Steel and Mana

Chapter 382 – Winter in Avalon (2)

It was a sunny morning, but it didn't mean it was a warm one. Being winter, the weather never really let the chill disappear. It just wasn't cloudy enough to start snowing again. Yet. However, inside the homes of the Avalonians, it was as if summer had never left. Something that the visiting leaders of the western kingdoms experienced for the very first time, awed by it. They quickly discovered the pipes running along the walls; some even touched them, just to realize it was not the best idea with how hot they were. Still, it was a discovery that made them excited and drove them to use their remaining free days to explore the city until the pronounced meeting.

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Attila I, with his general in tow, walked down one of the broad, clean streets, watching as the people walked at a leisurely pace, something that shouldn't be the case in the winter. Most should spend their day in their homes, he thought. Enjoying the warmness of it. Yet, in here, life didn't stop. It went on without a hitch. He could sense a certain drive and unity in the people of Avalon, unlike in his own. Not that he had much experience walking his own country's streets like he was doing now.

"I don't even know what I inherited..." he muttered, looking around, sometimes nodding at the people who politely greeted them as they walked by. Yet none of them bowed. Maybe they didn't realize he was a visiting Emperor. Perhaps they did and just didn't care. No matter which it was, Attila didn't mind it at all. Instead, he realized a failure in Geth's current rulings. “I will bring this home, " he said to himself and to Albert.

As for what it was, his general didn't know, furrowing his brows, but Attila was visibly determined. He knew that he would need to connect with his own people... Only then will he become an actual emperor who will be able to sit on his throne for a long time?

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When Damar was offered a tour of the city by Avalonian guides, he refused the escort. He needed no chaperone to witness the city. He wanted to walk on his own and not on a predetermined, fake facade. To his surprise, he was simply told... to feel free to wander the city.

So he did.

It didn't take long to realize the city was... nothing like what he had imagined. It was worse. Its people, these 'citizens,' were daring to dress so distinctly... wearing clothes that were wasted on them! Were they trying to imitate nobles despite coming from a serf's bloodline?! He already witnessed clothing shops bearing the sign of 'DA,' which he learned was the shortening of Dorian Arbuckle. Asking about it, he was just a common tailor, nothing more...

Yet his clothes were everywhere, and when he walked into one shop, touching a displayed coat, something called a top hat, and a fine pair of trousers... He wanted to curse. Its quality was on par with his ceremonial robes.

Walking out of the shop with a sneer, he stopped before a streetlamp as it flickered to life, its bulb glowing without flame. They enjoy the gift from the Gods... yet acting oblivious to the fact?

They are still just barbarians, no matter how well they dress.

Walking forward, passing by a bookstore’s window, which displayed volumes on so-called chemistry, electricity, and basic knowledge—all quoting this... Sovereign. Leon... He has refused to meet them so far; only his Prime Minister has welcomed them, saying that Leon will come and visit when the time is right.

“False knowledge,” he muttered. “From a false prophet.”

Now... Where were his agents? His disciples? He expected them to make contact, but... so far, they didn't. It was not that he blamed them; they had to be careful. And he had to be patient. But he had seen enough... it was best if he just returned to his lodging and kept his disciples close at hand. What he didn't want to admit to himself was that he began worrying... worrying that their young minds may be swayed away from the Gods' light.

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Nuen Roblesia IX sat at a sidewalk café, her guards hovering around her like bees around their queen. She wore a newly bought lace hat, a velvet cloak, and warm, freshly made clothing, all she chose while strolling around town. Unlike the High Cardinal, she was captured by the city's offerings, barely stopping herself from buying everything she saw. The self-heating kettle before her clicked softly as it kept her tea scalding hot, a perfect company in this cold winter while she watched the city with the amusement of a cat observing a captivating scenery.

“I find it... charming,” she said, lifting the cup to her lips. The tea was sweet, with a flavor matching the aura of this city.

“It is very different.” The king, her husband, agreed, sitting next to her, sipping on coffee with a little bit of kick added to it. The owner inside called it an 'Irish coffee' although he didn't know what an Irish was. Probably the name of the drink he added to it... however, it was indeed a brilliant idea.

