The decision to leave his familiar place for work was not sudden for Raynhart. His life flowed calmly and orderly: caring parents, a faithful friend, a craft to which he had shown talent since early childhood. Even then, helping his schoolteacher repair a shelf, he felt genuine pleasure in transforming the world around him, bringing harmony and order to it. This simple act, seemingly insignificant, gave him a sense of his own usefulness. In a world torn by the consequences of the past, where chaos still lingered, Raynhart found his calling in restoring and creating.

Having obtained the education of a builder, he fully immersed himself in the study of contracts. Most of them promised the same thing: stable work, modest income, a measured life with a predictable future. But when his gaze stopped on the description of a small town in the heart of the Alliance, where help was truly needed, he felt an inner resonance. This wild, almost uninhabited land called to him, awakening in his soul a desire to explore the unknown and uncover the mysteries that seemed to be just waiting for their time. Despite his fear of the unknown, Raynhart knew: this place was his destiny, and he answered the call.

The parents received the news with concern. The father remained silent for a while, lost in thought, while the mother, on the contrary, couldn’t hide her anxiety. She seemed to turn into a swarm of wasps—her thoughts, full of worry, circled around her son. It was not just doubt; it was the fear of a mother letting go of her only child into a world she could neither understand nor control.

— You absolutely must take blankets with you! I heard the nights there are cold! — the mother's voice echoed from different corners of the house as she rushed between rooms. — And have you prepared your clothes? I chose the ones the tailor recommended — they say thin fabric is best for the climate of Sandrock!

— Hmm... I think there will still be a bed there, — Raynhart replied, not looking up from his plate. He spoke briefly, restrained, as if saving words, possibly having inherited this habit from his father. — Yes, I packed the clothes. Everything is ready for the departure, don’t worry.

The father sat across the table, hidden behind a newspaper as if behind a shield. His face remained concealed by the pages, and only the rustling of the paper gave away that he was still there. But in reality, the man was just staring at the letters, reading nothing. His attempt to lose himself in the news had failed, and he merely wandered aimlessly with his gaze over the lines, afraid to say anything that might reveal his unease.

After finishing breakfast, Raynhart got up from the table and went to the washbasin. He barely turned the faucet, opening such a weak flow of water that only solitary drops came out. After carefully washing the dishes, he ran his hand over his face, smoothing down his damp, bushy mustache.

Water conservation had become his new habit, and Raynhart had diligently adhered to it since he began studying the history of Sandrock. In a city where every liter of water was as valuable as gold, such a habit was not just useful — it could save him from unnecessary expenses and present him in a good light before his new neighbors. Training himself while already there would have been much harder and more expensive than starting early.

The parents noticed this behavior almost immediately. At that moment, the mother, concerned, suspected that something was wrong with her son, as he had been fiddling with the faucet for a long time, as if measuring the perfect flow. "Maybe we should call a doctor?" she cautiously suggested to her husband. However, the father, as usual, reserved, advised simply asking Raynhart directly. And after his explanation, everything quickly fell into place.

After finishing his morning tasks, the man walked briskly to his room, where his mother, despite warnings, continued stuffing bulky blankets into boxes. Raynhart approached the bed, grabbed the already packed suitcase, which contained everything he needed: spare clothes, hygiene products, builder’s license, ID, some food and water, and of course, 300 golds — his savings.

The train was leaving soon, and he informed his parents about it. The mother, without breaking away from her tasks, habitually put on white earrings, as if his departure was an event worthy of a celebration. The father, in contrast to her, simply stood up in silence and headed for the door. Raynhart, despite his wish to go on his journey alone, could not refuse his parents this last moment. He resigned himself to the circumstances, only feeling relief when his mother forgot about the blankets, not forcing him to carry them with him. In the hallway, the father, perhaps by sheer coincidence or out of pity, stood in front of the boxes, shielding them with his body, and they finally made their way to the train station.

As Raynhart descended the stairs, he heard his mother’s instructions. Walking through the familiar streets of Highwind, he felt every corner, every memory that tied him to this place: hang-gliding with his friend, construction lessons, crafting decorations from the local fir cones for school projects. He remembered the winter when the snow reached up to his knees, and how fun it was to build snow castles and have snowball fights in the streets.

Now, with each step, he felt more and more the difference between this familiar coolness and the hot, almost unbearable climate of Sandrok. They said that in the summer, the temperature there could reach 45 degrees. In the light t-shirt and shorts he wore, it was cool here, in Highwind. But he didn’t want to change in the train’s bathroom, missing the chance to observe the post-apocalyptic landscapes of the new world outside the window. Traveling wasn’t something ordinary for him, and he didn’t want to miss the opportunity.

Amidst all these thoughts, Raynhart didn’t notice when he had reached the platform. He set his suitcase on the ground and, turning around, looked at his parents.

— Well... see you, Mom, Dad, — he said, already about to head towards his carriage, but his grieving mother, unable to contain her emotions, hugged him.

— Come on, it’s like you’re sending me off to war...

— Maybe so, — replied his worried mother. — You’ve heard what’s happening there?

— Thanks to you, I’ve heard, and more than once... — Raynhart didn’t try to sound rude, he was just stating a fact. — I’ll miss you, but honestly, the train will leave without me!

— Please, take care of yourself, — his mother said softly, letting go of him and folding her arms across her chest.

— You too! I’ll be waiting for letters, — he shouted as he climbed the steps and entered the carriage.

— Good luck, son... — His father sighed sadly.

Raynhart, to be honest, would rather not write letters at all. He longed to immerse himself fully in the upcoming work, not only to blend with its essence but also to sort out what had troubled his heart for so long. He was seeking answers that could dispel the inner turmoil. However, he knew that his mother couldn’t go a day without news from him, and as much as he wanted to avoid this duty, he couldn’t refuse.

In the wagon, most of the seats were empty, which, in fact, matched the sparsely populated reality. Raynhart settled by the window and, leaning slightly forward, gazed at the familiar mountainous landscape. Plush mosses and low shrubs covered the slopes, as if painted by a professional brushstroke. He involuntarily recalled his mother’s words. If even part of her stories proved true, soon the familiar scenery would give way to the monotony of the desert, where endless sands would consume the horizon. There, in the scorching wilderness, monsters roamed in search of prey, and no less savage bandits fought bloody battles. In his mind, they were already leaping over the fence of his workshop, hauling off copper ingots as spoils, leaving only dust and traces of chaos.

Raynhart smiled and turned away from the window. Dismissing all jokes, he firmly knew that whatever the new world might be, he would meet it with readiness. His heart had already been filled with the resolve to defend his ideals and the truths that rang within him, filling him with steadfast confidence in the face of the unknown.

The day was turning to night. The fellow passengers, tired from the long journey, dozed off, and the man, losing interest in the darkening silhouettes outside the window, allowed himself to close his eyes. He had always been able to fall asleep in the most inconvenient conditions, although this ability had often been his weakness. When fatigue took over, he would fall into sleep wherever night found him, as if his body yielded to an irresistible force. It was the same now. He hadn’t noticed when he had drifted off, and only when his eyelids fluttered open did he find his gaze meeting the bright sunlight, sharply reflecting off the sandy sea outside the window.

The mountain ranges had long given way to sandy dunes, behind which tiny villages flickered — companions of Sandrok on this desolate land. The man carefully unfolded the newspaper that had been folded four times, which he had kept in his pocket with almost religious care. His gaze skimmed over the lines, as if he was once again searching for confirmation of the reality of what was happening. Meanwhile, the train plunged into a long tunnel, the dim light of the headlamp illuminating the walls, and then a sharp flash tore the carriage out of the darkness — the train began crossing a railway bridge. Gradually, the speed decreased, and soon before his eyes appeared a modest watchtower, which served as a station in these parts.

The man stepped outside, letting several passengers go ahead of him. Sandrok, sprawling before him, was harsh but captivating with its primal wildness. This city breathed a steady, measured life, where everything adhered to simple, unchanging laws.

However, he was not allowed to explore the surroundings. His attention was drawn to a short girl holding a sign with his name on it. She noticed the man approaching and raised her hand in a welcoming gesture. Raynhart left the train behind and stopped next to her, placing his suitcase on the ground.

The girl was dressed in a gray jumpsuit with a massive belt accentuating her waist. Her chest was covered by an olive-colored T-shirt, over which a green striped shirt with white cuffs hung loosely, unbuttoned. Her green eyes sparkled with inner energy and enthusiasm. The look was completed with a pilot’s hat, whose glasses also shimmered with a green hue. However, Raynhart knew that Sandrok and aviation were incompatible concepts. A few moments spent comparing the details, and he already guessed who stood before him.

