Death was not the metaphysical event that poets describe. There were no tunnels of light, no celestial choirs, no cinematic review of my sins.
It was, above all, a system failure—though I would describe it as a predictable thermodynamic collapse.
My consciousness, trained over eighty-nine years in empirical observation, recorded the process with the coldness of a black box.
Status Log: Acute renal failure. Irreversible. Oxygen saturation: 82%. Descending. Severe bradycardia: 30 beats per minute.
The beeping of the heart monitor in the hospital room was erratic, an arrhythmia syncopating with my own disappearance. My mind, however, remained lucid. Perhaps it was the advantage of having lived a life dedicated to science rather than sentimentality; fear is a chemical reaction, a spike of cortisol and adrenaline that, by this point, my adrenal glands no longer had the energy to produce.
Curious, I thought.
Peripheral vision darkened—a tunnel effect caused by cerebral hypoxia.
I always hypothesized that the liver would fail first due to chronic exposure to aromatic reagents in the lab of '68, and yet, the kidneys were a statistical variable I underestimated.
I felt entropy win the final battle against homeostasis as the energy required to maintain cellular cohesion exceeded the energy available. The equation balanced to zero.
The sound ceased. The darkness was absolute. End of data transmission.
Non-existence lasted an indefinite time, or perhaps a nanosecond, or millennia. Time is irrelevant without an observer to measure its entropy.
The next data entry was violent.
It wasn't visual, but thermal. Cold. A damp, penetrating cold that did not correspond to the sterile climate control of an intensive care unit.
Then, the smell. Smells like: Beeswax, ancient dust, damp wood, and... oxidized ethanol. Stale wine.
My eyes opened.
Visual processing took 0.4 seconds to calibrate. The ceiling was not made of white mineral fiber panels. They were dark oak beams, poorly cured, crossing a cracked plaster ceiling.
I sat up. The movement was a spasm, a flight reflex.
I expected the creak of my lumbar vertebrae, the arthritic pain in my knees, and the heaviness of senile muscle atrophy. None of that happened. The movement was fluid, silent, hydraulically perfect.
I brought my hands up to my face.
"This is anatomically incorrect," I whispered.
My voice sounded different. The pitch was higher; the resonance in the ribcage indicated greater lung capacity. But the most disturbing thing was the hands. They were slender, with long, elegant fingers, missing the liver spots, missing the chemical burn scars from 1974, missing the essential tremor.
These were hands that had never held a twelve-inch wrench nor calibrated a mass spectrometer. They were parasitic hands.
A sharp pain pierced my frontal lobe. It wasn't physical pain, but data pain. Like trying to download a terabyte of information onto a hard drive that was already full.
Name: Silas Herforst. Age: 22. Status: Severe hangover. Position: Fourth son of Duke Reinhard Herforst. Family Designation: The useless one. The disgrace. The disposable.
Memories of the original host flooded my hippocampus, overlaying my knowledge of mechanical engineering and pharmacy. I saw banquets where they laughed at me. I saw swords I couldn't lift. I saw the disappointment in the eyes of a gigantic, brutal father. I saw bottles of cheap wine consumed in alleyways to avoid the gaze of the court.
I brought my hands to my temples, massaging the pressure points to mitigate the migraine.
"Consciousness displacement," I muttered, analyzing the situation. "Hypothesis one: Pre-mortem hallucination generated by massive DMT release in the dying brain. Hypothesis two: Multiverse theory and quantum information conservation are correct, and I have occupied a new biological container."
I got out of bed. My balance was precarious, not from weakness, but from the residual ethanol intoxication of Silas's body. I walked toward a full-length mirror with a rusted brass frame in the corner of the room.
The reflection confirmed Hypothesis Two.
A young man with light olive skin stared back at me. Dark hair, messed up from sleep. Eyes with marked dark circles, bloodshot. An aristocratic but weak face, lacking the hardness that discipline bestows.
I leaned closer to the mirror. I pulled my eyelids open with my fingers to examine the pupils.
"Sluggish photomotor response. Mild dehydration. I need electrolytes and water," I said, ignoring the existential shock. Panic is inefficient. If this is a new reality, it requires adaptation, not hysteria.
In the pocket of a velvet coat lying on the floor, I found a pair of glasses. Putting them on, the world gained sharpness. Myopia. Correctable with concave lenses.
The bedroom door burst open.
There were no prior knocks. No request for permission. The man who entered wore a gray livery with the crest of a rampant griffin. His body language—shoulders back, chin up, direct eye contact—indicated a total lack of respect for the room's occupant.
"Still standing," the servant said, with a sneer halfway between surprise and disgust. "The Duke thought you might have drowned in your own vomit this time. It would have been cleaner for everyone."
