[Chapter 31 - Where The Cash Flows]

The journey back to Loriana was a haze of bone-deep fatigue and the jarring thud of burdenbeast hooves against packed earth. For Asep, Karl, and Stark, the sprawling, chaotic landscape of the refugee camp that had sprung up outside Loriana's walls felt less like a sight for sore eyes and more like a blurry dream.

Asep felt as though his bones had been replaced with lead. It hurt, though it wasn't unbearable; he simply felt numb and sluggish, every jolt of the cart rattling his teeth against his gums. Still, compared to the relentless, adrenaline-fueled slaughter of the Black River Hold, this exhausting ride felt like a luxury.

"We finally made it..." Karl murmured, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a kind of quiet desperation. He looked haggard, his face streaked with dirt and dried blood, but his eyes were bright and wide. "They’re here. Somewhere in this mess."

Asep grunted, adjusting his position on a precarious pile of empty crates. "Keep your pants on. You're going to see them. Just don't pass out before you do."

Stark maintained his silence, steering their mount toward the Radiant Temple's annex—a sprawling complex that had been converted into a primary triage center and sanctuary for the newly arrived refugees.

The annex courtyard was a scene of controlled chaos. Healers in Papal robes hurried between rows of makeshift cots, while volunteers dispensed bowls of thin porridge from massive cauldrons.

Karl didn't even wait for the cart to come to a complete stop before he vaulted over the side, hitting the ground with a stumble that he somehow recovered into a frantic jog. He pushed his way through the throngs of people, his head swiveling erratically.

"Cecilia! Mimi!" he bellowed, his voice cracking.

Asep and Stark hopped down, moving to keep him in sight. And then, from the far side of the courtyard near a cluster of patched tents, a small figure broke free from the crowd.

"Papa!"

It wasn't a run so much as a full-tilt sprint. Asep blinked in surprise. The child hurtling toward them was a small Caprine girl—a sheepkin with fluffy, sand-colored hair and a pair of tiny, budding horn nubs just visible on her head. She wore a simple dust-covered dress that looked a size too big for her.

"Mimi!" Karl yelled, dropping to his knees and throwing his arms wide.

The little girl didn’t slow down. Instead of a hug, she launched herself into the air, her entire body a projectile aimed square at Karl's chest.

"Guh!"

The resulting impact produced a muffled thud, and Karl let out a choked gasp as the small girl's head—specifically the hard crown between her tiny horns—slammed directly into his solar plexus. He toppled backward, coughing, but his arms instinctively snapped shut around her, pulling her into a tight, desperate embrace.

"Ow! Mimi! That’s... oof, you’re getting strong!" Karl wheezed, tears welling in his eyes as he buried his face in her dusty hair.

"Papa! You're so dirty!" Mimi giggled, wrapping her small arms around his neck, seemingly unbothered by the grime.

Asep let out a hoarse chuckle. "Well, that's one way to greet your old man. Headbutt him into next week."

"She gets it from her mother's side," Stark noted with a faint smile before looking past the reunited father and daughter.

Following Stark's gaze, Asep saw a woman pushing her way through the throng, breathless and visibly relieved. She was a stunning figure, even amidst the squalor of the camp. Like Mimi, she was a sheepkin, but her features were fully matured. Long, pale blonde hair cascaded down her back in loose waves, framing a gentle, maternal face. Two elegant, curled horns sprouted from her head, marking her distinct lineage. Despite the evident hardship she had endured, she carried herself with undeniable grace, accentuated by the remnants of what had once been a very fine, deeply cut blue dress that still managed to look elegant despite the travel dust. She also possessed an incredibly large bust that seemed to defy the laws of physics.

"Karl!"

"Cecilia..." Karl scrambled to his feet, still holding Mimi tightly against his hip. Karl, who had cheerfully charged into battle against armored knights without hesitation, looked entirely undone.

Cecilia threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around both him and Mimi in a crushing embrace. For a long moment, the three of them stood frozen together—an island of tearful reunion amidst a sea of displaced people.

