Gray early morning clouds cast a dull shadow over buildings of metal and stone. Illumina lamps shone from behind shuttered windows, their light seeping onto chiseled roads and the unfortunates who had no choice but to call them their home. Refugees crowded the three-way intersection outside Malten’s cathedral as always.

However, today their postures were different. They didn’t sit slumped against alley and building walls under makeshift tents of loose timber beams and leather scraps, nor did they lay curled beneath thin blankets. The homeless and hungry stood in a lengthy line.

Among them was a woman wearing a torn and rumpled tunic. She straightened her head-scarf with one hand and coddled her toddler with the other. A man waited behind her. He clutched his weathered rucksack while his eyes devoured an array of freshly baked loaves of bread, their slightly sweet odor wafting along gentle winds from atop a long table.

Everyone looked different, but their goals were the same—to grab a meal from the Jade Surgeon’s soup kitchen.

Unlike Dimitry expected, no one pushed ahead of the queue or sabotaged the others. The refugees were orderly, patient, and courteous despite surviving on meager handouts and scavenged refuse for days and weeks. Would they remain civilized if the hulking giant Milk didn’t stand guard beside the serving table? It was possible. Most were regular people who once had homes and jobs before mechanical invaders trampled everything they cherished.

Dimitry watched people shuffle forward with a heavy heart. He hoped this city could provide them the solace they sought. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a guaranteed outcome. If the heathens’ numbers continued to increase, if they breached Malten’s walls like they did those of the northern countries, no one would live well. Everything would crumble.

But he wouldn’t sit idly while it happened.

There was a solution: black powder.

Although yesterday’s tests proved that Dimitry had refined the explosive to a state where it damaged heathens, he still had to weaponize it. His cast-iron bombs were useless if they bounced off of their targets without exploding. They were too weak to pierce stone from a distance. The blast would only cause substantial damage if it directly contacted the enemy.

He brainstormed all night in search of a solution implementable within the six remaining days before the night of repentance. While he devised a simple machine that pulverized black powder reagents for faster production and a magic lighter for igniting fuses, his original query remained without an answer.

Dimitry knew there was a fix. An effective one. It was out there somewhere, and it lay within reach. He was close. Yet accumulated mental fatigue demanded he take a break.

Like he did whenever he needed rest but had no time for sleep, Dimitry stood outside the cathedral. He leaned back against a marble pillar, savoring the frosty air flowing through his nostrils. It carried away weariness with every breath. To pass the time, he watched his plan to undermine the Church’s influence over Malten’s people unfold.

A senior lady with a wrinkled face—aged partly in bygone years and the rest through life’s tribulations—stood in front of the line. One of the hospital porters cut her a thick slice of bread and topped it with baked fish. She accepted the gift with trembling hands, bowed, and glanced at Dimitry. “Your generosity is undoubtedly her doing. I’m certain Zera guided you to us. Her blessings be with you.”

Although Dimitry responded with a smile, the elderly woman’s words left him conflicted. He enjoyed helping others. Providing a small beacon of hope for those who had none was why he trained as a doctor. That, however, wasn’t the only benefit. His philanthropic pursuits made the streets safer. If thousands of people across Malten starved simultaneously, they would descend into a frenzy, destabilizing the tiny city with desperate acts of violence. Feeding the hungry benefited everyone.

But Dimitry’s long-term goals weren’t as virtuous as they appeared. They were more manipulative than anyone knew and more devious than he thought himself capable of.

Like rats conditioned to pull a lever for a dopamine rush, he needed Malten’s populace to associate his cathedral with good deeds. The first step was giving the needy food. Once they bought into his outward kindness, he would make them listen to sermons before receiving more. Dimitry would espouse Zera’s teachings, altering them to his own needs as necessary, gorging his listeners with meals and propaganda.

As his influence grew, so would his power. Power that allowed him easy access to steadfast workers eager to collect resources and soldiers willing to wield his weapons against heathens. Enabled him to improve the city’s relationship with aquatic demons. Made resisting the Church easier if they ever returned.

Logically, his actions helped everyone by keeping Malten stable, but that did nothing to assuage the darkness festering in Dimitry’s gut. It sent a shiver colder than any winter chill down his spine.

He glanced up at a gray and dark morning sky. It trudged overhead, no sun in sight.

Although Dimitry was an asshole in his youth, he never resorted to manipulation of this scale. Did this world make him that way? Perhaps it was a part of him that lay dormant until a crisis coaxed it to the surface.

It didn’t matter.