I analyzed the subject. Subject A (Servant). Muscle tone: Medium. Physical threat level: Low. Insolence level: Critical.
The old Silas would have hung his head or stammered an apology. Or perhaps he would have shouted with the impotence of the weak.
I adjusted my glasses. I turned slowly toward him. My expression showed no anger, only curiosity—like one observing a bacterium under a microscope.
"Your entry lacks protocol," I said. My voice came out flat, devoid of emotional intonation. "Get out, close the door, and come back in after knocking three times."
The servant blinked, confused. The script had changed.
"What did you say? The Duke awaits you in his office right now. I don't have time for your games of—"
"Communication efficiency depends on hierarchical structure," I interrupted him, taking a step toward him. I wasn't threatening; I simply invaded his personal space with absolute calm. "If the hierarchy breaks, the chain of command fails. If the chain of command fails, the structure collapses. Are you suggesting a structural collapse of House Herforst, or are you simply incompetent?"
The man took a step back, instinctively. The cold gaze behind my glasses wasn't that of yesterday's drunken boy. It was the gaze of a man who had fired hundreds of employees and audited catastrophic failures in aging industrial plants.
"I... the Duke is waiting for you," he mumbled, losing his arrogance. "It's urgent."
"Good." I walked past him without looking at him again, picking up the coat from the floor and dusting it off with precise movements. "Lead the way. My spatial memory of this hallway is fragmented by the inefficiency of this body's neurons."
As I walked through the corridors of the Herforst mansion, my mind worked on two simultaneous planes.
Plane A processed immediate sensory information. The architecture was late Gothic, with an excessive reliance on load-bearing stone and little understanding of weight distribution via lighter arches. The carpets were dust traps, ideal vectors for mites and respiratory allergens. The lighting via torches and candles was an unacceptable fire hazard.
Plane B accessed Silas's database. We are in the Kingdom of Aethelgard. Technological level: Late Medieval / Early Renaissance. Magic exists, but it is a scarce and elite resource, monopolized by the "Ivory Tower" and high-ranking nobility. The Herforst family is a martial house. They value physical strength and mana. Silas has neither. He was born with atrophied mana channels and an ectomorphic physical constitution.
To them, I am a defective product. A manufacturing error.
We passed a training ground visible from the large windows. I saw two young men, my "brothers," Kaelen and Vorian, practicing with swords imbued with fire. The technique was visually impressive, but energetically wasteful.
"Unnecessary calorie expenditure," I murmured. "A high-velocity kinetic projectile would neutralize both before they could complete the arc of their swing."
The servant stopped in front of a double door of black wood, reinforced with iron.
"His Excellency's office," the servant announced, recovering a shred of his composure. "I suggest you don't waste his time. He is in a... volatile mood."
"Volatility is a sign of chemical or emotional instability. Both are manageable with the correct catalysts." I didn't expect them to understand that last part, nor did I care.
I opened the door and entered.
The office was designed to intimidate. High ceilings, trophies of beast heads on the walls, and a massive mahogany desk strategically placed so the light from the window put the visitor at a visual disadvantage.
Behind the desk was Reinhard Herforst.
The Duke was an impressive human specimen. I calculated his height at 1.95 meters, approximate weight 110 kilograms, mostly lean muscle mass. He had scars that told stories of violence and a gray beard trimmed with military precision. The pressure of the mana emanating from him was palpable, like static standing the hair on my arms on end.
Silas, the old Silas, would have started trembling. His heart rate would have spiked to 140 bpm.
My heart rate remained at a steady 65 bpm. Fear is irrational when the outcome is inevitable.
Reinhard didn't look up from the scrolls he was reading. He left me standing there, in silence, for three full minutes. A standard power tactic. He expected me to speak first, to apologize, to break the silence with my nervousness.
I remained motionless, hands clasped behind my back, observing a tactical map on the wall, calculating supply routes for the northern border.
Finally, Reinhard looked up. His eyes were amber, predatory. He seemed surprised not to find me wringing my hands.
"Yesterday you vomited on the boots of the Marquis of Valen's envoy," he said. His voice was a bass rumble that vibrated through the floor. "You urinated on the main hall rug. And then you tried to duel a statue in the garden."
I accessed the memories. They were blurry, shameful.
"The data is correct," I nodded. "Alcohol intake exceeded my liver's metabolic capacity. The resulting behavior was... suboptimal."
The Duke struck the table with his fist. The wood creaked.
"Suboptimal?" he roared. "It was a disgrace! You are a stain on this name, Silas! I have tolerated your weakness because you carry my blood. I have tolerated your lack of magic. But the lack of dignity is something I cannot forgive."
He stood up, his shadow covering me.
"It's over. I have made a decision. I am not going to execute you, because your mother wouldn't forgive me from the grave. But you are no longer my son. You are a liability that I am going to liquidate."