Asep politely looked away, busying himself by fishing out a slightly crumpled cigarette. He offered one to Stark, who declined with a shake of his head. Asep struck a match against a nearby stone pillar, lit up, and took a long, savory drag.

Glad the dumbass has someone to go back to, Asep thought, feeling a strange twinge in his chest. It wasn't quite jealousy, but something adjacent—a hollow recognition of his own isolated existence. He pushed the thought down. His feelings for Adeline were complicated enough without adding Karl’s domestic bliss to the mix.

Eventually, Karl broke the embrace, wiping his eyes with a dirty sleeve. He turned to his squadmates. "Ceci, you remember Stark, right? And this is Asep. The new guy I told you about in my letters. He's... well, he's saved my neck more times than I can count."

Cecilia offered Stark a respectful nod before turning to Asep. Her violet eyes were warm and sincere as she studied him.

"You have my deepest gratitude, Mister Asep," Cecilia said, her voice soft and melodious. She placed a hand over her heart and offered a slight, graceful bow. "Every day I prayed for Karl's safe return. Knowing he fought alongside such dependable men... it brings me peace."

Asep shifted awkwardly, uncomfortable with the sudden influx of genuine gratitude. "No need for 'Mister', ma'am. Just Asep is fine. And honestly, half the time I’m just trying to keep him from getting us both killed by doing something stupid."

Karl laughed nervously. "Hey now, let's not spill all the unit secrets right away."

"I am just relieved," Cecilia smiled gently. "Merlesia became a nightmare so quickly. If not for the merchant caravans fleeing here, I don't know if we would have made it."

"Where are you two staying?" Stark asked, his practical nature asserting itself. "The conditions here are... rudimentary."

"That is what I wanted to discuss, Karl," Cecilia said, turning her attention back to her husband. Her expression grew serious. "We aren't staying in Loriana. It's too close to the front. We are heading to the Free City of Genoa."

Karl blinked. "Genoa? That’s... that’s all the way across the southern border! How are we going to afford passage there?"

"We don't need to, we are traveling with Lady Rubia." She said.

Stark visibly stiffened, as if he'd just been struck by lightning. The stoic squad leader swallowed hard and closed his eyes.

"Pardon?" Stark asked softly.

Asep quirked an eyebrow. "Lady who now?"

Karl’s eyes widened, and he shot a panicked, almost pitying look at Stark. "Wait, your third wife is here?"

"Third?" Asep blurted out, almost dropping his cigarette. He stared at Stark, completely flabbergasted. Usually, he was quite composed, but the revelation of a man with multiple wives immediately brought out his primitive male brain cells. "Third wife? Are you serious?! I knew you had a harem going on, but damn, when did you collect them all?"

Stark ignored him entirely. He turned to Cecilia, his voice flat, completely devoid of emotion. "Rubia is here? In Loriana?"

Cecilia nodded. "Yes. She arrived three days ago with a large caravan. I understand she is currently in negotiations with Commander Zachary at company headquarters. She was the one who funded the refugee train out of Merlesia. When she found out Mimi and I were your family, Karl, she offered us asylum in Genoa."

"Negotiations," Stark repeated, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of course she is. The war... it's a lucrative market for the Turturici family."

"Uh, okay, color me intrigued," Asep interjected, flicking his cigarette butt onto the cobblestones and grinding it out with his boot. "Who exactly is Lady Rubia?"

"Rubia Rossina Turturici," Karl answered, his voice hushed as if speaking the name too loudly might summon her. "She's... the daughter of a Don."

"A Don? What is that, like a Duke?" Asep frowned.

"More like a Merchant Lord," Stark said, looking deeply pained. "The Turturici family controls one of the largest mercantile conglomerates in Sycillia. And by 'mercantile,' I mean they control everything from the spice trade to the black markets. Legitimate businesses and... less legitimate ones."

