Trump arrived at the palace entrance, his ugly face bearing an expression that could only be described as uneasy. He called out in a low voice, "Master, I have arrived."
"Enter."
The palace doors swung open slowly.
The ogre mage stepped inside, hunching his massive, flabby frame as he waited nervously for orders, large beads of sweat rolling down his forehead.
The wizards working under Trump—men and women who suffered endlessly under his ceaseless sneers and biting reprimands—could never have imagined their superior could ever appear so pathetic and flustered. To them, such a sight was utterly unthinkable.
"Trump, you've likely noticed that my state of mind hasn't been right lately."
"Master, this..."
Trump stole a glance upward. Seeing that the destructive gleam in Cassius's eyes was gone, he let out a breath of relief and wiped the sweat from his temples.
Soon, however, he realized another crucial matter.
The ogre hurriedly dropped to his knees before the red dragon, resembling a shifting mountain of flesh.
"Master, you... you have finally returned!"
"As your loyal vassal, failing to warn you in time was a tremendous dereliction of duty—it is entirely my sin! Please, punish me—"
His voice trembled with a sob, practically bawling as his grotesque face scrunched into a contorted mess, a sight so wretched that the red dragon could barely stand to look at him.
Faced with this shrewd ogre mage's theatrics, Cassius was caught between laughter and tears.
"Enough. I didn't summon you here to listen to your weeping," Cassius interrupted, exasperated.
Trump immediately dropped the awkward display, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe away his tears, put on his gold-rimmed spectacles, and stood quietly to the side—the very picture of a composed, competent high-ranking mage.
Still, Cassius did place trust in this close confidant.
The red dragon commanded, "I trust you witnessed that frenzied state consumed by the urge to destroy, resembling the 'Dracorage' spoken of in records. In truth, I have fallen under the influence of a certain demon lord. I need you to mobilize the entire nation's resources to search for ways to preserve one's sanity and ward off the will of the Abyss, at any cost."
"Yes, Master," Trump answered with a solemn bow of his head.
Cassius continued, "Ah, there is one more thing."
"I need you to craft a sturdy, durable piece of magical equipment that can detect when I enter that frenzy akin to the Dracorage and promptly alert me, allowing me to snap out of it in time."
"As for the detection criteria... let it be judged by the chaos parameters of the surrounding Weave."
Trump had already produced a transparent little notebook and begun jotting down the instructions point by point.
Pushing up his gold-rimmed spectacles, the ogre mage said respectfully, "Technically speaking, Master, an item capable of monitoring the Weave is not difficult to forge."
He paused briefly.
"The crux of the matter lies in making it sturdy enough to survive your battles while emitting a signal potent enough to awaken you."
"Regardless, I shall do everything in my power and will not fail your expectations."
Cassius nodded slightly.
At the red dragon's gesture, Trump turned and took his leave.
Though he had not been assigned many tasks this time, each was exceptionally demanding. The Kingdom of Cinders' Ministry of Magic was about to have its hands full. Those human wizards with dark circles under their eyes and thinning hair would once again return to working overtime day and night, chasing better spells, more gold, and higher status.
***
Northwind Keep, on the outskirts of the city.
Hundreds of commoners had gathered, drawn by the immense commotion, chattering among themselves as they watched.
"What in the world is that?"
"Is that an ox made of iron?"
"Those people in the Artificing Department sure love wasting materials. To think they paved good iron right onto the ground! Tsk, tsk, that's enough to forge who knows how many fine swords."
"What a joke. What could that contraption possibly be good for?"
Flanked by an escort of tiefling guards, a man with a bulbous red nose and dragon scales across his face strode forward, practically beaming with pride.
The surrounding onlookers tactfully parted, terrified of offending this dragonblood noble.
"Where did this big shot come from? Look at the dragon scales on his face—what an enviable sight."
"That's Gilmour."
"The artisan noble?"
"What a lucky man."
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
This nobleman was none other than the so-called 'Artisan Representative,' Gilmour Sparrow. Originally an ordinary blacksmith working in an eastern city forge, he had spotted a flaw in the rifle production line and improved it, leaping into nobility as a dragonblood aristocrat in a single bound.
His story was widely promoted as the textbook 'Cinder Dream,' earning the envy of many across Northwind Keep, who clung to the hope that their own hard work might one day elevate them to nobility.
Seeing the viscount arrive, the busy workers immediately flocked over.
"Lord Viscount, this stretch of track has been fully laid."
"Everyone blocking the path has been cleared away."
"The steam locomotive is stocked with coal and water. At your word, the test can begin immediately."
The overseer in charge of the project pushed through the crowd and stepped up to the man, speaking in an unmistakably obsequious tone.
Gilmour's spirits soared. He took a swig of the liquor in his hand, his face flushing bright red as he rubbed his palms together.
"Everyone has worked hard these past few days. It's time to see some results."
"Begin."
"Yes, my lord!"
The overseer snapped to attention and offered a formal salute.
With the shrill blow of a whistle and a flurry of activity from the workers, the colossal 'iron ox' finally began to operate.
Within the magical steam boiler, an intricate magic circle flared with scorching flame, heating water to a rolling boil and generating steam, which was then channeled through pipes toward the cylinders.
Regulated by magical force field valves to control the timing of the steam's arrival, the steam passed through the main steam valve and throttle into the slide valve chamber. Directed by the slide valves, it entered alternately into the left and right sides of the cylinder, driving the magical pistons back and forth.
*Clang-clack, clang-clack, clang-clack...*
The pistons pumped furiously, driving the iron 'limbs' as the wheels below gradually turned, ultimately setting the heavy 'iron ox' into motion.
The spectating crowd erupted into a stir, though discordant voices soon arose.
"It's moving!"
"It's actually moving!"
"That 'iron ox' can really run..."
"It's so slow, though. I'd be better off riding a horse."
"No kidding. Even the donkey cart from John's place next door is faster than that."
The steam locomotive chugged along. Cooled steam was routed through pipes into a condenser, where cooling circles condensed it back into water, repeating the cycle continuously as the steam engine operated.
*Whoooo—!*
Accompanied by a long, piercing whistle, the exhaust from the burning coal vented from the overhead pipe, filling the air with plumes of dark gray smoke that looked like the heavy panting of some titanic mechanical beast.
"Wonderful, it worked!"
"We finally hit the target set from above!"
"It really made it to the end!"
When the steam locomotive reached the terminus, every worker, manager, and Viscount Gilmour himself erupted in cheers.
Gilmour glanced around at the chattering onlookers, thinking with disdain, *How could these ignorant peasants ever comprehend His Majesty's grand design?*
*To move something of this weight before, it would have taken high-level magic of at least the third circle. Yet now, it requires only a few crude, low-tier magic circles, some coal, and water. And this is far from its limit.*
*Once the rail network is fully laid in the future, His Majesty's army will be able to reach any corner of the kingdom in a single day—and the same goes for our grain and goods.*
Chapter 278