He grabbed a scroll from the desk and threw it at me. It landed at my feet. I crouched to pick it up, adjusting my glasses. I read it quickly. It was a title transfer order.
"Blackwood," I read aloud. "The northern border fortress."
"It's a dumping ground for corpses," Reinhard said cruelly. "Barren lands. Constant beast attacks. Peasants dying of strange plagues. The last administrator lasted three months before committing suicide. You leave in a week. If you survive a year, I'll give you the official title. If you die... well, at least you'll die far from my sight."
He expected tears. He expected pleading. Father, please, don't send me there, it's a death sentence.
I analyzed the situation. Here, in the capital, I am a pariah. I have no resources, no respect, and I am under constant surveillance by a family that despises me. I cannot innovate. I cannot build. In Blackwood, the probability of death is extremely high according to current statistics. But autonomy is 100%. It is an environment rich in unexploited mineral resources.
If the "plague" is what I suspect, it is solvable.
It is an engineering problem. And I am an engineer.
I looked up from the scroll and looked the Duke directly in the eyes. For the first time, Reinhard saw something in his son's gaze that unsettled him. He didn't see fear. He saw calculation. He saw the cold glint of a microscope lens.
"I accept the terms," I said.
The Duke blinked. "What?"
"I accept the transfer. Blackwood is an undervalued asset. With proper management, its yield can be increased." I paused, recalculating my bargaining position. "However, to guarantee project viability, I require initial conditions."
"You dare to demand conditions?" Reinhard looked ready to draw his sword.
"I do not demand. I negotiate. You want me gone and causing no trouble. I want to leave and survive. Our goals are aligned." I held up two fingers. "One: I require my full annual allowance budget in advance, in cash, today. Two: I require unrestricted access to the Family Library and the 'scrap' supply warehouse for the next seven days."
The Duke let out a short, harsh laugh.
"You want money to drink yourself to death before you go? And you want to pretend to read books? You're stupider than I thought."
"Do we have an agreement?" I insisted, ignoring the insult.
Reinhard sat down, looking at me with disdain.
"Take the money. Buy all the wine you want. And go into the library if that makes you happy. In seven days, that carriage leaves. If you are not in it, I will tie you to the roof."
"In seven days, the carriage will leave," I confirmed. "And I suggest, Excellency, that you do not expect me to return. Liquidated assets rarely return to the original balance sheet."
I gave a perfect, mechanical bow of exactly 45 degrees, turned on my heel, and left the office.
My heart remained at 65 beats per minute. The acquisition phase had begun.
I left the office and went directly not to the kitchens, nor to my room, but to the Library.
I needed data. Intuition is for artists; engineers need data. Blackwood. Why are they dying? Why is it barren?
I spent the next six hours surrounded by dust. The Herforst family history books were useless propaganda, but the cadastral and geological records were gold mines.
Finding 1: Blackwood is situated at the base of a dormant volcanic mountain range. Finding 2: There are mentions of "metal-tasting water" in records from fifty years ago, before the population started dying en masse. Finding 3: Symptoms described in previous administrators' reports: "Darkened skin," "vomiting blood," "progressive madness," "white lines on fingernails."
I slammed the book shut, raising a cloud of dust that danced in the afternoon light.
"Mees' lines," I whispered, a predatory smile forming on my lips. "Hyperpigmentation. Neuropathy. It's not a demonic curse. It's not a punishment from the gods."
I adjusted my glasses, glinting with the reflection of the window.
"It is chronic poisoning by arsenic and heavy metals in the aquifer. It is a filtration problem."
The problem had a solution. But to solve it, and to survive the orcs and beasts that also plagued the area, I needed tools. Not swords. Not shields. I needed chemistry.
I reviewed my mental budget. The money the Duke would give me was a pittance for a noble, but a fortune if one knew what to buy.
Tomorrow I would go to the Alchemist's Quarter. Not to buy "ogre strength" or "stoneskin" potions which were expensive placebos. I was going to buy the precursors of industrial civilization.
Sulfuric acid. Saltpeter. Alcohol. And mold. Lots of mold.
The "acclimatization week" had just begun. And I had a lot of work to do.
The Alchemist's District of the capital smelled of failure. To the untrained nose, it smelled of "mystery"—a mix of cheap incense, burnt sulfur, and rotting exotic herbs. To me, it smelled of lack of ventilation, uncontrolled oxidation, and wasted chemical reactions.
I walked among the stalls with my coin purse, thinking of the severance pay the Duke had thrown at me weighing on my belt. Merchants shouted their wares with the fervor of charlatans.
"Unicorn horn dust! Cures impotence!" "Mermaid scales! To breathe underwater!"