"A mafioso," Asep translated, a grin spreading across his face as the dots connected. "You married the daughter of a mafia boss. How the hell did you manage that?"

"It is... a long story," Stark sighed heavily. "One involving a very complicated escort mission and a series of unfortunate misunderstandings five years ago. I did not intend to marry her, but the Sycillian Godmother forced my hand to 'protect' her—which brought me nothing but headaches when Lisa and Eve found out. Let me tell you, I could barely keep my sanity with two wives; three is overkill."

"Bwahahaha!" Asep couldn't hold it back anymore, laughing raucously beside his exhausted superior. "Ah man, I wish my life was half as exciting as yours! Look at that, you've got a mafia princess for a wife! You're the real protagonist here."

"Hnng... shut up, you bastard..."

---

Meanwhile, within the fortified walls of Castalia headquarters, a far less chaotic but equally tense negotiation was underway. Zachary Valente sat behind his heavy oak desk, the dark rings beneath his eyes masked by his intense, calculating gaze. Beside him stood Princess Adreana, her posture regal yet practical as she observed the woman seated opposite them.

Rubia Rossina Turturici commanded the room with predatory grace and effortless poise. She was a striking woman with the elegant features of a Lupine beastfolk. Her long, silver-grey hair fell in meticulous waves, and a pair of pointed, furry ears twitched subtly atop her head, alert to every nuance of the conversation. Her attire was a masterful blend of Sycillian high fashion and travel wear—a tailored crimson coat over a crisp white blouse, complemented by dark slacks and riding boots that spoke of wealth rather than battlefield necessity. A sharp, distinct scent reminiscent of expensive spices and cold steel seemed to precede her.

"The terms are quite clear, Commander Valente," Rubia said, her voice bearing the musical lilt of her southern homeland yet carrying an edge sharp enough to cut glass. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the desk with a nonchalance that bordered on arrogance. "My father’s syndicate—pardon, trading company—is prepared to offer a continuous supply line. We are talking grain, salted meats, basic medicinal salves, and crucially, the rare metals your smiths here so desperately need to forge proper weapons."

"And the designated cost is paid entirely in Lumite, sourced directly from the eastern Ardenian mines," Zachary replied, drumming his fingers against the polished wood. "A bold request, considering Lumite exports are strictly regulated by the Crown."

"Regulated during peacetime, perhaps," Rubia replied, a sly smile playing on her lips. "I have already had an audience with His Royal Highness, Crown Prince Finlay. He understands the dire straits your kingdom faces and has already granted preliminary approval for this arrangement, pending your logistical confirmation."

Adreana stepped forward, her expression thoughtful. "My brother is a pragmatist, Lady Rubia. If he agreed, it means he sees no other viable alternative to supply the western front."

"He is a man who recognizes that a drowning kingdom throwing its gold into the sea won't stop it from sinking," Rubia noted. "Gold loses its luster when you have nothing left to buy. Lumite, however, powers the world. The Turturici family has the... unofficial channels to refine and distribute it far beyond the prying eyes of the Papacy or the Albion blockade."

Zachary leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "Lavoro."

Rubia’s smile widened a fraction, her silver eyes glinting. "An astute observation, Commander. Yes, the black market. The grey routes. Whatever you wish to call it. It is where the true cash flows when formal borders are sealed."

"The primary issue isn't the cost; it's the delivery," Zachary stated, pulling a map of the continent across the desk. He traced a line down the coast. "The Albion navy has the Telmar Gulf locked tight. Nothing sails north."

"We don't use the sea," she said, standing up and tracing a different path with a manicured fingernail. "We move the cargo overland. North from Genoa, cutting directly through the Gallia territory."

Zachary’s expression darkened. "Gallia is an autonomous region of the Holy Empire of Rodinia, controlled by the Avagnon Curia. If the Inquisition catches wind of a massive, unsanctioned supply train crossing their borders to aid Ardenia—especially one funded by Sycillian syndicates—we'll be in serious danger."