Dimitry intended to keep himself and those around him alive. If underhanded means accomplished that, he would use them as necessary. Besides, unlike the Church, he wouldn’t discriminate against believers by gender or demand they give up their children. Perhaps Dimitry was simply the lesser evil.

Contemplating his morality, he watched the soup kitchen line move forward until the sound of two massive granite doors creaked open behind him.

A woman with dark blue hair and downcast eyes passed through them. It was Claricia—Dimitry’s stock manager and accountant. She received both roles from Dimitry after demonstrating her skills as a math-literate librarian. Her simultaneous command over multiple languages, diverse information, and basic computational abilities was rare amongst a mostly uneducated populace.

She bowed.

Dimitry cast aside his contemplative stare, ready to deal with the emergency her sudden appearance indicated. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. I’m here to say I’ve prepared the inventory, revenue, and expenditure report like you asked.”

It was a task Dimitry gave her in preparation for the night of repentance, but he didn’t expect her to finish so soon. She didn’t even have any documentation on hand. Was Claricia a talented worker or just hasty? “Are you sure you’re done already?”

“I’ve checked twice overnight and again this morning. The numbers are accurate.”

“And you confirmed the chemistry lab’s stock as well?”

She nodded.

Although Dimitry wasn’t sure what to believe, the results of her efforts intrigued him. “Alright. I’m listening.”

Claricia’s mopey gaze traveled across refugees waiting in a neat line. “Out here?”

“I’d prefer to stand in the wind a little longer. That is, as long as the cold doesn’t bother you.”

“N-no, nothing like that. It’s just that there are other people here.”

“It’s fine.” Dimitry smiled. “There’s nothing sensitive in your report. Besides, it’s not like you yell when you speak. No one will hear us from all the way over here.”

“Very well.” Claricia brushed her dark blue hair behind her ear. “Should I start with the inventory?”

“Whatever’s comfortable for you.”

Her eyes traveled upward as if reading a logbook only she could see. “I made sure that most of our supplies will last several days past the night of repentance as you requested. The only resource I’m worried about is black powder. Clewin said he and his apprentices won’t have enough time to process all of it. At their current rate, they won’t have more than a third finished before then.”

Dimitry was aware of the issue with hand-grinding reagents. Not only would the process eventually inflict his employees with repetitive stress injuries, but it was also slow and inefficient. He already had a fix planned. “I’ll handle it. Anything else?”

“Well, I’m not sure if it’s a problem, but…”

“But?”

“A few jugs of alcohol have gone missing from the storage room. While it’s not a lot, and we have more than enough, it’s disappearing little by little. I wasn’t sure if it was you using them or not.”

Missing alcohol stock? Was someone drinking it? Dimitry hoped not. Distilling ale wasn’t cheap, and he didn’t have time to deal with drunk employees. “That’s very perceptive of you to notice. I’ll look into it.”

“Now, I’ll do expenditures and revenue.” Her expression grew regretful.

“Your face tells me it’s not looking too good.”

She shook her head. “You’re operating at an enormous loss.”

Building a hospital and supplying a laboratory wasn’t cheap. However, investing well now earned Dimitry more money later. “That’s inevitable for the time being.”

“The firewood and cooking tools you purchased for the kitchen cost more than the hospital made in the past two days.”

“Right.”

“We had to re-enchant an incendia blanket and two distillation apparatuses with freezia for six golds. That’s with the Vogel family’s discount. The preservia bedclothes are still fine, but having those re-enchanted as well could cost—”

“They won’t be a problem,” Dimitry said. “We will be getting rid of most of them soon, anyway. Even with all the arriving refugees, plague cases are decreasing.”

“So it seems, but are you sure it’ll stay that way?”

Dimitry nodded. “The fewer plague victims there are, the slower it’ll spread. Especially now that some people have developed an immunity to the bacteria.”

Although there was confusion in Claricia’s eyes, she didn’t argue his point. “I also inquired at the carpenter and blacksmith. They said it’ll cost nearly twenty golds for the oak beds and the two carts you asked for. And that… portable latrine will cost extra because they’ve never seen one before.”

The furniture was necessary to furnish a hospital luxurious enough for a well-doing noble to consider visiting for common illnesses. Most patients slept on straw mattresses or sometimes on the floor. As for the cart and portable latrine, Dimitry needed them to collect and transport waste matter for his nitrate synthesizing plant. “Confirm the orders.”

“What?”

“Tell the craftsmen we want all of it.”

“F-for over twenty golds? That’s more than enough to buy a house within Volmer’s walls. If Clewin and I lived there, we would’ve never—” She lowered her escalating voice until it regained its monotonous tone. “Surely, it is wise to reconsider?”