My glasses analyzed every product as I passed. Mermaid scale: Fake. It's mica dyed blue. Unicorn dust: Cow bone pulverized with chalk. Calcium carbonate. Useful for heartburn, useless for virility.
The inefficiency of the market was staggering. Magic existed in this world, yes, but the alchemy these men practiced was not science; it was intuitive cooking mixed with superstition. They sought the "Philosopher's Stone" or elixirs of immortality, ignoring the basic principles of stoichiometry.
I entered a shop that looked less theatrical than the others. The sign read: "Master Gricus Supplies - Raw Ingredients."
The interior was dark, cluttered with poorly sealed glass jars. The owner, a man with burn spots on his bald head and yellow-stained fingers, looked at me with disdain upon seeing my noble clothes.
"I don't sell love potions for rich kids to seduce maids," Gricus grunted without looking up from his mortar.
"I do not require aphrodisiacs. Their efficacy is statistically null," I replied, approaching the counter and pulling out a list written in my own angular handwriting. "I require precursors. And I hope their purity is superior to your hospitality."
Gricus snorted, taking the paper. He read the first items and frowned.
"Oil of Vitriol? Concentrated wine? Raw saltpeter? Roccella flowers?" He looked at me, confused. "This is garbage. Oil of Vitriol is corrosive, only useful for cleaning metals or torture. Saltpeter is for preserving cheap meat. And Roccella is for dyeing monk robes. What kind of 'noble' are you? Are you opening a laundry?"
"The nature of my enterprise does not concern you," I said coldly. "Do you have the supplies, or must I seek a competent supplier?"
The alchemist's pride flared.
"I have the supplies. But the Oil of Vitriol is dangerous. If you burn your pretty face off, I don't want your father breaking down my door."
"I am aware of the exothermic properties of sulfuric acid dissolution," I interrupted, placing a bag of gold on the table. The sound of heavy metal cut off his protest. "I want three carboys of borosilicate glass, if you have it or know what it is. If not, thick clay-coated glass. And I want all the bread mold you have in your garbage bin."
Gricus paused. "Mold?"
"Green or bluish. If not, simply whatever grows on damp rye bread."
The alchemist looked at me as if I were insane.
"I'll charge you for the jars and chemicals. You can take the mold for free if you scrape it out of the back trash yourself. You're demented, boy."
"Insanity is repeating the same process expecting different results," I muttered to myself, checking the clarity of the alcohol he placed before me. "I am introducing new variables."
I left the shop half an hour later. My load was heavy, but my mental inventory was complete. I had sulfuric acid. I had high-purity ethanol. I had potassium nitrate. And I had lichens containing litmus.
To Gricus, I had bought cleaning supplies and trash. To me, I had the components for a basic chemical analysis lab, a low-power explosive, and a broad-spectrum antibiotic in the cultivation phase.
Total cost: 15 gold coins. Real value: Incalculable.
For the next five days, the Herforst mansion saw little of me.
I locked myself in my room. Servants left trays of food at the door and retreated quickly, frightened by the acrid smells seeping through the crack. I heard their whispers in the hallway.
"He's gone mad with fear." "They say he's drinking poison." "He's trying to do witchcraft so the Duke will forgive him."
I ignored the background noise. My attention was focused on the table in my room, which I had cleared of useless ornaments and converted into a sterile workstation (or as sterile as alcohol and fire would allow).
Day 2: Indicator Synthesis. Crushing the Roccella lichens in the mortar, I extracted the dye. I mixed it with an ethanol and water solution. Then, I cut strips of parchment paper and soaked them in the solution. Upon drying, I had litmus paper strips. Test: Dipped a strip in vinegar. Turned red. Dipped it in an ash and water solution. Turned blue.
"Arsenic detector is ready," I noted in my mental notebook. Arsenic in water often alters pH and reacts with certain precipitates I could prepare in situ.
Day 4: Gear Modification. My noble clothing was inadequate. Silk, velvet, lace... death traps in a lab or on a battlefield. They snag, burn fast, and offer no protection from cold or cuts. I took my sturdiest traveling coat. It was high-quality wool, cream-colored. Using a dilute solution of tannins and iron oxide (rusty nails in vinegar), I dyed the fabric. The chemical reaction darkened the wool to a charcoal gray, almost black—a practical color that would hide oil, blood, or reagent stains. I cut off the puffy sleeves. I sewed leather strips from an old belt across the chest to create a harness. I needed quick access to my vials. In a combat situation, the difference between life and death is the time it takes to draw the acid. 0.5 seconds is acceptable. 2 seconds is lethal.
I looked in the mirror. I no longer looked like a noble. I looked like a militarized industrial operator.
Day 6: Biological Culture. The improvised Petri dishes (tea saucers covered with glass) showed the cottony growth of the mold.