"A risk the Turturici family is well-acquainted with managing. The Inquisition is bureaucratic and slow, and their border patrols in the south are remarkably... susceptible to financial persuasion."

She looked back up at Zachary, her expression hardening. "The route is viable, Commander, provided your couriers are fast enough to receive the handoffs at the border outposts before the local bishops notice the discrepancies in their ledgers. But do not mistake my business acumen for charity. This is a highly lucrative opportunity for my family during a time of global instability."

"So it’s strictly business, then?" Adreana asked, a hint of skepticism in her voice.

Rubia paused, her ears flattening back slightly. A faint flush crept onto her cheeks. She looked away, clearing her throat delicately.

"Well... not entirely," Rubia muttered, her voice losing its velvety smoothness, replaced by defensive sharpness. "It is also a matter of... domestic preservation."

Zachary raised an eyebrow. "Oh? It's about Stark, isn't it?"

"That infuriating, thick-skulled husband of mine is currently throwing himself at Albion knights in some muddy ditch," Rubia huffed, her tsundere nature breaking through the mafioso facade. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. "Stark is an imbecile who doesn't know when to retreat. I refuse to let him die meaninglessly in a war simply because your quartermasters ran out of bandages to patch him up."

She glared at Zachary, though the underlying worry in her eyes was glaringly obvious. "I tolerate his ridiculous mercenary lifestyle. I tolerate the fact that he barely visits Genoa. I even tolerate his other wives! But I will not tolerate him getting himself killed purely due to logistical incompetence. So, I am bringing the supplies myself—if only to ensure he has enough sense knocked into him to survive."

Zachary exchanged a quick glance with Adreana, who was suppressing a small smile. The fearsome daughter of a Sycillian Don was risking her syndicate’s resources and defying an Empire, all to keep her husband supplied on the frontline.

"Your devotion is... terrifyingly practical, Lady Rubia," Zachary said, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "If the Crown has approved the Lumite exchange and you guarantee the Gallian route's security, Castalia will handle the border pickups. We have a deal."

"Excellent," Rubia said, instantly recovering her composure and smoothing her coat. "See to it that your receiving end is competent. I will inform my father to begin moving the first caravan. Now, if we are concluded, I have a frustrating conversation to initiate with my husband."

Without waiting for dismissal, Rubia spun on her heel and strode toward the door, her boots clicking sharply against the stone floor. As she reached for the handle, the door swung open, revealing Stark, who looked as though he would rather be standing in front of a charging Thrall than where he currently was.

Asep peered over Stark’s shoulder from the hallway, an entertained smirk plastered across his face.

Rubia stopped dead, her silver eyes locking onto Stark. She took in his battered armor, the dark circles under his eyes, and the exhaustion etched into every line of his face. Her initial annoyance evaporated for a split second, replaced by unguarded relief, before she quickly masked it again.

"You," Rubia snapped, poking an accusatory finger into his chest. "You look like a corpse that was dug up and run over by a carriage."

Stark let out a long breath. "It is good to see you too, Rubia."

"Don't give me that calm tone," she huffed, stepping closer and immediately beginning to swat aggressively at the dirt on his pauldron. "I leave you alone for five months and you immediately go and get entangled in a continental war. Are you fundamentally incapable of staying out of trouble?"

"It is my job," Stark replied simply, enduring the harsh dusting.

"It is a stupid job." Yet her hands softened as she inspected a poorly bandaged cut on his upper arm. She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "You are coming with me to the best inn this dismal town has to offer. You are taking a bath, and you are sleeping for twelve hours. And if you argue, I will have my father’s enforcers drag you there."

Stark knew better than to refuse. He offered what might have been a defeated nod. "As you wish."

Rubia grabbed him firmly by the forearm and began dragging the thoroughly exhausted Stark down the hall. Over her shoulder, she shot a warning glare back at Zachary. "The first shipment arrives at the border in ten days, Valente. Do not be late."

As the couple disappeared down the corridor, Asep stepped into the office, chuckling quietly. "Boss, if this is what having a wife is like, I think I'll stick to cigarettes and poor life choices."