— Hey! You must be Raynhart! I'm Mi-an, and I'm also a builder. I just arrived yesterday. Nice to meet you! — her voice held sincerity, with an underlying restlessness. — I’m here to take you to the Commerce Guild. A retired builder and a representative of the Guild are already there, so let’s not keep them waiting! Follow me!

Raynhart listened carefully to her, nodded in agreement, and silently followed the guide, not forgetting to pick up his suitcase. They left the station and turned left, stepping onto the first street that appeared before them. Soon, a two-story building came into view, beside which two men stood, talking about something. One of them, short with thick mustaches, immediately fixed his sharp, scrutinizing gaze on the newcomers. His voice, which sounded a moment later, was laced with hidden irritation, as though the situation was taking away a part of his life.

— Hello, Raynhart! My name is Yan, and I am the president of the Commerce Guild of Sandrok. Nice to meet you, blah-blah-blah... — he rolled his eyes, making it clear that he wasn’t eager to give this briefing. — I’ll be overseeing you and Mi-an, but don’t think of me as your boss! Think of me as a friend, who, at the same time, is your... superior! — he added with feigned nonchalance. All of it sounded somewhat inappropriate. — This is Mason, he’s retiring and leaving here, so that’s why you’re here and all that. But you already know what I’m talking about, right!? Let’s get to the point! — Yan straightened abruptly and turned toward the railway tracks. — Do you see that workshop on the other side of the tracks? — He pointed at the dilapidated shack surrounded by a leaning fence. — It used to belong to Mason, and now it’s yours! Cool, right? — His words were spoken with such enthusiasm that it clearly didn’t match the depressing look of the building.

The boss was dressed in an elegant purple suit, the open flaps of which revealed a carefully chosen blue vest and an impeccably pressed white shirt. A bright accent was added by the crimson tie, secured with a golden chain that gracefully dangled from the breast pocket, lending the outfit an air of ostentatious formality. The ensemble was completed by a bowler hat with a deep blue ribbon, confidently resting on his head like a symbol of self-satisfied authority.

— Just think about the great things you’ll be able to do there for our Commerce Guild! And for the other residents too, I think. — His voice rang not so much with enthusiasm as with barely concealed greed. — Well, I’m out of words! Mason, as the recognized builder of Sandrok, why don’t you say a few words of encouragement? — The weight of responsibility now fell on the old builder’s shoulders.

Mason looked like an exhausted man who had lost all desire to resist circumstances. His denim overalls were worn out by time; one strap hung uselessly, exposing his indifference to his appearance. The pant legs were covered in dirt and sand, a reminder of the hard work that had left its marks not only on his clothes but also in his life.

His red beard with streaks of gray and his bare crown revealed the years spent in toil, which had left him with nothing but fatigue. His gray eyes had dulled, losing their former depth, and his slouched posture emphasized his unwillingness to even pretend that he was still ready to fight.

Watching his predecessor, Raynhart was firmly convinced that he wouldn’t allow himself to end up in the same position. He had often witnessed how people, drowning in trivial concerns, turned away from real problems. To him, it was clear: the goal must be the anchor to cling to in any storm. Even in the toughest moments, it was important to keep it before him, not allowing circumstances to take control. It was always better to leave with dignity than to let the world crush you and drag you to the dark side.

Yet, he felt something more behind Mason’s tired figure — an inexpressible burden that he carried on his shoulders. It was an invisible weight, possibly left by decisions made in the past. Raynhart couldn’t help but notice how the old man’s gaze passed over him, sliding into emptiness, as if Mason had already given up on everyone standing before him.

— E-eh... well, let’s not be too friendly. I mean, I’m leaving soon... Ahem... Now my workshop belongs to you, Raynhart. — More than Yan, it was Mason who wanted to finish this conversation as quickly as possible. — You might consider it dilapidated and half-destroyed... poorly equipped... and... of course, that’s true, but you may also find that this place has... its own atmosphere. I think that will be enough. Bring development to this land. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading to the Blue Moon. Not many days left until I can get Yakmel’s milk.

Without waiting for approval, Mason hurried to leave. Though calling it haste would be unwise — the old man slowly shuffled toward the establishment right across from them. Raynhart suggested that it was there he could find food, but he was immediately distracted by his superior.

— Notice, he’s always been so strange... — Yan didn’t hide his attitude toward the subordinates, speaking even before Mason’s back was out of their sight. — Anyway, let’s get back to business. Before you start, I need to tell you a little about how we work here in the desert. I know you already have builder licenses, but here it’s a bit different from what you’re used to. Let’s start with the fact that there aren’t many trees around, so don’t swing your axe too wildly, it’s not really approved. But there’s a lot of scrap metal and logs you can break apart. For that, you’ll need tools. They’re easy to make, just gather some stone and wood, fasten it together somehow... well, you know. Why don’t you two try making some for yourselves? Anyway, you’ll need them right away. When you’re done, just find me at the Merchant Guild. But you know. Don’t rush. See you... there! — Yan also didn’t conform to the norms of decency, losing all interest in the subordinates, turned, and went to the Merchant Guild.

— Well... they’re pretty easy to make. We can find the materials we need just by searching through the piles of junk around our workshops. Collecting things is fun! — Mi-an took the initiative — Hey! Let’s go to your workshop and see what machines Mason left you! Let me show you the way there; I already know my way around here pretty well, so you won’t get lost!

— Of course, thank you. — Raynhart nodded approvingly.

The man had barely finished his reply when the girl suddenly took off and headed toward the railway tracks. Circling them, she reached the workshop, and Raynhart, stopping, was able to fully realize what awaited him in the near future. Most of his time now would be spent right here. The workshop was left with only an abandoned assembly station, hidden under a layer of sand, and an workbench, looking as lonely as everything around it. A small house, surrounded by a hastily built white fence, seemed frozen in timelessness, conveying a sense of desolation and solitude. But this gloom and emptiness did not break Raynhart. On the contrary, his steady heart was already preparing with resolve to transform this place into something more. In his eyes, determination was clear: he knew what would be required to bring life back to the workshop. And just then, from the side, Mi-an’s voice was heard again.

— Hmm... Not much... but at least he left you a workbench. That’s all you need to make tools!

Mi-an could be one of those people who tend to ignore difficulties, preferring to see the world in a brighter and cloudless way than it actually is. Or perhaps the first impression of her was mistaken. In any case, she didn’t leave him in trouble, helping him settle into the new place and not letting him face loneliness and chaos.

— You know, Sandrock is still known in all the Free Cities for being right above the megapolis of the Old World. They say that some old ruins even make their way here to the surface when the wind blows strongly. Once we have the tools, we’ll be able to break them down and get all the resources we need!

At that moment, her gaze lost its sharpness and focus, drifting across the surrounding space, and her expression dimmed, as if her usually positive thoughts were suddenly interrupted by something heavy.

— Listen, I wanted to tell you something privately. Hmmm... you see, the reason I came to Sandrock is because the city isn’t doing very well. Everyone in the Free Cities knows this. But I signed this contract without hesitation. I thought it was the best way to make the world a better place. I bet you feel the same. So let’s promise each other, as builders. Let’s restore Sandrock to its former glory during our time here. Let’s give it our all, okay?

— Right, that’s exactly why I’m here. I’m glad I won’t be alone on this path. Hm... — Raynhart thought about his boss and that he wouldn’t be able to rely on him, but decided to keep quiet about it for now.

The initial impression of Mi-an was far from positive. Raynhart, a practical and skeptical man, didn’t immediately recognize her hardworking nature. The thought that Yan might prove himself worthy in the future seemed hardly believable, Raynhart knew: in this world, nothing is ever as it seems at first glance, or at least, almost nothing.

— Phew, glad to hear that! Well, I’m off to make my tools! See you! — Mi-an smiled at the corners of her mouth and quickly left.

Watching Mi-an leave, Raynhart unconsciously turned his gaze to the surrounding landscape and realized that he was at the boundary between civilization and the wild. The workshop, located right by the railroad tracks, seemed to gradually give way to the untamable expressions of flora and fauna.

His attention was drawn to the massive ants, climbing the nearby cacti with flawless methodical precision. They were intently exploring the flowers, thrusting their heads into them and greedily absorbing the nectar. These creatures stored the gathered food in special sacs inside their bodies, then spat out honey into roughly crafted wax vessels. These vessels looked completely ridiculous, yet demonstrated incredible functionality, securely holding the precious honey.