"Penicillium notatum," I whispered, observing the hyphae with my magnifying glass. "Still insufficient for mass extraction, but it is the seed. If I can maintain stable temperature during the journey, I will arrive at Blackwood with the capacity to cure infections that local clerics consider 'divine judgments'."
I packed everything with obsessive care. Every vial wrapped in wool. Every instrument calibrated and secured.
That night, I slept four hours. Deep REM phase. Maximum efficiency.
The dawn of the seventh day was gray. Appropriate.
I descended the main stairs in my new dark gray coat, reinforced riding boots, and glasses reflecting the dim morning light. I carried my own luggage. I did not allow any servant to touch the wooden box containing the portable lab.
In the courtyard, the carriage waited. It was a sturdy vehicle, but old. Another subtle message from my father. I won't waste good carriages on you.
The servants were lined up. Not to bid me farewell, but to ensure I left.
I looked for Reinhard. He wasn't there. I looked for my brothers. Neither were they. Not even a formal goodbye. It was a clean amputation.
The coachman, a burly man named Hannes who seemed to smell of gin even at this hour, looked me up and down. His gaze stopped on my strange attire and the empty leather harness on my chest (the vials were stored for safety).
"Is it some kind of costume, Master Silas?" Hannes asked with a smirk. "Are we going to a masquerade ball instead of the north?"
I climbed into the carriage, placing the chemical box beside me and securing it with straps. I sat down and looked at Hannes through the open window.
"Hannes, what is the mortality rate on the road to Blackwood due to bandits and beasts?" I asked.
The coachman blinked, his mocking smile faltering. "Uh... they say one in three carriages doesn't make it. Why? Are you scared?"
"Fear, no. Statistics," I replied, pulling out a pocket watch. "One in three. That means your survival depends entirely on my ability to alter those odds. I suggest you drive smoothly. If my jars break, what's inside will dissolve the flesh from your bones before you can scream."
Hannes paled. He looked at the wooden box with new terror.
"Drive," I ordered.
The whip cracked. Wheels crunched over cobblestones. The Herforst mansion began to recede. I saw the window of my father's office. A curtain moved slightly. Maybe he was watching. Maybe not. It didn't matter.
I pulled out my notebook and opened a new page. Project Title: Blackwood Dominion. Primary Objective: Survival. Secondary Objective: Total Industrialization.
I wrote the first entry as the capital disappeared behind us: "Phase 1 complete. Asset acquisition successful. Phase 2 Start: The Journey. Estimated arrival time: 3 weeks. Conflict probability: 85%."
I adjusted my glasses and looked at the horizon. The world was inefficient, barbaric, and cruel. Perfect. I was eager to fix it.
The journey took twenty-one days. Combat events recorded: Zero. Interruptions by predators: Zero.
According to my risk calculations, based on merchant guild reports, we should have been intercepted at least twice. The absence of hostility did not reassure me; on the contrary, it corroborated my most pessimistic hypothesis regarding the economic value of my new domain.
Bandits are rational economic agents. They do not raid caravans heading to a graveyard. If no one attacked us, it is because they know there is nothing to steal in Blackwood, not even hope.
I used the downtime to optimize my gear. I calibrated my lens focus, organized vials by reactivity, and read geology books until I memorized every stratum of the northern range.
On day 22, the air changed. The temperature dropped five degrees in an hour. The smell of pine and wet earth vanished, replaced by a subtle but unmistakable stench: rotten eggs and rusted metal.
"Hydrogen sulfide," I murmured, sniffing the air through the window. "And... ferrous earth? No, it's dried blood."
The carriage stopped with a screech of poorly greased brakes.
Hannes, the coachman, banged on the roof.
"We've arrived, Master Silas! Blackwood Dominion!" His voice trembled. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to turn the horses around and flee.
I opened the door and stepped down. My new boots, reinforced with boiled leather soles, crunched on the dirty snow.
What I saw was not a fortress; it was an architectural autopsy.
Castle Blackwood stood against a lead-gray sky. The outer walls showed severe structural cracks caused by unmaintained freeze-thaw cycles. The village, a cluster of wood and mud huts huddled around the fortress, looked like a tumor clinging to a bone.
But the most alarming thing was not the buildings, but the "biological assets." The people.
There was no commercial activity. No children running. Only hunched figures, wrapped in gray rags, moving with the slowness of hypothermia or malnutrition.
A group of guards approached. Their armor was rusted. Their eyes, sunken.
The leader, a bearded man who seemed to stay standing only due to the rigidity of his chainmail, looked at me without recognition.
"Turn the carriage around," the guard said with a raspy voice. "We don't accept visitors here. We are under quarantine. The Demon's Curse is at its peak."
I adjusted my glasses. The reflection hid my eyes.