"A wise decision," Zachary muttered, rubbing his temples as the headache, momentarily forgotten during the negotiation, returned with a vengeance. "Though, considering our new supply line depends entirely on her good graces, we’d best hope Stark keeps her happy."

"Anyway, can Project Highway operate across the borders now?" Zachary continued.

"I'm not sure; I haven't met Treste yet."

"Well, you'd better pull yourself together, have a meal, get some rest, and then check on her. I'm counting on your creation," Zachary said, leaning back into his chair.

"Yeah, right. Good luck with the paperwork, Boss." Asep gave a two-finger salute before leaving the office.

---

The promised bath and fresh set of clothes did wonders to momentarily wash the war from Asep's bones. However, the true remedy was a bowl of steaming chicken stew served at the Water Lilies' Embrace, washed down with an excessively strong cup of coffee. He had almost forgotten how good it felt simply not to get stabbed.

Yet Zachary's orders loomed over his brief respite. Duty called, dragging him from the tavern's comforts toward the Castalia R&D Department Garage—a repurposed, reinforced warehouse situated just off the main thoroughfare, rather than the former bakery where they usually hung around. As he approached the heavy wooden doors, a cacophony of metallic clanking, hissing steam, and highly animated cursing greeted him.

Asep pushed the door open, immediately assaulted by the pungent combination of refined Fire Lumite and hot grease.

"I told you, you disproportionate piece of brass, you cannot route the expansion pressure back through the primary intake!"

Treste Comte Mordeau, covered in soot and currently wrestling with a wrench, was halfway inside the skeletal framework of a vehicle. Her oversized witch’s hat sat precariously on a nearby workbench, abandoned in favor of practicality. The vehicle itself—"Project Highway"—was essentially a crude, stripped-down box on four heavy-duty wheels, resembling the rusted skeleton of an Angkutan Perkotaan—an angkot.

"Having a fight with the manifold again?" Asep asked, leaning casually against the doorframe as he lit up a fresh cigarette. The smoke curled lazily toward the high rafters.

Treste jerked backward, smacking the back of her head against an iron strut. "Ow! Confound it, Asep!" She scrambled out from the vehicle's guts, glaring at him while rubbing her scalp. Her lilac hair was a disaster of grease stains and static frizz. "Don't sneak up on me! And put that foul thing out near the prototype! Do you want to ignite the raw Lumite fumes and blow us both to Kingdom Come?"

"Relax, genius." Asep chuckled, stepping inside and taking one last drag before obediently crushing the cigarette under his boot. "The fumes are heavy; they sink. Smoke rises. Basic physics. Anyway, Zachary told me you were ready to level the town if I didn't show up. What's the crisis this time?"

Treste huffed, tossing the heavy wrench onto a cluttered bench with a loud clatter. She marched over to him, her tiny stature attempting to project immense authority.

"The crisis, my chronically lazy assistant, is that your theoretical engineering models clash violently with the practical realities of high-yield magical energy conversion!" She pointed an accusatory finger at the vehicle. "This... this 'four-stroke internal combustion engine' you described: I have successfully scaled it up to roughly what you called four hundred cubic centimeters of displacement, utilizing compressed water vapor superheated by refined solid Fire Lumite injected directly into the cylinders."

"Sounds like you nailed it," Asep observed, stepping closer to inspect the engine block mounted haphazardly behind the open driver's seat. It was a monstrous, ugly lump of iron and hastily inscribed runic circles, far bulkier than the angkot engines he was familiar with.

"I nailed the combustion," Treste corrected sharply, crossing her arms. "It produces approximately what you termed twenty-five horsepower. Enough torque to haul significant cargo. The problem is the transmission. The instant I engage the drive shaft, the sheer torque shears the coupling pins right off! We've snapped three different axles today alone!"