Raynhart couldn’t hide his internal interest. He had long noticed that creatures who escaped from the Old World’s bio-labs sometimes exhibited behaviors that evoked a vague sense of awareness. These ants were the embodiment of that thought: their skills seemed so purposeful that it felt almost paradoxical.

And yet, despite all the power of past technologies, such a radical transformation of animals remained beyond full understanding. Even the greatest minds of the Age of Light could not fully comprehend how artificially implanted instincts could so naturally integrate into the altered nature of these creatures. For Raynhart, it remained an eternal mystery—both fascinating and unsettling.

Placing his suitcase at the doorstep, the man cast a glance around the area, pausing at the movements beyond the fence. The thought that the local ants might sneak onto the property in his absence and steal materials—or even machines once they were built—seemed both absurd and alarming. He wasn’t sure whether these insects were capable of such a thing, but he wasn’t willing to ignore the potential threat. The ability of insects to cling to surfaces was explained by their tiny size and the unique structure of their limbs, which under normal circumstances wasn’t extraordinary. But the ants here, the size of large dogs, had not lost these skills. He had seen them effortlessly climbing prickly cacti and was certain they could scale his fence just as easily. Taking a deep breath, he lowered his hands from his hips and, casting one last glance over his shoulder, stepped inside the house.

Inside, the house was starkly austere. A single bed stood in the middle of the room, the only evidence that someone had once lived here. A dim wall lamp cast its light on a bent, rusted nail protruding from the cracked plaster. No other signs of habitation or comfort were present. Raynhart carefully set his suitcase on the floor, laying it on its side, and pulled out a water flask. A few sips—though his thirst lessened slightly, the oppressive heat did not relent.

The morning had barely begun, yet the sweltering heat already made its presence known. Of course, he understood that it would have been wiser to arrive in Sandrock at a more forgiving time of year—spring or autumn—to gradually acclimate to the harsh climate. But circumstances had left him no choice. Duty outweighed comfort, and no matter how difficult it was, retreat was not an option.

Mentally calculating where he could wash up after an exhausting day of work, Raynhart opened the only door leading from the main room. The space beyond was cramped, barely worthy of being called a bathroom. Rather, it was simply a toilet, where a modest sink crouched beneath a small plastic basin. A neatly cut hole in the floor—a primitive drain—served as a testament to the fact that here, people washed manually, using a sponge and limited water.

He lingered for only a moment, examining this utilitarian setting, but felt neither irritation nor disappointment. Everything was as expected, even logical. Raynhart knew what he was getting into and was prepared to accept it. Life in Sandrock left no room for excess, but he had long since come to terms with the fact that his work here would demand more effort than comfort.

The clock read around eight in the morning when Raynhart confidently left the workshop, not forgetting to take his flask with him. The small gate creaked on its hinges as he stepped outside, deciding to inspect the area more thoroughly. Circling the workshop, he found himself beyond its perimeter. Walking across the sand, which left shallow imprints beneath his feet, Raynhart scanned his surroundings, searching for materials that might prove useful.

His gaze moved attentively over the landscape, looking for anything of value. A clear plan was already forming in his mind. The first priority was a cart — simple but functional. Without it, he would have to make countless trips under the merciless sun, carrying loads of branches, stones, and other resources in his arms, constantly risking dropping something along the way.

However, since the cart was still just an idea, Raynhart focused on what could be done immediately: rummaging through mysterious piles of debris—remnants of past human activity. These shapeless heaps of trash, left behind by previous inhabitants, contained materials that could still be of use. The man methodically sifted through the sand, pulling out anything that seemed valuable.

He carried his findings back to the workshop, storing them in a cramped space that barely qualified as a storage room. Narrow and inconvenient, it nonetheless protected the materials from wind, sand, and potential intrusions by the local wildlife.

Raynhart worked without any visible discontent. Hardships that might have broken someone else only fueled his determination. He didn’t just accept the circumstances—he found a challenge in them, one he was eager to meet. For him, every trial was another step in proving that he could adapt to any conditions while remaining true to his goals.

Approaching the workbench to begin crafting a pickaxe, Raynhart unexpectedly noticed an old, battered axe lying nearby. The tool, covered in small chips and darkened by time, clearly belonged to Mason. Picking it up, Reinhardt gave it a quick inspection, feeling its considerable weight in his hand. After a brief moment of thought, he decided to sharpen it—the tool might prove useful for his next excursion.

Returning to the workbench, he focused on shaping the wood and stone, patiently refining each component of the future pickaxe. Once finished, Raynhart secured the sharpened axe to his belt and set off again in search of necessary materials.

His path led him to a dense thicket, where he paused momentarily. Yan had made it clear that cutting down trees in the area was strictly forbidden, yet he had said nothing about bushes. The need for fiber to make ropes—without which the pickaxe couldn’t be completed—put him in a dilemma. For several seconds, Raynhart hesitated, considering whether he needed to consult his supervisor again, but his thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the sensation of being watched.

He turned and saw a tall, heavyset man dressed unmistakably in the uniform of the Church of Light. The stranger stood nearby, observing Rayhart with an intense, almost evaluating gaze, as if trying to recognize or determine something important.

The man was plump, his soft facial features indicating the presence of Down syndrome, yet his eyes held a look of focus, and his slightly furrowed brows emphasized his seriousness. He wore a bright yellow coat, symbolizing his affiliation with the Church of Light, over which lay an open dark beige vest with the characteristic emblem of the Light. His dark gray trousers, with a slight greenish tint, ended in neatly hemmed cuffs, which was also a universal uniform style for church servants.

The man’s blue eyes seemed to study Raynhart down to the smallest details, while his light hair, gleaming slightly under the sun, spoke of careful grooming. His skin was almost fair—likely thanks to good sunscreen—yet his face was slightly weathered.

Raynhart froze for a moment, then, not wanting to show either embarrassment or excessive curiosity, stepped closer. The stranger might possess information that could prove useful, making conversation seem inevitable.

— Good day, I’m Raynhart, the new builder in Sandrock. Could you help me and answer one question? Hmm, actually, make that two… — The man barely smirked with one corner of his mouth.

— Oh, welcome, new builder! I’m glad you’ve joined our community! I’m Burgess, the chief inspector of the Church of the Light branch in Sandrock. Though, I mostly patrol the oasis, and if the water level rises even by a centimeter, trust me, I’ll tell everyone about it! — The man glanced at the outstretched hand and shook it awkwardly.

— It’s a pleasure to meet you. That means you definitely know the answer. My boss has already warned me that I can’t chop down trees, but can I use the bushes? There seem to be quite a lot of them here.

— Oh, of course! Hmm, yes, you can, actually, they’re weeds. So you won’t harm the ecosystem, and I think you can use small cacti too because wild yakmel eat them, and they grow a lot! But don’t touch those big cactus trees over there—they’re very important, and they take much longer to grow! But, uh… you’re not planning to drink the juice from those cacti, are you? Because that would be a very bad idea! It’s a very sticky and viscous juice, and if you want to drink something, it’s better to just use regular water!

— Of course. Thanks for the information, Burgess, you’ve been a great help. Have a good day.

Leaving the church official and, at the same time, the inspector behind, Rayhart focused on his work. Approaching the nearest bush, he started carefully tapping at the stems with his axe, cutting them off at the base without hesitation, then gathering the branches into a small pile. Hoisting them onto his shoulder, he headed back to the workshop. Under the awning, in the shade, he began preparing the materials. Carefully peeling away the bark and precisely cutting the inner layers, he cautiously rolled them into thin tubes, then wove them together. Working with these bushes was relatively easy, and Raynhart thought that he was quite lucky to have them.

The sun was getting hotter, its rays mercilessly beating down, and even in the shelter's shade, the air was beginning to feel heavy and stuffy. Nevertheless, Raynhart was determined not to stop, knowing he needed to adapt to the new conditions as quickly as possible. Putting in the effort, he finished rolling the small tubes into threads and moved on to the next stage—creating the rope. The process turned out to be more complicated than it seemed at first: if done too roughly, the rope would be loose and unstable; if done too softly, it would unravel. Raynhart worked with complete focus, trying to maintain balance.

Once he finished with the rope, he headed into the desert, feeling his hair burning under the scorching sun. Giving himself a strict order not to linger, he soon dug up a round cactus from the sand, carefully extracting it. After thoroughly removing the needles, he cut it open, dipping the tips of his fingers into its viscous liquid. The substance turned out to be surprisingly thick and could serve as a binder for making tools. To strengthen it, Raynhart added sand and wood dust found among old piles of junk. He made sure the mixture stayed sticky but became stronger.