As they sat there, they watched as a woman in oil-stained trousers and brass goggles argued with a tram operator, jabbing a finger at the timetable clutched in her hand, just at the other end of the street. The operator threw up his arms in surrender, and the woman boarded with a victorious smirk. What was that about? None of the two could tell, but it was like watching a play in a theater. It was captivating, hearing the tram's bell ring and go on its merry way without puffing out smoke like the big trains.

Nuen already knew Avalon was selling their trains because they had its next evolution. It was evident from what she was seeing... and she didn't mind. Not at all, because she would do it the same way.

"Khm..." Her personal scribe hesitated. “Your Majesty finds such impertinence… acceptable?”

"Oh yes," The queen’s smile deepened, looking at the young woman standing close by. “There’s a kind of revolution in the air here. We ought to take notes and prepare because it can infect our people the same way.” She set down her cup, watching as a group of students—boys and girls alike—poured over their homework at the next table, their voices sharp with debate.

“I think I like it.” Her husband mused, maybe talking about the coffee he was still drinking. Maybe not.

"Yes, dear." Nuen nodded her head, "I like it too."

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Ahnud stood on an observation deck inside one of the factories outside of Avalon. When he asked, he was expecting a refusal. Instead, he was given an escort and brought to the 'second city,' where most of Avalon's factories were located. He was told not to try to separate from his guide, and he knew not to risk it. He was instead amazed they even let him go on a supervised tour. At the moment, Avalonian engineers and plant overseers flanked him like counselors, explaining what he was seeing. Below them, workers went back and forth between assembly lines, like ants, creating something that would then be shipped to the other Union members. A newly built train... Maybe even one of his own.

“That boiler,” the overseer on his left said, pointing. “See how it channels waste heat back into the system? That alone could double our output, you see. We were always taught not to waste.”

His scribes scrambled to record every word, but the guide was already moving downwards the stairs. What was surprising was that not even the tall, skull-faced guards around them stopped Ahnud and his people from recording. Following the proud man, Ahnud ignored the wary glances of Avalonian workers around them.

“How many... well, units of pressure can these valves withstand?” Ahnud asked, still unsure of the Avalonian metrics, but that was for later. The answer was what mattered at the moment.

"Excuse me?" the worker there flinched, looking at his overseer, who nodded and allowed him to answer. “Uh—fifteen, sir. But the new models—”

"Fifteen it is." The overseer smiled, making the worker quickly shut his mouth.

Ahnud didn't mind and didn't ask further questions. Instead, he was already inspecting the pistons, measuring the width of the pipes with his eyes, and asking more questions about fuel consumption, maintenance cycles, and failure rates. His scribes trailed behind him, their faces alight with concentration, their fingers moving as fast as possible.

They had to record everything... It was the most critical part of this visit.

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Shi Belse walked through Avalon's Art Gallery, her fur-lined cloak brushing against polished floors. The air smelled of oil and paint, and the walls were lined with paintings of men who supposedly all played a role in building up Avalon. More than that... they were commoners. And still alive... none of which really mattered, as she was more amused than opposed to the idea.

She stopped before a massive canvas—a young-looking man standing amidst his creations, his face smudged with soot, his eyes alight with triumph. There was no crown, no scepter, just steel and fire and creations that reminded Shi of... toys.

“How does one rule such a place?” she murmured, asking herself with wonder.

Even without an answer, she thought that she was starting to understand somehow. A few hours earlier, she was within Avalon's University, allowed to linger in the doorway while seminars were happening. She watched students dissect theories with the same precision they applied to mechanical diagrams on the blackboard. One girl, no older than nineteen, slammed her palm on the table as she argued for her own ideas, her voice cutting through the room like a blade, challenging another student's conclusion. Yes, they were feisty... but there was no malice in them. Neither of them... only to strive for the correct results.

Now, back in the gallery, watching the paintings that recorded everyone who ever contributed to Avalon's success, she understood. When people's efforts are rewarded like this, everyone will try their best to become part of it.

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Huren was drunk by noon—gloriously, unabashedly drunk.

He was never one who was good with his nerves, and alcohol always helped soothe them. So, had started in one of the cheapest pubs, traveling from one to the other, acting not as a king of an albeit tiny land but as a simple drunkard. He joined in, sloshing ale onto his sleeves as he bellowed Sprinlandic drinking songs to a crowd that didn’t understand the words but cheered him on anyway.