Asep ran a hand over his face, sighing. Right. A 400cc equivalent running on magic instead of petrol. The sudden spike of power delivery from instantaneous expansion was likely too aggressive for whatever rudimentary clutch system they had slapped together. He hadn't accounted for the violent, explosive nature of magic substituting for gasoline.

"Okay, let's take a look. You got the schematics?"

Treste shoved a rumpled piece of parchment into his chest. Asep unrolled it across the hood of the buggy. It was a chaotic blend of his crude mechanical drawings and Treste’s intricate arcane arrays. While he understood the mechanics, her magic circles were practically another language entirely. He traced the lines leading from the engine block to the rear axle.

"Here," Asep pointed to a specific joint. "You're dealing with immediate full-force kinetic energy the moment the Fire Lumite ignites the vapor, right? You can't just drop that straight onto a solid iron axle. The metal will buckle from the sudden shear stress."

"Obviously!" Treste shot back, her tone dripping with exasperation. "But we lack the metallurgical refinement necessary to forge alloys capable of withstanding that magnitude of sudden torsion without shattering!"

Asep stared at the diagram, his mind slipping back to his days studying in vocational high school, specifically the lessons on drivetrain mechanics. Realizing they couldn't just invent better steel overnight, they needed a workaround. A buffer.

"Alright. If we can't strengthen the metal, we soften the blow."

He grabbed a piece of charcoal from the bench and started sketching over Treste's delicate runework.

"What are you doing?!" Treste squawked, trying to swat his hand away. "Those arrays regulate the—"

"Quiet, I'm trying to think," Asep muttered, blocking her hand with his forearm. "We need a fluid coupling unit. A torque converter, or something functioning like one. Rather than a direct mechanical link slamming shut, we use a fluid to transfer the rotational energy gradually."

Treste blinked, her annoyance momentarily forgotten, replaced by intense analytical curiosity. "Transfer kinetic energy via fluid displacement? You mean... utilizing a highly viscous alchemical medium housed between two rotating turbines?"

"Exactly," Asep nodded, stepping back to let her see the rough sketch. "The engine spins one side—the impeller. That flings the fluid outward. The fluid hits the other side—the turbine—which is connected to the axle, and starts it spinning. It allows slippage at low speeds but locks up as rotational speed increases. It cushions the initial shock."

Treste leaned over the drawing, her eyes darting back and forth as she muttered rapidly under her breath.

"The hydraulic principles are sound... fascinating. But conventional oils would boil under the ambient heat of the Lumite core." She tapped her chin, then a manic grin slowly spreading across her soot-stained face. "However... if I synthesize a heavy-density Water Lumite compound mixed with... yes... Basilisk marrow extract, the viscosity would remain stable even at extreme temperatures, creating the necessary fluid drag!"

She suddenly grabbed Asep by the shoulders, her physical slightness entirely contradicted by the wild excitement in her grip. "Asep! You infuriatingly brilliant simpleton! We can construct this! I just need to recalibrate the containment runes to prevent the fluid from vaporizing under the internal pressure and..."

She let go and sprinted toward her alchemy station, already rummaging through vials of glowing liquids. "Hand me the calibrator! We have work to do!"

Asep laughed, shaking his head as he picked up a pair of heavy leather gloves. "Alright, boss. But you're buying dinner after this."

For the next several hours, the garage became a whirlwind of frantic activity. Treste synthesized her viscous alchemical fluid, creating minor localized explosions and copious amounts of foul-smelling smoke in the process. Meanwhile, Asep focused on the physical fabrication, hammering out a rudimentary casing for the torque converter from thick iron plating to house the two finned impellers Treste had magically sculpted from denser metals.

The work was grueling. It involved heavy lifting, intense heat from the forge, and the constant stress of ensuring the magical runes aligned perfectly with the mechanical components. Yet despite the exhaustion dragging at his limbs, Asep found a strange rhythm in the labor. It was entirely different from the senseless violence of the battlefield. Here, he was creating, not destroying. The banter with Treste, though often combative, lacked the lethal edge of war. It was surprisingly comfortable.