Returning to the workshop, he grabbed a stone and a wooden handle, preparing to finish the work. Using a hammer he had found on the workbench, Raynhart carefully inserted the handle into the stone’s hole, then, crosswise, tied the stone part with the ropes, securing it and creating a comfortable grip for holding the tool. Once this was done, he carefully filled the gaps with glue, thoroughly soaking the joints to increase the durability of the finished tool. Afterward, he left the pickaxe in the sun to let the glue dry and headed for the house.

He first went to relieve himself in the toilet. He found that where the flush button should have been, there was a smooth surface. Thinking about it, he concluded that water had to be manually used for flushing. Closing the lid, he placed a bar of soap he had taken from his suitcase into a basin, filled it with water, and, stirring it to create soap suds, washed his hands, then rinsed them in clean water in another basin. He decided that after work, he would wash himself using the water from the basins and then use it for flushing as well, and went to the main room. There, kneeling on the floor, he ate, surrounded by dust. His thoughts briefly wandered to the surroundings, and he smiled to himself, noting how before he could save the whole world, he’d have to save at least this room. In his head, he added another item to his list: he needed to buy a broom and dustpan.

Soon Raynhart returned to his pickaxe, which had hardened under the burning desert sun. Turning the tool in his hands, he decided not to test the pickaxe yet and give it more time. Although it would be more accurate to call this tool a hybrid, on one hand, it was a pickaxe, but on the other, it was a jackhammer, designed not to puncture junk but to methodically separate it. On his way to the Trade Guild, Raynhart squinted against the sun but didn’t hurry, after all, the more movements, the hotter the heat would feel.

— What a great pickaxe! — Yan surprisingly praised him when the newly crafted tool was shown to him. — It’s the soul of every builder in the desert, never lose it... but if you lose it, now you know how to build another one, I suppose. Now, let me tell you about the recycler! This is another indispensable tool for a builder here. It’s a machine that embodies the principle: ‘make do as best as you can.’ Once the recycler is ready, you can place the scrap you collect right into it to get all kinds of useful materials. You can build the recycler at your assembly station. Here’s the blueprint for it, and don’t forget to put it somewhere… well, maybe in a notebook? If you lose it, don’t complain later! Eh, don’t worry so much, you’ll figure it out. Come by the guild when you’re done. See you!

In Raynhart’s hands were now the first blueprints, which he was to bring to life at his new workplace. He had been taught to read such diagrams from the very first days, and so it took just a glance at the lines and notations for a clear action plan to form in his mind, with each part finding its place in the overall design.

Returning to the workshop, he headed to the storage, but his attention was drawn to a half-destroyed furnace. Its condition left little hope for restoration, and a rational approach suggested only one thing—to recycle it into materials that could serve a new purpose. The decision was made quickly. Raynhart began disassembling it, methodically removing each part, carefully taking apart the mechanism with the precision he had been taught over the years of practice. The heat, which spared neither man nor metal, forced him to retreat into the shade from time to time. There, he eagerly drank water, feeling the coolness return clarity to his thoughts, before returning to his work.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the heat subsided, and the need for frequent breaks disappeared. Raynhart devoted himself entirely to preparing the parts, not getting distracted by the little things. However, his water supply ran out. Approaching the water tank inside the workshop, he checked the liquid level and was relieved to see that there was more than enough to fill his canteen. This water, as he knew, also supplied his home through a simple but reliable system of pipes leading to the sink.

Cooling for the machines was also essential, and Raynhart had already planned how to connect the pipes from the tank to ensure the mechanisms would operate smoothly even under such harsh conditions.

As night approached, the temperature unexpectedly began to drop. Although such changes were not unusual for the desert, the sudden chill after a scorching day felt unfamiliar and disconcerting. In the workshop, the wooden frame for the recycler was already assembled. The construction, fastened with old nails found in the old workbench, looked sturdy, and the flimsy glue, unsuitable for working with heated machines, was discarded immediately. The recycler required the strength that only metal and meticulous precision could provide.

The work with the circular saw remained unfinished. The coming night and the fatigue accumulated throughout the day made Raynhart put the tool aside. Retreating before his blurring vision, he decided to end the day. After dinner, he took the remaining hygiene supplies from his suitcase and headed to the bathroom. He was curious how well he would adapt to this new lifestyle.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

His first attempts to adjust to this routine had not yet found a clear order. Despite the plan he had drawn up in advance, he occasionally lost track of the sequence of tasks. Nevertheless, he methodically began his usual ritual. First, he washed himself thoroughly, feeling how the hot water washed away the fatigue. After that, his sweat-soaked clothes were soaked in soapy water—Raynhart persistently kneaded the fabric with his hands, submerging it to the bottom of the basin. After squeezing out the fabric, he moved the clothes to another basin with water that was no longer as clean but still suitable for washing, then twisted the fabric again to wring out the excess. He finished the task by hanging the washed clothes on an old, damp clothesline that hung from the bathroom walls.

After that, the man took the toothbrush. Once done with everything, he could finally allow himself to flush the toilet. Changing into clean clothes, he lay down on the bed, covered himself with a blanket, and, barely closing his eyes, immediately fell asleep.

Only the sharp sound of the alarm clock the next morning brought him back to reality. Moving almost on instinct, Raynhart, still not fully aware of what was happening, got up, made the bed, and headed to the bathroom. After washing his face with the water that had cooled overnight, he fully woke up, and after completing all the household tasks, he eagerly returned to his unfinished projects, focusing on the new task waiting for him in the workshop.

While the temperature was still bearable, Raynhart went back to gather materials, this time for building a cart. Carefully selecting larger and more suitable pieces of wood, he, overcoming difficulties, dragged them to the workshop, where he stacked them in the storage area. This process continued until he was sure there would be enough material for further work. However, the supply of nails was rapidly running out, and the lack of metalworking machines became a new problem. Another task was added to the to-do list.

Returning to the hammer and chisel, Raynhart finished roughing out the stone and then began finer work with a file. Step by step, he created a circular saw — a tool designed to sift small waste in the recycler, leaving only the materials he needed. All the stone parts required similar preparation, and the workshop's storage slowly emptied.

When the heat became too intense, Raynhart decided to take a break. The food supply had run out, and he needed to explore the city for the necessary goods. Approaching the city entrance, his gaze was drawn to the anvil standing next to shelves displaying an assortment of weapons. A light analogy suggested to him that he could find the nails he needed here. Walking down the row, he quickly found them and, grabbing a few packs, headed toward the only person he saw nearby.

In front of Raynhart stood a man, somewhat larger than the craftsman himself, with a heavy and confident demeanor. He was slightly plump, and his muscles were visible under his clothing, showing signs of hard labor. His dark, curly hair was thick, and his skin was dark. Judging by his patched-up pants and work gloves, he also belonged to the working class. However, despite this, he didn’t miss the opportunity to emphasize his individuality. His outfit also consisted of a red t-shirt with a yellow zipper, a green open vest, and a green cowboy hat, which gave him an eccentric appearance despite the clearly working-class atmosphere.

— Good day, — Raynhart began without wasting time. — I’m your new builder. I think we’ll be seeing each other often. Right now, I need a few of these nails. How much do I owe you?

The stranger squinted, glancing over the nails and then carefully studying Raynhart.

— So, a new builder, huh? Now there are two of you: Mi-an and you, probably Raynhart. Nice to meet you. I’m Hugo, the only blacksmith in the city. If you need to buy building materials, upgrade parts for your machines, or buy top-quality weapons, I’m the only one you can turn to. But I promise only the best! — he then reached for the nails but, instead of taking them, pressed the packs against the craftsman. — Keep them, on the house, this time. We have got to be a bit friendly...— he said, still looking stern. — And... — he continued, softening a bit, — I know you’ve got a lot of work with your workshop. So go on with your business, and these nails — don’t worry, they’re excellent, no doubt.

— Well, thank you for the nails, have a good day, — Raynhart remarked, noticing that he had just been pitied, but he didn’t dwell on it and was genuinely grateful for the gift.