“I understand your concerns,” Dimitry said, “but I’m still going to ask you to continue as planned.”

Claricia’s gaze fixed on a woman who reached the front of the soup kitchen line, a toddler’s hand in hers. “I know it isn’t my place to tell you how to use your coin, but if the hospital closes from poorly applied funds, my husband and I will end up on the streets again.”

She looked back at him. “Please. Don’t get me wrong. I respect everything you’re doing for the refugees, and I wish there were people more like you, but it’ll be for nothing if you don’t mind your expenditures. It’s best to err on the side of caution.”

Dimitry stroked his chin. Claricia usually stayed silent: this was the first time she showed her argumentative side. But that was precisely what he needed—an earnest person who probed his decisions for errors. He was just one man prone to making mistakes like anyone else, and a yes-man accountant who agreed to everything he said would only worsen matters. Although Claricia was short-sighted, her judgment would improve with experience.

“Claricia.”

“I apologize if I overspoke.” She bowed lower than before, her dark blue hair falling to the cathedral steps. “Ignore what I said if you wish.”

“On the contrary, I want you to do what you did just now more often. Never hold back your opinions from me. I’ll explain the exact reasons for my investments later, but for now, understand that they are meant to keep the city stable. The biggest priority is fighting heathens. If the city crumbles because of them, no amount of money will be enough to keep the cathedral afloat. That’s where I spent most of my funds.”

“Do you refer to the bomb you developed?”

Dimitry’s brow furrowed. He had ordered the few people involved in his bomb project to keep the weapon a secret before production began. With displeased nobles, an ailing populace, and potential Church spies lurking about, secrecy was vital. It was one of several measures he implemented to limit the chance of others sabotaging his research. The ease with which someone attacked his lab the other day exemplified its importance.

He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You know about bombs?”

“Clewin talked about it all last night. He told me that even he could kill a heathen if he used one.” Claricia stepped closer, uncharacteristic fury in her eyes. “Is it true?”

Of course the chemist would divulge sensitive information to his wife during pillow talk. “Don’t get too excited. There’s still a lot of work to be done before bombs deserve the praise your husband gave them. I’m still trying to figure out how to make them useful.”

“Is that why you paced the eastern third-floor hallway all last night?”

Dimitry pushed off the pillar he leaned back against. “You saw that?”

“My apologies.” Claricia bowed. “I usually try not to mention it.”

Wait. Did that mean it wasn’t the first time? What else did she see? As the miraculous Jade Surgeon, Dimitry had an image to maintain. “Do me a favor: don’t tell anyone. About that, bombs, or anything else that might seem strange.”

“U-understood.” Her cheeks blushed. “But if I can speak frankly, I don’t mind your bouts of pondering. It makes me feel that you’re doing everything in your power to lead us. It’s comforting.”

Black speckled granite comprised the altar room’s walls, floors, and ceiling. This chamber resembled most others on the cathedral’s upper floors, except for one difference. In place of howling winter winds surging frigid air through squeaking oak planks, only cool and stale air drifted within. There weren’t any windows or furniture. Even the pews that once populated the space were gone. Dimitry guessed they sat four dozen at some point, but thieves stole most of them long ago only for his porters to dispose of the broken ones that remained.

At the end of the narrow room was a gray statue of a woman holding a cane to the ceiling—that of Celeste, a woman Zerans revered as their spiritual guide. Dimitry considered hauling her away as well, but she stood embedded in the floor. Removing her was too much work. There was already enough space to turn this room into a greenhouse.

More than a hundred clay pots full of soil lined two long walls. A young farmer with calloused hands knelt beside one, planting a wooden trellis into its center. He equipped it to grow samul—a bean native to this world and the first crop that would take part in magically assisted genetic hybridization. Jesco wiped the dirt from his hands onto his pants before reaching for another wooden stake, unaware that he was being watched.

Dimitry cleared his throat.

“Who’s there?” Jesco grabbed the traveling sack beside him as his head shot up. “Dimitry?”

“Why are you so surprised to see me?” He stepped inside. “You’re the one that called me here.”

“Right. Yeah.” The farmer laughed nervously. “You told me to tell ya when I finished setting up, and I think I did. I mean, I set up a few gardens in the village before, but nothing like this. I’m not sure if this is what you wanted.”

Dimitry’s gaze traveled along a chain of interconnected wooden trellises and around the room. Everything appeared ready. As soon as enchantresses arrived to coat the ceiling with illumina, the floors with incendia, and various components with accelall and hastia, it would be ready to produce crops capable of feeding an entire kingdom with a fragment of the land and labor they currently require. “Looks good. Well done.”