"I am not a visitor. I am the new Regent. Silas Herforst."
The guard blinked slowly, processing the information with a clearly hypoxic brain.
"Herforst? The fourth son?" He let out a dry laugh that ended in a coughing fit. "They sent us a boy to die with us. The Duke has a macabre sense of humor."
"Captain," I said, ignoring his lack of discipline. "Situation report. Casualties?"
"Thirty dead this month. Fifty the last." He spat dark phlegm onto the ground. "Black skin. Vomiting. The Demon rots us from the inside. The priests say it is punishment for our sins, but not even holy water works."
"Sin is a non-quantifiable variable," I said, walking past him toward the central village square. "Pathology, however, leaves physical traces."
"What are you talking about?"
Ignoring that last part, I walked toward them. The guards stepped back instinctively, not out of respect, but out of fear of infecting me.
In the center of the square, around a stone well, several villagers lay on blankets. They groaned under the snow that was beginning to fall.
I approached the nearest subject. Male. Approximately 40 years old, though he looked 70.
"Don't touch him, my Lord!" the Captain shouted behind me. "His skin will slough off!"
I ignored the warning. I crouched beside the man. I pulled fine leather gloves from my pocket, which I had treated with wax to make them waterproof. I put them on with precise movements.
"Open your mouth," I ordered.
The man looked at me with terror, but obeyed weakly.
A smell of rancid garlic hit my face. Data 1: Aliaceous breath.
I took his hand. The skin of the palm was not soft. It was thickened, hard as a shoe sole, with dark, cracked warts. Data 2: Severe palmoplantar hyperkeratosis.
I examined his fingernails. White transverse bands crossed every nail on his dirty fingers. Data 3: Mees' lines.
I stood up. I removed the gloves and slapped them against my thigh to clean off the snow. The equation was solved. I didn't need divination magic. I needed a periodic table.
I looked at the well. It was the only visible water source. The structure was ancient, likely connected to a deep aquifer running down from the mining mountain.
"Captain," I called out without turning around.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"That well. Is it the only source of potable water?"
"Yes. The river water tastes like dirt. This is the clearest water we have. Crystalline."
"'Crystalline' does not mean 'pure'," I corrected. "Cyanide is also crystalline. Bring me a bucket of that water. Now."
While a soldier ran for the bucket, I reached into my harness.
I needed to confirm the hypothesis before this audience. Science, to be accepted by superstitious minds, must often disguise itself as spectacle.
"Do you have eggs in the pantries?" I asked.
The Captain looked at me as if I had grown a second head. "Eggs? People are dying of hunger and you want..."
"Rotten eggs. The ones you were going to throw away. I need one."
Five minutes later, I had the components on an improvised table I had brought to the square:
A glass jar with the "crystalline" water from the well.
A rotten egg reeking of sulfur.
My vial of "Sulfuric Acid" from the travel kit.
People had gathered. They murmured. They saw the "Useless Lord" playing with trash while they died.
"Observe," I said, raising my voice to resonate in the cold square. "It is said that this is a curse. That it is a demon attacking you."
I held up the glass of water. It looked innocent. Pure.
"I say our enemy is not spiritual. It is mineral."
With a quick movement, I broke the rotten egg and dropped part of the black, sulfurous yolk into the water. Then, I uncorked the acid vial.
"If the water is pure, nothing will happen. If the water contains the poison I suspect... the demon will reveal itself."
I poured three drops of sulfuric acid into the mixture.
The reaction was not an explosion; it was a transmutation.
The acid acidified the medium. The hydrogen sulfide from the egg reacted with the ions dissolved in the water.
Before the astonished eyes of the soldiers and peasants, the transparent water clouded instantly. A solid precipitate, of a brilliant yellow color, began to form and fall to the bottom of the glass like toxic snowflakes.
The silence in the square was absolute. The yellow color was unnatural, sickly.
"It's demon bile!" an old woman screamed, backing away.
I held up the glass, illuminated by the gray afternoon light. The yellow glowed with lethal intensity.
"It is not bile," I said, my voice cold and cutting like the north wind.
I threw the glass to the ground. It shattered, staining the snow yellow.
"Someone, upstream, has been digging into mineral veins and washing their tailings into our aquifer. You have been drinking mine waste for years. You have been mummifying yourselves while still alive."
I turned to the Captain, who stared at the yellow stain with horror. He no longer saw me as a pampered child. He saw me as a warlock who had forced the water to confess its sin.
"Seal the well. No one drinks from there under penalty of death."
"But... what will we drink?" the Captain stammered. "We'll die of thirst!"
I smiled. A smile without warmth, purely technical.
"You will not die. Water can be filtered. Bring me barrels, sand, charcoal, and all the wood you have."
"We are going to build an adsorption treatment plant."