"Alright, that should do it," Asep called out, wiping sweat from his forehead with a dirty rag. He stepped back from the buggy, observing the newly installed, bulbous coupling unit sitting between the rear axle and the humming engine block.

Treste carefully poured the last drop of the glowing, sludgy blue fluid into the containment valve, hastily sealing it shut and tracing a final stabilizing rune over the cap with a glowing finger.

She let out a theatrical sigh, wiping grease onto her already filthy dress. "Theoretical application is complete. The alchemy is stable. Now, we proceed to practical demonstration."

Asep walked over to the driver's side—a simple wooden bench bolted to the frame—and climbed in. The controls were crude: an iron lever functioning as a hand brake, a thick pedal for acceleration, and a stiff iron steering wheel connected directly to the front axle via a rack-and-pinion system.

"Fire it up," Asep said, gripping the wheel.

Treste stood clear, aiming a small rod of concentrated Fire Lumite at the engine's ignition port. "Initiating combustion sequence in three... two... one..."

She struck the port. The engine coughed violently, spat a cloud of white water vapor, and then roared to life. The sound was deafening inside the closed garage—a chaotic rhythm of explosions driving the pistons. The entire chassis shuddered.

"Hold onto your hat!" Asep yelled over the noise. He released the hand brake and steadily applied pressure to the accelerator pedal.

Unlike before, where the sudden engagement caused a concussive snap that shattered the pins, the new system hesitated. Then, as the engine's revolutions climbed and the magical fluid within the converter gained momentum, the power transferred smoothly. The rear wheels engaged with a heavy groan, and the iron skeleton lurched forward across the workshop floor.

"It holds!" Treste screamed, bouncing on her toes in genuine excitement. "The alchemical fluid is mitigating the torsion stress! The mechanical link remains unbroken!"

Asep grinned broadly, hitting the brake before he put the buggy through the back wall. The vehicle stopped securely, the engine idling with a steady chug, and Asep cut the ignition.

"Well, I'll be damned," he said, stepping down from the chassis. "We actually built a functioning car in the middle of a medieval warzone."

Treste puffed her chest out with immense pride. "Of course we did. You provided adequate conceptual scaffolding, but it was my unparalleled genius in arcane synthesis that bridged the gap between mechanics and reality."

"Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night," he chuckled.

"Zachary demands operational status for the upcoming logistical routes," Treste stated, her tone turning serious as she observed the vehicle. "This... 'Angkot', as you insist on calling it, while structurally crude, is robust enough to haul significant weight across uneven terrain far faster than a standard burdenbeast. But we need more. A single unit will alter nothing."

"Yeah, I know," Asep agreed, running a hand over the cold iron frame. "This is just Project Highway. If we can standardize this drivetrain, we can mass-produce these chassis. Supply runners, troop transports, even mount some armor plating and a heavy arbalest for a fast-attack vehicle. But..."

He knew very well that even if this prototype was sound, they still lacked the necessary materials to mass-produce it—especially with the war raging. They couldn't recklessly divert scrap metal when frontline soldiers desperately needed weapons. However, Zachary's earlier remark about the new supply line from the Turturici family sparked a glimmer of hope.

"We just need to scale production to pump out more. I'll go check with Sylvanne to find out if we got any competent blacksmiths from the refugee camp," Asep muttered.

Suddenly, Treste's stomach let out a loud, embarrassing rumble that echoed through the quiet garage. She instantly clutched her midsection, her face flushing crimson beneath the soot.

Asep couldn't suppress a smirk. "So much for the 'unparalleled genius' surviving on intellect alone. Come on. I promised you dinner, didn't I? Let's go see what's left at the tavern before I collapse."

Treste quickly recovered her faux-arrogant stance, though she didn't argue. "Very well. But I demand proper sustenance. Not that grey slop they attempt to pass off as stew."

"You'll eat what they have, and you'll like it," Asep replied, slinging a slightly cleaner towel over his shoulder.