As always, Raynhart maintained a silent composure. Upon returning to his workshop, he placed the nails in their designated spot. After cooling off under the awning, he once again secured the flask to his belt and headed back to the city. This time, his gaze stopped at a large building with the poetic name "Blue Moon" and a note beneath it: "saloon." However, alcoholic beverages, like smoking and drugs, had long since become symbols of a bygone era. Still, to preserve the atmosphere of the old times, such establishments still existed, offering their visitors only non-alcoholic drinks and simple food, maintaining the wild west vibe. This served the promotional strategy of Sandrok, which was actively marketed through tourist programs. Raynhart understood that the tough facade with which the city was associated was, in essence, part of its cultural makeup, and locals often took pleasure in this image, sometimes cleverly misleading travelers. However, the reality hidden behind this exterior was much more complex and multilayered than in other free cities of the Alliance.

Raynhart knew that capitalism had once been structured in such a way that a small group of people accumulated vast wealth through the exploitation of the majority. This process also included medicine, which served the interests of the wealthy. It was profitable for people to ruin their bodies with poisons, and if someone broke down, they were easily replaced. However, in this new world, where each person had become invaluable, the authorities now set themselves the task of maintaining healthy habits. And it was unlikely that anyone seriously tried to bring alcohol or other harmful substances back into everyday life. Of course, not everyone acted with the best of intentions—many were simply frightened by the consequences, the sanctions that would inevitably follow any attempt to restore past vices. Moreover, the culture of the new era was being shaped differently. It was no longer fashionable to wake up in the morning and smoke a toxin-filled roll, inhaling its poisonous fumes.

Upon entering, Raynhart felt how dramatically the atmosphere had changed, becoming more peaceful. The establishment was furnished with attention to detail: on the right was a bar counter with a metal bell to call the staff, surrounded by low bar stools. On the left was a hall with long soft seats framing wooden tables. Despite the abundance of free spaces, a small group of visitors chose to seclude themselves in a far corner, where they quietly conversed, occasionally drawing the attention of the waitress. At the far end of the hall, a stage lay silent, covered in a light dust of waiting.

Raynhart walked up to the bar and took the menu in his hands, his gaze sliding over the prices. He was surprised that takeaway food was more expensive than dining in. This went against his habits: he preferred the solitude of his workshop to any company, especially during his breaks. In the end, Raynhart settled on five kilograms of rice for sixty golds, one kilogram of salt for eight, and one kilogram of sugar for twelve. The total purchase came to eighty golds—no small expense with his limited budget, but still justified by necessity.

Returning to his workshop, Raynhart quickly got to work. Taking a bowl left over from his previous meal, he filled it with a handful of rice, added water, and a generous spoonful of sugar. Under the blazing sun of Sandrok, he decided to make use of the natural heat instead of the absent stove, hoping the warmth would make the rice swell and soften. A light lid covered the bowl, protecting it from insects, and the remaining ingredients were carefully hidden in the room.

Once the main tasks were done, Raynhart headed back to the city. His gaze fell on a boutique attracting attention with bright clothes hanging on mannequins. Here, one could purchase clothing, but at the moment, he saw no need for it. Although the thought of a headgear crossed his mind, he decided to postpone the purchase. Continuing on, he finally came across a general goods store. The terrace in front of the entrance provided respite from the merciless sun, and Raynhart, taking advantage of the moment, stopped to catch his breath. He was greeted by a young man, who, at first glance, seemed even younger than Raynhart.

The stranger had thick dark chestnut hair framing his face with a light-brown skin tone, and his golden eyes sparkled with liveliness and enthusiasm. He wore a gray vest showing signs of repeated use, and a brown shoulder bag over a cream-colored shirt with elegant blue inserts. His belt was a bright yellow and violet scarf, adding a touch of carefree style to his look, completed by worn gray jeans and brown lace-up boots, speaking more of practicality than fashion.

— Greetings... — Raynhart began, but his words were immediately interrupted.

— Ah, you're the new builder, aren't you? — the stranger exclaimed energetically, but his voice was very soft due to his accent.  — Nice to meet you, I'm Arvio! I run the 'At the Stairs' shop, the only universal store in Sandroke! But I'm sure you'll soon realize that our prices are unbeatable. Ah, by the way! Matilda asked me to help you settle in since you're new. So, I’ve prepared something special for you: for the next week, everything in my shop will be 50% off for you! Just for you, of course. And here, take this chair. I thought there was always a lack of places to sit and rest in the workshop...

With an axe and pickaxe at his waist, he was far from the image of a tourist, and judging by the confidence with which Arvio spoke, he had immediately recognized him as the new builder. Raynhart tried to maintain his seriousness but couldn’t suppress a spark of curious excitement. This nimble shopkeeper, with his relaxed manner of speaking and obvious ability to attract attention, turned out to be unexpectedly amusing.

— Very generous of you. — Raynhart responded, somewhat reserved but grateful. — I'm actually here for some shopping. Do you happen to have a broom and dustpan? I'm not sure where mine disappeared in the workshop...

— Of course, of course! — Arvio responded lively, pointing to the corner of the store. — There they are! Anything else?

— No, not for now.

Raynhart nodded and took out 12 gold to pay for the items. He was about to turn to leave when he was stopped by the shopkeeper’s honeyed voice.

— Look at that! How long have you been in the city? A day? Two? — Arvio shook his head with exaggerated horror.  — And your skin is already turning red! Haven’t you thought about getting some sunscreen? Oh, don’t worry, everyone uses it here. Well, almost everyone... Anyway! It will protect you not just from burns but also from tanning. Although, of course, for someone like you, who spends so much time in the sun, I can’t guarantee your skin will stay flawlessly pale!

Raynhart wasn’t inclined to spend money unnecessarily, but he did think buying sunscreen was essential.

— Well, I’ve never used it, but it seems like it’s time.

Arvio literally beamed, pleased with his persuasiveness, and as he handed over the sunscreen, he added:

— And also... you definitely should visit Vivi to get something for your head! Oh, I’m not insisting, no, no, but I wouldn’t want your beautiful hair to fade under this blazing sun.

Raynhart smiled, this time openly.

— That’s already on my list, Arvio. Don’t worry about me. — the man briefly looked away as he paid for the sunscreen.

Having spent another 40 gold, Raynhart sighed softly, noticing on the shelves of the universal store the same rice, sugar, and salt he had purchased at the saloon, but now with the promised 50% discount. This discovery served as an unexpected reminder of life's unpredictability, which often threw little annoyances his way. However, the man quickly suppressed his irritation, having already grown accustomed to such circumstances being an inevitable part of his daily life. Grabbing the chair and wishing Arvio a good day, he made his way back, acutely aware that he had very little money left. He still hadn’t received his work permit, and all his current expenses were running into a deficit. To obtain the right to work in the city, he first had to prove his competence: complete the exam, which included two stages. He had already passed the first one by making a tool, and now he had to build a machine. Everything was going according to the prescribed standards, and Raynhart planned to follow them without deviation.

Passing by the tailor shop, he slowed his pace, internally struggling with his doubts. Rationality told him to save his money, but common sense insisted that health was more important. The man scolded himself — how could he have forgotten about headgear? In his previous life, it had been a rare accessory, so the need to protect his head from the scorching sun simply slipped his mind.

Scanning the mannequins displayed at the entrance, Raynhart’s gaze stopped on a cap that, he thought, would suit him best. However, as he looked around at the mannequins and the empty terrace, he felt a slight embarrassment: there was no one nearby to whom he could ask for help. The shops here were located on the terraces of residential buildings, and the idea of simply entering without an invitation felt extremely awkward, especially if the door happened to be locked and he ended up tugging on the handle.

Fortunately, his doubts were interrupted by a figure appearing in the doorframe. A short elderly woman emerged from the store. Her movements were slow but assured, and her eyes, framed by wrinkles, radiated curiosity and friendliness. She made her way directly toward him, as if she already knew he needed help.

The woman had gray hair styled in an unusual hairstyle, dark skin, and brown eyes that hid kindness and confidence in the face of circumstances. A pair of golden glasses rested comfortably on the bridge of her nose, secured by a thin chain, and her earlobes were adorned with large round earrings made of the same gold, softly gleaming in the sunlight. She was dressed simply but with a remarkable taste: a white short-sleeve T-shirt contrasted with a long purple skirt, and red-and-white shoes added a playful touch to her outfit. Completing her look were chunky blue-and-gold and green-and-gold necklaces, matching the red checkered apron, stained with small traces of fabric and threads — a clear sign of her craftsmanship.

— Well, well, look who we have here! — the woman broke into a warm smile, stepping closer. — It’s our new builder! It’s always nice to see new faces. I brought you something, dear. It gets chilly at night around here. This is a gift from "Made to Order." — she handed him a pleasant-to-the-touch blue scarf, often used as a shawl.

