Yeah. They help with things like fatigue, weight loss, and certain… marital problems.”
Although Clewin’s words were reminiscent of magic pill commercials on television, Dimitry couldn’t discount them altogether. If this world had spells, why wouldn’t it have functioning potions? “Interesting. Can you prepare a small variety for me?”
“Sure, but aren’t we going to be busy?”
“Not yet. It’ll be a few days before we have this laboratory set up.”
Clewin pulled back. “Laboratory? You mean like something a king has his alchemists work in?”
“Close.” Dimitry walked forward and ran his hand along a narrow granite table’s coarse surface. “It’s like alchemy, but instead of trying to convert lead to gold, what we’ll be doing will guarantee results.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s called chemistry.”
“Chemistry?”
“You’ll see what I mean with time.” Dimitry smiled. “For now, I want to introduce you to some people.” He pointed at the three refugees. “Since your workload will increase, you’ll need apprentices. I picked some people that showed promise. They can all read.”
Clewin looked at them, then froze like one would before giving a presentation. “H-hello.” He bowed. “I… look forward to working with you all.”
“Same here,” a man with a tattered tunic said.
Dirt clumping her hair, a woman bowed back. “Please, be patient with me.”
Clewin turned to face Dimitry, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I don’t mean to complain because you told me that I’ll be getting apprentices ahead of time, but I don’t know where to start.”
“If you’re worried about their appearance, it won’t be a problem by tonight. They’ll have access to clean clothes and hot baths.”
The gray-haired man’s eyes shot open. “H-hot baths?”
His shock didn’t come as a surprise. In this world, abundant warm water was a commodity found only in bathhouses and the homes of nobles. To hear that refugees received the same treatment would astound anyone.
“You will too.” Dimitry lowered himself into a chair. “I had sorceresses come by to enchant the cathedral’s bathtubs this morning. You and your wife are free to use them when you move into your new room. That is, if you don’t mind moving out of the cellar.”
“N-no. That wasn’t what I meant at all.” Clewin glanced at the refugees. “Truth is, I never mentored anyone before, and I’m not sure how to start.”
“All I’m asking is for you to try your best.”
“What should I do? What should I teach them?”
Dimitry pointed at a ceramic cup partially filled with alcohol. “For now, all they should know is how to properly handle glassware and turn ale into ethanol. None of them have experience with vials or distillation, and few know those things better than you.”
“That’s it?”
“No, that’s just the beginning. In the coming months, both you and they will learn chemistry. The first thing I’ll show you is how to produce and process a powder that can kill heathens.”
Clewin’s face twisted with uncharacteristic rage. “Something that can kill heathens?”
Watching a man with the persona of a pacifist display fury puzzled Dimitry. “Will that be a problem?”
“No.” The gray-haired man knelt onto both knees, eliciting sympathetic whispers from his onlooking apprentices. “I vow to do my best, Jade Surgeon.”
Heathens were responsible for most of Malten’s refugees. They raided villages, demolished walls, and killed anyone too slow to flee. To despise them was natural. However, Clewin’s sentiment surpassed Dimitry’s expectations. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but is there a specific reason for your sudden change of heart?”
“Those bastards, they…” He glanced up, eyes red and full of fire. “They took everything from me. My home, my life, and my baby. She wasn’t even a year old.” Clewin’s trembling fist slammed into the granite floor. “Although we try to hide it as best we can, Claricia and I often wonder if we’re better off dead. What good are parents who let their children die before them?!”
A middle-aged woman mirrored Clewin’s fury, doubtlessly another victim to relentless stone giants.
It reminded Dimitry of his time working in an emergency room, confronting grieving relatives after informing them that their loved ones died unfair and unfortunate deaths. Such was a trauma surgeon’s burden. However, in this world, he did not have to remain a mere surgeon.
Instead of hopelessly working to mend fatal injuries, he could prevent them before they happened.
Every honest doctor’s dream.
Dimitry kicked back his chair and stood up. “Soon, the way we fight heathens will change. I hope to introduce a weapon that even the most ordinary man could learn to wield in a manner of weeks. One with many times the lethality of a crossbow and the ability to effortlessly pierce stone armor.
“However, to produce such an armament requires careful preparation and secrecy. It could lead to anarchy when in the wrong hands.” Dimitry’s gaze shifted from Clewin to his apprentices. “Before I agree to teach you all how to produce black powder, you must promise to never speak of it outside these walls. Is that understood?”
“Yes!” several voices chanted in unison.
Three pinches from a faerie awoken by strong and mournful emotions struck Dimitry’s abdomen.
“Very good.” He glanced at the apprentices. “First, learn everything your mentor teaches you, then I will show you the rest.” Dimitry looked down at a kneeling Clewin. “I trust you can handle them and this laboratory on your own for now?”
“You can count on me.”
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands, then.” With an unintentional speech and vow for secrecy complete, Dimitry said his goodbyes and strode out of the church. He needed to source the ingredients for black powder and fast. While he didn’t know whether he could produce flintlocks in time, enchanted explosives were a definite possibility.