I adjusted my coat.
That night, I didn't sleep in the Lord's chambers.
I slept in the study, surrounded by old blueprints of the fortress I found covered in dust.
On the table, a task list:
Water Solution: Activated Carbon Filter (Absolute Priority).
Poison Source: Locate the illegal mine upstream.
Defense: If there is a mine, someone is exploiting it. And they won't like me closing their drain.
I looked out the window toward the darkness of the mountains.
The quiet journey had been a deception. The war had already begun, only no one had fired the first arrow yet.
"Whoever they are," I whispered to the cold glass, "they just made a calculation error. They killed the peasants of the old Silas. But now the territory is mine."
I took a quill and wrote in the margin of the blueprint: Probability of imminent armed conflict: 100%.
I took off my glasses, cleaned them, and set them on the desk.
Death had brought me to hell. Good. I was going to install air conditioning.
The sun the next day brought no heat, only a gray light illuminating the disaster.
I woke up in the study before dawn. My internal biological clock, calibrated over decades of rotating shifts in chemical plants, remained more accurate than any medieval sundial.
I reviewed my notes from the previous night. The plan was solid in theory, but execution depended on a workforce debilitated by years of arsenic poisoning and malnutrition.
Human Resources Status: Morale: Critical. Physical strength: 40% of optimal capacity. Trust in leadership: Null. They see me as a mad warlock who just banned water.
I went out to the courtyard. The cold air bit my face. The Captain of the guard (I read in a report his name was Kael, a 45-year-old veteran who looked 60) was arguing with a group of women holding empty pitchers.
"My children are crying of thirst!" a woman shouted. "The Lord has sealed the well!"
"What do you want me to do? Give you horse urine?" Kael responded, desperate.
Kael saw me approaching. His relief was palpable, but so was his fear.
"My Lord... the people. There is no water for porridge. No water to drink. If we don't open the well by noon, there will be riots. Or deaths by dehydration tomorrow."
I adjusted my leather gloves.
"Panic consumes oxygen and energy unnecessarily, Captain Kael. Severe dehydration takes three days to kill an adult at rest. We have 48 hours to implement a solution."
I addressed the crowd. I didn't shout, but I projected my voice with the authority of someone who has directed industrial evacuations.
"Listen. The well water is slow poison. If you drink today, you die next month. My job is to ensure you live until next year."
I pointed to a collapsed warehouse near the east wall.
"I need wood. Lots of wood. Pine, oak, whatever isn't rotten."
I pointed to the frozen river outside the walls.
"I need sand. Fine sand from the bank and coarser gravel from the riverbed."
"What for?" Kael asked, confused. "Are we going to build a sandcastle while we die of thirst?"
I shot him a cold look through my glasses.
"We are going to build an artificial kidney for this fortress. Captain, divide the able-bodied men into two teams. Team A: Wood collection. Team B: Aggregate collection. I want them working in ten minutes. He who does not work, shall not drink."
The threat worked. The bureaucracy of fear is effective.
The first step was charcoal. Not the charcoal used for cooking, which was incomplete and dirty combustion. I needed almost pure carbon.
I supervised Team A in the backyard of the abandoned smithy. They had brought pine logs.
"Stack them here. In a conical pyramid shape," I ordered.
When they finished, I looked at them.
"Now, cover everything with dirt and damp sod. Leave only a small hole at the base to light it and another small one at the top for the smoke."
"Cover it?" asked a young soldier, his hands full of blisters. "How is it going to burn if we bury it?"
"That is the point, idiot. I don't want it to burn. I want it to cook."
Internal explanation: If I burn wood with oxygen, I get ash (useless minerals). If I heat wood without oxygen (pyrolysis), volatile compounds like water and tar evaporate, leaving behind a pure, porous carbon structure. That is high-quality charcoal.
We lit the base. Dense white smoke began to pour from the top chimney.
"Keep that smoke white. If it turns blue or transparent, it means too much air is entering and burning the carbon. Plug the holes if that happens."
I left them watching the "charcoal kiln" and went to the smithy.
Normal charcoal is a mediocre filter. Its pores are clogged with residual tars. For it to trap arsenic at a molecular level, I needed to "activate" it. Increase its internal surface area.
In my previous world, I would use phosphoric acid or zinc chloride at 600°C. Here, I didn't have those luxuries. I had to use the physical method: high-temperature steam.
The smithy was cold, the bellows broken.
"Captain Kael. I need this forge working. And I need the biggest iron cauldron you have in the kitchens. And a lid for it. A heavy lid."
Kael, seeing me move with terrifying determination, obeyed without question. Within an hour, the forge was roaring (I had repaired the bellows myself with a piece of leather from my own luggage, to his astonishment) and a giant cauldron of water was boiling over it.