— You are very kind, — Raynhart said, slightly embarrassed by the unexpected care from the people of Sandrok. — It seems like everyone here already knows me... But how should I address you?

— Oh, where are my manners! — the woman exclaimed, raising her hands. — My name is Vivi, but you can call me grandma. Everyone here does. And your name is Raynhart, right? — She squinted, clearly trying to remember something. — I recently read the newspaper... Forgive me if I got something wrong.

— No, no, everything is right... grandma, — Raynhart blushed a bit, calling a stranger so warmly for the first time. However, seeing the joyful expression on her face, he decided that he could afford such a liberty. — Actually, I was just thinking about getting a headpiece. For working in the desert, it seems like an essential item.

— Ah, you’re absolutely right! — Vivi exclaimed, her eyes shining with genuine enthusiasm. — Let’s go, dear, let’s pick out something suitable for you. I’m sure you’ll be pleased.

To Raynhart's surprise, Vivi offered him exactly the cap he had already set his eyes on. This amusing moment seemed to highlight his own taste, which coincided with the choice of the experienced seamstress. After paying 102 golds, he left the tailor shop feeling refreshed. The beige cap protected his head from the relentless sun, and the light blue scarf, more like a shawl, protected his neck, letting air pass through its thin fabric. Though only 66 golds remained in his wallet, Raynhart had no doubt — it was a wise investment.

Returning to the workshop, he carefully applied sunscreen to the exposed parts of his skin, then returned to his work. His hands moved confidently and precisely as he finished processing the parts for the future recycler. Raynhart worked so quickly and focused that, at the university, the students around him often felt like he was controlling time — everything slowed down, and he continued moving with unwavering accuracy. Of course, this was an embellishment, but Raynhart did have good control over his energy, which would sharply fade when night approached. He once again had to take a break, finish the day, and head to rest.

In the morning, the recycler was ready. By noon, Raynhart was already standing in front of Jan, ready to present his work from the workshop and hear his verdict.

— Ah, here you are! — Jan greeted him as always, with a hint of carelessness. — No, you don’t need to show me the recycler. I’m sure it’s fine. You’ve got your builder’s license, right? And what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like it’ll explode and burn our city to the ground, right? Ha-ha-ha! Ha...

He laughed, but noticing that Raynhart’s face remained serious, he began to doubt himself, though he continued:

— Ahem... So, the main thing you need to understand: from now on, if you have any questions, just refer to the work manual, which is probably lying on your workbench. And remember: under no circumstances ask me about construction. I’ll be... too busy to deal with your questions.

There was indifference in his words, but it was the kind that one would use when speaking to a lazy rookie or, worse yet, an unloved child.

— Now that you’ve got the basics of working in the desert, why don’t you head to the town hall and register your workshop? — Jan turned and made a hand gesture, as if releasing Raynhart to go off on his own. — Usually, the mayor handles that, but at the moment, Minister Matilda is taking care of the administrative duties for her. So go ahead!

— Hm... so the mayor is out of town? — Raynhart squinted, lost in thought.

— Oh, didn’t you hear? She’s trying to plant something in the Yufala desert. Ugh! Hasn’t anyone told her that plants need soil to grow!? ... Listen, she’s been gone for quite a while... I really hope she’s still alive!

— I see... well, I’ll go. — Raynhart didn’t expect such a turn of events, but didn’t object too much.

— Oh, by the way! — the unpleasant voice of the boss came from behind again. — I found a couple of extra schematics I was going to throw away... but why should I do that when I can just give them to you! No need to thank me! Consider it a bonus for the new employee... something like that! Anyway, hurry to the town hall and ask Matilda to register your workshop. While you’re gone, I’ll get some work ready for you. Come back as soon as you’re registered!

Having stuffed four schematics — of the workbench, furnace, drying board, and tarp — into his shorts pocket, Raynhart headed straight for the town hall without further questions. He had noticed it during his walks the previous day, and now its majestic facade loomed before him, a silent guardian of order in this small desert town. Before he could step onto the first stair, a cabinet fell in front of him. At least, for a moment, it seemed like the furniture had toppled from above, but when he looked up, he realized that a person stood before him. Or rather, something resembling a person, no less massive than the cabinet itself, had commanded him to stop immediately.

The stranger stood tall, like a mountain in his path. Raynhart merely raised an eyebrow, skeptically eyeing the giant, but continued to carefully survey his surroundings, trying not to lose sight of this madman. Somewhere nearby, there should have been a Civil Corps employee, or else he’d have to come up with a different escape plan. But before he could think of his next move, the brute spoke:

— Oh. It’s you. The new builder. I thought you were from Logan’s gang. Ha! What a fool I am! You don’t look like a criminal at all. And your hands... so skinny.

His voice sounded pompous and self-satisfied as he began walking around Raynhart, examining him with such attention as if he were evaluating a new exhibit in a museum. But even under this heavy gaze, Raynhart remained calm, not allowing his focus to slip from the stranger.

— Do you even know how to defend yourself? — the brute continued, squinting. — You know, the desert doesn’t spare the weak. Hm... it’s decided! I, the magnificent Pen, protector of Sandrok, have just taken the liberty of offering you... a combat lesson!

Before Raynhart stood a man with dark purple hair, amusingly combed back, blue eyes, and light-brown skin. His outfit only caused confusion. His outfit only caused confusion. A bright costume, like it had stepped off the pages of a comic book, consisted of a yellow-white-blue sports suit with red inserts, over which was a white-and-red chest plate. His neck and shoulders were adorned with a white cape with blue lines and white sparks, and the emblem of the Church of Light was embroidered on his belt and on the cape itself. He wore fingerless gloves, and on his feet were red sneakers with yellow velcro.

For Raynhart, who did not adhere to any religious beliefs, such ostentation still seemed sacrilegious. However, the man’s appearance amused him more than it irritated him. Pen reminded him of a character from cheap adventure stories, and perhaps it was this carefree caricature-like quality that kept Raynhart from giving a sharp reply.

Silence hung between them. Raynhart remained composed, while the "great and unparalleled" Pen waited, like a predator ready to strike. It should be noted that contrary to the brute’s words, Raynhart was not at all skinny. His physique, though not massive, betrayed strength and endurance — sinewy muscles, reinforced by years of physical labor, spoke for themselves. For someone in his craft, this was more the norm than the exception.

Not wanting to drag out this absurd conversation, Raynhart finally diverted his gaze, showing his complete indifference to Pen’s offer.

— I pass, — he said dryly, making it clear that the topic was closed.

— Huh? But, Skinny Hands, you have no idea what dangers you'll face! You have to be ready for bandits! And... did I mention that I’m the strongest man in the world? — Pen’s voice grew even more convinced, as though he were trying to convince not only Raynhart, but himself as well.

— Sorry, but I just want to register my workshop, — the builder cut him off, not even attempting to hide his irritation.

— I... understand! — Pen said, although his voice clearly carried hints of annoyance. — Well, don’t blame me when you end up halfway to the stomach of a giant Gigler.

Pen was clearly displeased with such a cold refusal. He barely concealed his disappointment when his potential "victim" slipped away so easily. However, Raynhart had no intention of getting involved in this pointless adventure. In their world, offering combat training was a common, almost friendly gesture, but for a builder, such things only made sense within a circle of people he trusted. Allowing himself to be taken out of commission for weeks due to someone else’s excessive enthusiasm was not something he could afford.

Not wanting to waste any more time with this self-proclaimed hero, Raynhart stepped inside, where, as he had guessed, the person he needed was present. As he entered, the woman standing in the town hall immediately noticed the sound of the door opening and turned around.

Her gray hair, neatly gathered in an elaborate updo, complemented her fair skin and bright green eyes, full of vibrant energy. She was dressed in a long yellow church coat, paired with a green cloak billowing at her back, and a long blue skirt that gave her an air of grandeur. The white heeled shoes, like her hairstyle, made her appear taller in the eyes of those around her. She seemed almost the same height as Raynhart.

— Welcome! — she spoke first, immediately taking the initiative and offering a friendly smile at the corners of her lips. — You must be Raynhart! I am Minister Matilda of the Church of Light, standing in for Mayor Trudi. We are so pleased to see you as a builder here in Sandrok! If you’re here, that means you’ve passed a small audition with Jan and are ready to register your workshop. All you need to do is write the name of your workshop on two documents, one of which you will take with you!