“Another!” he roared, slamming his tankard on the bar, visiting his seventh pub. The barkeep, a woman with arms thick as ship ropes, smirked and obliged, taking away his money and serving him the best kind of drinks he had ever tasted.

This city was the best, he thought. He danced with girls, their hands calloused but their laughter bright, and recited old poetry to a group of bewildered machinists. One even clapped him on the back hard enough to make him cough.

“You’re mad, mate,” the man chuckled. “But I like you. You are the first noble from a different country that would fit into Avalon pretty well! Cheers!”

"Ahaha, cheers!" Huren laughed, an honest laugh, clanking his tankard with his.

Then, he rode the tram up and down the streets three times, cackling like a child as the city unfolded around him. At one point, he leaned too far over its window, and a guard yanked him back by his coat, almost falling out of it.

“Try not to die before the summit, Your Majesty,” the man muttered, grunting in frustration.

"I won't!" Huren grinned. “This city is alive!” he shouted to the clear sky. “I feel alive here! Gods, I’ve missed this!”

By nightfall, he collapsed into his guest suite, boots still on, a factory manual clutched to his chest like a lover. The last thing he mumbled before sleep took him:

“We could learn from these people. If we’re brave enough...”

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Yvar walked slowly through the so-called Green House gardens, his fingers brushing the leaves of plants he didn’t recognize, healthily blooming in the middle of winter. The air here was warm as if winter was just an illusion.

“This place is… unnatural,” he said, eyeing the walls of the greenhouse that transformed the world the moment he entered it. A gardener nearby, tending nearby, paused, wiping his brow.

“Even to us, it is,” he offered, smiling, "But our Sovereign does have the weirdest ideas that somehow still work. And work without magic."

Yvar said nothing. But when a passing scholar mentioned a lecture on irrigation to a visiting class of children, he followed them.

He walked in the back, notebook open, scribbling furiously as the lecturer spoke of efficiency, of yield, of feeding thousands, wanting to spread greenhouses all over the land of Goldengrove. The numbers he was mentioning were... outrageous... but Yvar believed him.

“Avalon's potential and strength is monstrous,” he whispered, looking at his notes. ”If we could just pinch some of it, for ourselves..."

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President Dai loved the trams. More than the trains that were already spreading across Scorc.

He rode three separate lines end to end, sketching junctions in his notebook, timing arrivals, and counting passengers. After this public demonstration of the power of electricity, it became something that he wanted more than anything.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, though his tone suggested something closer to terrifying.

Just looking at the streets and at his own drawings, he also realized that this city was built, looking ahead into the future. Avalon hadn’t grown—it had been designed. By the locals retelling, the streets were like this from the start. Always wide enough... for the future.

“Leon the Sovereign...” he told his aide. “He knew he would have these city trains when he was just a child... I can't think of what else he planned for while building his city... but I don't think it reached its full potential yet.”

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King Vizsla clung to his bodyguards like a man drowning in water while touring the city.

“This place is unnatural,” he growled, eyeing a passing tram with a drunkard hanging out of its window before being pulled back into the machine's belly.

He refused to enter any building taller than three stories. He recoiled from the bright lamps, buzzing like some kind of beehive. Even the food was suspect. It was winter; how did they have such fresh food? He heard the tale of the ambassador staying at his kingdom. But he thought that Bastian Zimmermann was simply boasting to sell it... No. He was underselling it all.

But as dusk fell, his nerves getting used to the city, he paused by a puppet theater at one of the squares. The show was run by a young man with a wind-up automaton. Its metallic hands moved around, 'fighting' with other steam-powered toys while the mand told a fantastic tale. It was accompanied by children's laughter and their parents' clapping.

No one among them noticed the king of Nonia, just as engrossed in it as the kids standing there, his guards baffled beside him.

Vizsla watched the puppet knight slay the mechanical monster, which was coming to attack again and again.

"I wonder..." He thought, all of a sudden, looking towards the massive mountains looming right behind the city.

Why were they called here? Many of them asked themselves... Many thought it was courtesy. It was showing off... But watching that children's tale, he suddenly had a realization.

No. They were called here to be shown something... Something that came with the winter.