When the first batch of charcoal was ready, I pulled out the black, shiny chunks, still hot. I put them in a metal basket and placed them inside the cauldron, just above the boiling water level, and closed the heavy lid, sealing it with wet rags and placing stones on top.
"Fire to maximum!" I ordered.
The water turned into pressurized steam inside the cauldron. The superheated steam was bombarding the charcoal, cleaning its pores, opening a microscopic network of tunnels capable of trapping toxins.
The cauldron began to vibrate. It whistled dangerously. The soldiers stepped back, fearing an explosion. I stayed close, watching the non-existent pressure gauge in my head, calculating the pressure by the sound of the stressed metal.
"It is... dark alchemy," Kael murmured, crossing himself.
"It is applied thermodynamics, Captain. And it is what is going to save the village's life."
Noon. The sun was at its zenith, but the cold remained intense. People crowded the courtyard, staring at the strange structure I had ordered built.
We had taken three empty wine barrels. We removed the lids and bottoms, and stacked them one on top of the other, creating a wooden tower nearly three meters high, supported by precarious scaffolding. at the base of the tower, the last barrel had a small brass spigot I had cannibalized from the Duke's cellar before leaving.
I was at the top of a ladder, supervising the filling of the layers.
"Bottom layer: Coarse gravel. Twenty centimeters," I ordered. Team B poured the river stones. Function: Support and drainage.
"Second layer: Washed fine sand. Thirty centimeters." They poured the sand. Function: Physical filtration of sediments and large parasites.
"Third layer..." I paused. The soldiers brought the "activated" charcoal we had taken from the cauldron. Now it was cold, dry, black as night, and strangely light. "...The Charcoal. Fifty centimeters."
They poured it. Black dust rose. Function: Chemical adsorption. Arsenic and heavy metals will be trapped in the micropores of the carbon via Van der Waals forces.
"Top layer: More fine sand and a linen cloth so the water doesn't disturb the charcoal when falling."
We finished. The tower of barrels stood in the middle of the square like a strange, ugly totem. Below, people murmured. They were thirsty. They had been working for hours without drinking.
"Captain Kael," I said, climbing down the ladder and wiping charcoal dust from my gray coat. "Bring water from the well."
Kael hesitated. He had seen the water turn yellow yesterday.
"My Lord... are you sure? If we pour that poison in there..."
"Do it."
Kael ordered two men to bring buckets of the "crystalline" but poisonous water from the sealed well. They climbed the ladder with effort and poured the dirty water into the top of the barrel tower.
The water disappeared into the sand and charcoal. We waited.
One minute. Two minutes. The silence in the square was absolute, broken only by the freezing wind. People stared at the small brass spigot at the base of the tower.
"It doesn't work," someone whispered.
"Gravity is a constant, have patience," I said, without taking my eyes off the spigot.
And then, it happened. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Drops began to exit the spigot. Then, a steady stream. The water fell into a clean wooden bucket I had placed underneath.
The water wasn't yellow. It wasn't cloudy. It was perfectly transparent. Clearer than it had ever been in the river.
A murmur of astonishment ran through the crowd.
"It's a miracle!" shouted the same old woman from yesterday.
"No," I corrected quietly. "It is a multilayer adsorption filter."
The bucket filled. Kael took it, his hands shaking. He looked at the water, then looked at me. No one dared to drink. They still remembered the yellow poison.
I understood the problem. It wasn't a technical problem. It was a leadership problem. They had to trust my design.
"Give me that." I took the bucket from Kael.
I took a metal ladle. I filled it with the freshly filtered water. I held it up for all to see. The gray light of the sky passed through it without obstruction.
My mind analyzed the risks. Probability of charcoal filter failure on the first pass: Low. Arsenic should be reduced by 95-99%. Probability of bacterial infection from poorly washed sand: Medium. But not lethal in the short term. Calculated risk: Acceptable.
I brought the ladle to my lips and drank. The water was freezing. It tasted slightly earthy and charcoal-like, but it didn't have the metallic aftertaste of the poison.
I swallowed. I waited five seconds. No cramps. No immediate nausea.
I lowered the ladle and looked at the crowd, who were holding their breath. I adjusted my glasses with a gloved finger.
"It is functional," I declared coldly. "Captain, organize a line. Women and children first. Rationing of one liter per person until we increase production."
The square erupted. Not in cheers, but in a chaos of people running toward the buckets with animal desperation. Kael had to use force to establish order.
I stepped away from the tumult, watching my primitive machine save these people. I didn't feel paternal pride. I felt the satisfaction of an engineer seeing an equation balance in reality.
I looked toward the distant mountains, toward the source of the river.
We had resolved the symptom. Now I had to excise the cause.
"Enjoy the water," I whispered to myself. "Because soon we will need blood."