Raynhart already knew what name he would give his new workshop. Although some might find the name excessive or pretentious, for him it held a deep personal meaning, reflecting his own aspirations. Taking the pen the woman offered, he leaned down to carefully write the name on the documents: "Desert’s Call."

When he finished, Matilda took the copy and carefully placed it in a frame protected by transparent glass. Then she handed it to Raynhart. This moment became not just part of the bureaucratic procedure but also a confirmation of a new step in his life.

— Congratulations, builder! Your workshop is officially open for business in Sandrok! As soon as you’re ready, you can start accepting commissions on the bulletin board inside the Commerce Guild. I’m not particularly known around here for my arithmetic skills, but I believe we can expect more from two builders than from old Mason working alone! Work hard, and you’ll have plenty of pocket money for yourself, right? — Despite the prolonged silence from the builder, the woman did not slow down. — Hmm... I dare say, this calls for a celebration! We usually have town meetings on Sunday evenings, but I think I’ll gather everyone tomorrow to properly welcome you, the new builders; oh, and you must come, it wouldn’t be the same without you!

— Oh... well, I’ll come, since that’s the case. Have a good day. — The farewell slipped from Raynhart’s lips with the ease of a well-practiced habit. He wasn’t much of a fan of idle chatter but considered it necessary to maintain basic politeness.

With the registration sheet in hand, he made his way to the Commerce Guild building, intending to take his first commission and finally get to work. However, at the doorstep, he was met by Mi-an, who looked noticeably anxious.

— Oh, hey, Raynhart. Did you get the message from Yan with the note "Urgent, come!" too? — Her voice sounded wary.

Raynhart shook his head. He hadn’t even bothered to check his mailbox, completely absorbed in the registration process.

— I wonder what the emergency is? — Suddenly, a muffled noise reached their ears — shouting coming from inside the building.

The girl froze for a moment, then, gathering her courage, cautiously pulled on the door handle. What she saw before her eyes was more like a scene from an absurd drama: another massive muscleman easily held Yan with both hands, as though he were a ragdoll. With a sharp, careless motion, he tossed the boss to the floor. The back of Yan’s head hit the railing of the stairs with a dull thud, and Yan, grunting, tried to get up, looking pathetic and humiliated.

— Listen here, you layabout! — roared the man, looming over the trembling Yan, clenching his fists so tightly that the veins in his arms stood out. — Me and my guys are fed up with your excuses! Where’s our elevator, huh?!

— Rocky, Rocky, old buddy... — Yan began, trying to put a soothing tone into his voice, which sounded more like the bleating of a lamb before a predator.

— You’re not my buddy, pal! — Rocky interrupted him, clearly not realizing how the word slipped from his lips. The words sounded harsh and strained, the controlled anger ready to break free at any moment. — Since Mason’s leaving, you promised to take care of it yourself! First, you caught a cold, then your turtle got sick, and today I found out that... you never even had a turtle! — The giant threw his arms up as if emphasizing the absurdity of what he had heard. — Do you understand how much money I’m losing here?! — His voice picked up, echoing off the walls. — So now I’ll have to beat you up! Sorry, buddy, but that’s company policy!

Rocky’s fist was already raised for a decisive strike, but Yan, suddenly paling, screamed, grabbing at the last chance to avoid the beating:

— Wait, wait, no, Rocky! Listen! I meant that... I got some new people to take care of your order, in a special way! Look, here they are! — His trembling hand pointed sharply at Mi-an and Raynhart, who were still standing in the doorway.

— We... came at a bad time? — Mi-an froze in place, her voice unsure, she looked like a statue, afraid to move.

Raynhart crossed his arms over his chest and watched the scene with a frown. As a believer in justice and a defender of the weak, he usually didn’t hesitate to intervene. But in this case, his inner voice clearly told him: the truth was not on the side of the arrogant boss. His gaze slid over to the massive figure of Rocky, who seemed to be a man of action, albeit with rough methods.

The builder, harboring a slight interest, began to wonder who this big guy was and what role he played in this town, not yet thinking about intervening in the argument unless necessary.

He was a tall man with an imposing physique — it seemed such figures were common in this town. On his head was a miner’s helmet, and a massive gold chain glittered around his neck, emphasizing his rough display of status. A tight white shirt clung to his huge muscles, revealing impressive strength honed by hard labor. A full arsenal of tools hung from his belt, clearly accustomed to work. His hands were protected by rough work gloves, and his legs were clad in boots with metal reinforcements. Every detail of his appearance spoke of a man who was a miner.

— No! No, you came just in time! — Yan babbled, quickly getting to his feet as soon as the big guy’s attention shifted to the newly arrived builders. He dusted himself off, as if hoping to wipe away any remnants of humiliation. — This is Mister Rocky, the head of the "Eufaula Salvage"! He has a very important task that requires immediate completion! With Mason leaving, the task… um… got lost for several… months, or so... But now that you’ve registered your workshops, you can take on this responsibility... eh, this task!

— Oh! Of course! This is what we're here for, right, Raynhart? This is our first big job! — Mi-an beamed with enthusiasm, clearly undeterred by the situation or the sudden offer.

— Alright, let's do this. — Raynhart shrugged, remaining calm. Whatever this task was, it clearly mattered to the local community, and that was a strong argument for him.

— Great! — Mi-an looked genuinely excited, as though confidence in success came naturally to her.

— See, they're ready, — Yan, almost unable to hide his satisfaction, glanced up at the big guy, whose figure still carried the weight of a threat. — What do you say, buddy?

— ...Alright, Yan. Despite common sense, I’ll give you another chance, — Rocky looked at him with cold disapproval, but it seemed he was swayed by reason. His voice remained tense, as if any careless word could reignite his fury.

— Excellent! Listen up, builders! — Yan began, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. — Rocky and his miners are working at a place known as Lost Paradise. Well, you’ve probably seen those old ruins near Raynhart's workshop. My friend ordered two lifts to move cargo up and down that long slope where they’re working. And since there are two of you, each of you can build your own lift. Piece of cake!

— Sorry to put you in an uncomfortable position, — Rocky interrupted, and there was an unexpected note of regret in his tone. — If Yan had done his job properly... Hey! I’m not your “buddy”! — he yelled at Yan, but quickly shifted his gaze to the builders, trying to soften his expression. — If you need materials, we have a junkyard in the company’s backyard. It’s near the Lost Paradise ruins, and there are plenty of my guys there, so you won’t get lost. Normally, we charge a weekly fee for access, but I’ll give you a free pass for a week. — He pulled out two small papers from his pocket, carelessly filled them in with a pen, and handed them to the builders. — When you’re done, install them for me. Qi has already prepared the lift design. Here, take it. I hope you’ll use it better than this half-builder here. — He gave Yan a harsh look and quickly left, slamming the door behind him.

Raynhart, silently taking the blueprint, quickly skimmed through it, while Mi-an, peering over his shoulder, immediately noticed the obvious complexity.

— Judging by this blueprint... We won’t be able to make everything from random scrap, — she said, frowning slightly. — I think we’ll need to visit Rocky’s junkyard. And it looks like we’ll also need a furnace.

— You’re right, but we only have one blueprint. Give me some time, and I’ll make a copy, — Raynhart replied, quickly noting the problem.

— Of course! I’ll handle the furnace... and wait for the blueprint! — Mi-an responded enthusiastically, quickly exiting the guild to follow Rocky.

Raynhart remained in place, deciding to take the opportunity to examine the commission board. Even though the work on the lift already required considerable effort, his gaze eagerly searched for another task to keep himself fully occupied.

A voice sounded from behind him, as if Yan had suddenly remembered his presence:

— Hm, tell me, since you're here, have I ever told you what the commission board is? — Yan said, casually leaning on the edge of the table, as if suddenly feeling like a real mentor.

— No, you haven't, but I already possess this knowledge thanks to my training, — Raynhart replied dryly, not even looking up.

— Ah-ha! Dedicated yourself to figuring it out, huh? Well, good for you! The less time I spend teaching you, the more time I have for… you know, extremely important presidential affairs! — Yan grinned at his own wit, but as always, spoke with a hint of laziness. — I suppose if you ever forget something, all the necessary information is in my notebook on the table. You can check it if you start getting confused. Alright, ciao! — He waved his hand, losing all interest in his subordinates.

Ignoring him, Raynhart continued studying the commission board. His eyes settled on one particular job: an order to craft combat spears for the local sheriff. It was something that didn't require extensive work, and the task itself seemed interesting. Besides, the process of weapon-making was familiar to him—the pickaxe hanging from his belt served as a reminder of similar projects. Now, he had enough work to keep his mind occupied for the foreseeable future.

Returning to his workshop, Raynhart immediately set about copying the lift blueprint into his work notebook. It lay on the workbench, nearly empty, with only a few started projects and numerous blank pages waiting to be filled. Taking a pencil he had recently purchased from Arvio for six gols at the same discount, Raynhart sat on a chair, which was also a gift from the same merchant.

Under the workshop's canopy, he carefully copied every element of the blueprint, not missing even the smallest details. The pencil did an excellent job, and he occasionally sharpened it on the workbench. Soon, Raynhart examined his finished work with a critical eye. The time was nearing noon, and he decided to focus on the cart he had planned to build as part of his new project. With the pass to Rocky’s scrapyard, the idea became even more appealing—the cart was essential for transporting all the gathered materials.

Handing the blueprint over to Mi-an could be done at any time, especially considering her words about being busy working on the furnace. Deciding to give it to her at the first convenient moment, he dedicated his time to another task. He began carrying out the pre-collected wood from storage and started processing it. The work was physically demanding, and soon Raynhart felt sweat trickling down his body, as if he were not under the scorching sun, but had plunged into ocean waves.

To avoid future structural deformation, he carefully avoided using long planks, preferring to join shorter pieces instead. Moreover, most of the materials he found were too damaged to create full-length elements. Gradually, ready-made parts began to accumulate around him.

By evening, Raynhart began assembling the frame, using a station for precise alignment and fastenings to secure individual elements. It was at this moment that he noticed Mi-an returning from another materials run. Her hands were full of gathered resources, so after getting her approval, Raynhart carefully placed the rolled-up blueprint into the pocket of her jumpsuit. He chuckled good-naturedly and wished his partner a good night. However, neither of them stopped working after that. They continued until the sunset gave way to deep twilight.

On the fourth day, Raynhart was awakened by the sound of his alarm clock. After getting himself in order and finishing his already tiresome breakfast—rice with salt—he headed for the door. On his way out, he remembered the mailbox and, upon checking it, found two letters. One was sealed with the official stamp of the mayor’s office, the other bore the address of his former home.

Opening the letter from the mayor’s office, he quickly skimmed through the concisely written text:

"Dear Raynhart,

We have an important announcement at today’s "Fireside Meeting" in front of the town hall. 18:00, don’t be late!

From: Matilda"

Without a doubt, this was the same meeting that had been mentioned during yesterday’s conversation. Raynhart folded the letter from the mayor’s office, deciding to leave it at home in case he needed to reread it later. Then he opened the second envelope, already guessing who it was from. Of course, it was from his mother.

"Raynhart, I miss you.

It’s hard to believe that only a few days have passed since you left for Sandrock. Your father and I already miss you so much! Even when you were little, you would always run off somewhere into the distance. Sometimes I would just let you go, watching how far you’d go, but I always started worrying before you did. I suppose we should have been prepared for the fact that one day, you’d go much farther…

I’m so proud of you. I know you’ll manage and succeed in your new job. No one else would have dared to take on this contract, knowing how difficult it would be, but you did. I’m sure you’ll be able to breathe life and development into Sandrock. I just want you to take better care of yourself. The blankets I packed for you are still sitting by the door. Do you want me to send them by mail? I’ve heard that the desert nights can be very cold.

Your father and I are proud of your independence, but Raynhart, please be careful. If you ever need help, don’t hesitate to reach out to us.

Your father is doing well. He’s decided to turn your room into a garden for his bonsai trees. Though, I think it’s because he feels a little sad when he sees your empty room. He says he’ll remove the trees as soon as you return, so I hope you’re not mad at him.

We’ve sent you some money for blankets and food. Write to us when you’ve settled in, and don’t forget to TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF!

With love, Mom."

His mother, as always, was overly emotional, but her concern was genuine. While reading the letter, Raynhart couldn’t help but notice her worry, which she still tried to conceal behind warm words. He always responded to her with restraint, emphasizing that this was not the end of the world and that she shouldn’t worry.

Noticing that the parcel box was slightly open, he looked inside and found a small package with food and 300 gols. That was quite timely. Raynhart was never picky about food, but upon seeing the meat, he almost gave in to the temptation to devour it immediately. However, he restrained himself.

Not leaving the letter unanswered, he headed to the train station. There, spending 20 gols, he purchased an envelope, a sheet of paper, a stamp, and a spot on the train for the letter itself. Focusing, Raynhart composed the text, clear and without excessive emotion:

"Dear Mom and Dad,

Don’t worry about me — I’m fine.

I’ve registered my workshop and have already started working here in Sandrock. There is always a lot to do, each task requiring attention and effort, and I find them worthwhile since they can make other people’s lives better.

Soon, the sign at my workshop will be repainted, and it will bear the new name I have given it.

Sincerely, Raynhart."

As the scheduled meeting time approached, Raynhart managed to finish working on the cart—only the final touches remained, attaching the wheels. However, understanding the importance of the upcoming event, he decided not to delay and headed straight to the town hall.

By the time he arrived, people had already begun gathering. Matilda, noticing him, immediately gestured for him to come closer and stand beside her. Mi-an stood on her other side. The people gathered in front of the town hall looked slightly uneasy, clearly not understanding why they had been summoned. They were actively whispering among themselves.

The crowd was small — no more than twenty people, most of whom Raynhart did not know. Among them, one person stood out, detached from the surrounding commotion. His body language is starkly contrasted with that of the other Sandrock residents. He was clad in church attire, somewhat resembling a military tunic, and stood in an elegant posture, his feet together and one knee slightly bent. One hand was placed behind his back, while the other rested on his hip. Holding his posture, he exuded restraint and dignity. His eyes, deep and vividly violet, seemed to peer into one’s very soul, and Raynhart immediately felt their piercing gaze. The man watched the gathered builders intently and appraisingly, as if trying to understand who they were and how they were adapting to their new circumstances.

His gaze was both wild, like that of a beast, and at the same time imbued with a spirituality belonging only to devoted priests. This elusive blend of ruthless insight and spiritual composure momentarily disrupted Raynhart’s usual train of thought. He had always been accustomed to people around him seeming light, changeable, flighty — often expressing emotions they could not contain. He himself had always remained apart, observing them, unable to fully share in that pulse of life.

A second of doubt and reflection, however, did not cause him to dwell on this realization. Raynhart quickly averted his gaze, directing it somewhere over the crowd.

— Settle down, please, everyone, ahem, — Matilda began, her voice drawing the audience’s attention. — As many of you know, our local builder, Mason, who has worked tirelessly for our community for many years, has decided to leave us in search of, shall we say, greener pastures. But today’s gathering is not for farewells! There will be plenty of time for that at the party celebrating his retirement. No, today we say "hello"! Let’s welcome our new builders: Mi-an and Raynhart.

— Thank you, everyone! — Mi-an, seemingly unafraid of the spotlight, spoke enthusiastically. — I’m very happy to start working here. I’ll do my best to contribute to Sandrock’s growth!

— Raynhart, would you like to say a few words? — Matilda addressed the other builder.

— Well, I support my colleague in her decision. That’s precisely why I’m here — to strengthen the Alliance and become a valuable member of the community. You can always count on my support, — Raynhart responded, his words brief but meaningful. He was not one to seek popularity or public speaking, yet despite this, he was always ready to step up when needed.

— Well said, builders! I couldn’t have put it better myself, — Matilda praised and continued. — Everyone, let’s be patient with our new builders as they settle in. And you, builders, don’t hesitate to reach out to us for help! We’ll gladly bring you work! Let’s give another warm welcome to our new builders in Sandrock! We have some omelets, freshly made by none other than our own Owen. Grab them while they’re hot! The meeting is adjourned! And don’t forget — conserve water!

— Conserve water! — the crowd echoed, following their leader, but the mysterious man remained silent.

That was it. This was his new reality, his life for the next three years, which he had promised to spend here under his contract. He looked over at the local residents standing before him — these people, full of determination and joy, ready to fight for their homeland.

Setting aside excessive sentimentality, Raynhart saw Sandrock for what it truly was: not just a town, but a key point whose significance could not be overstated. This place, once thriving, now stood on the brink of decline, yet it retained its status as the heart of the Alliance, a vital link between Highwind and Atara. Its strategic importance became especially evident against the backdrop of the growing threat of conflict with the Empire of Duvos. To neglect this chance — the opportunity not only to prove himself but to become part of something greater than himself — would mean rejecting his true purpose.