“Thanks.” Jesco scratched the back of his head with dirt packed nails. “Hey, do you remember what ya said before? About making better plants?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot while workin’, but it still don’t make sense.”

“I’d be surprised if it did. It’s a topic few understand—even where I come from.”

“Can ya explain it to me?”

Dimitry walked past Jesco towards the statue of a woman whose blank eyes stared at a granite ceiling. Although he preferred to spend his time planning for the night of repentance, he figured a rudimentary understanding of plant hybridization would make the farmer more dedicated to his work. “Do you know how the same crop can produce different sized fruits?”

“Ya mean like how some wheat grows bigger grains than others?”

“Exactly. If you breed different types of wheat together, you’ll eventually make one that grows even bigger grains. That’s true with every plant.”

“No it’s not.” Jesco stopped packing dirt around a wooden stake. “Back home, we always plant beans from the biggest samul pods from last season. Only some of it grows big. Most of it looks normal or is even smaller than the others.”

What he spoke of was probably the result of randomized pollination, inbreeding, and unseen factors like recessive genes or mutations. The appearance of a sexually reproducing plant didn’t dictate what its offspring would look like. However, even a biological understanding that simple would overwhelm an uneducated medieval farmer. Jesco required a simplified explanation.

Dimitry rested an arm on Celeste’s cold, marble shoulder. “You said you had children, right?”

“Yeah… but what’s that gotta do with anything?”

“Did you ever notice your kids share features with you and your wife?”

Jesco glanced at the ceiling in contemplation, then nodded.

“That happens because we have these things in our bodies called genes. They decide our eye color, our height, and even the lengths of our fingers. When people have kids, each parent randomly gifts some of their genes to their children. If you and your spouse have brown hair, for example, your children likely do as well.”

“Genes? Inside us?” The farmer gazed into his palm as if searching for an escaped chromosome. “Even if what you said is true, what does that hafta do with plants?”

“Just like we have children with a mate, plants pass genes to their offspring, too. By controlling what genes the parents have, we can control what their babies will look like. That’s how we’ll be making bigger crops.”

Jesco frowned. “Are you saying plants have babies with each other?”

“That’s right.”

“But how? They don’t even have a… you know. That.”

“That’s because instead of that, they use pollen to fertilize seeds. It looks like a powder. I’m sure you’ve seen it inside flowers before.”

Jesco’s eyes opened wide as if the universe lay bare its darkest secrets. “So that’s what pollen does. I thought it just made people and dogs sneeze so they don’t attack the stems or roots.”

Dimitry suppressed a laugh. “Pollen as a defense mechanism is a good guess, I suppose.”

“And what are we gonna do? Make ‘em make babies?”

“Yes, but more specifically, we’re going to make them make the babies we want them to make.”

“How?”

It was easier to explain genetic inheritance with a visual demonstration. He pointed at the traveling sack beside Jesco. “Do you still have all the different beans you got from Richter in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Dimitry grabbed the bag and searched through it with a wandering hand.

Inside lay disorganized crude iron tools like rounded scissors and hand-sized shovels. Flaxen strings and wool tufts. Beneath it all was a segmented layer of pouches. They contained seeds of varying shapes and textures. Some were small and coarse, others soft and fleshy.

Then there was a pouch containing something else. Something weird. Something sticky and squishy.

He opened it.

Inside was the same highly adhesive pink slime Dimitry touched several days ago.

His heart skipped a beat.

Dimitry pulled the pouch out of the bag and thrust two fingers inside.

The goop sealed the gap between his digits, rendering their efforts to pull apart ineffective. Last time, he required alcohol to wash the powerful glue from his skin. And he would need to do so again. But he wasn’t angry. Nor was he upset.

He was thrilled.

“W-wait,” Jesco muttered. “You said I can keep it if it don’t hurt no one. Right?”

Dimitry’s breaths grew rapid and heavy. What if he applied the pink slime to his cast-iron grenades? Would they adhere to heathens’ stone carapaces, allowing them to function as remotely detonated sticky bombs when used in tandem with ignia? A powerful adhesive like that would guarantee a critical hit every time. Explosions that delivered full force from point-blank range.

Perfect.

“Jesco.”

The farmer’s eyes trembled. “But you said I can—”

“What is this?”

His teeth audibly chattered. “I… you let me…”

“I don’t know what you’re so afraid of, but if this is useful for what I think it’s useful for, you’ll leave here a happy man.”

“Wha—?”

“I need to know what this slime is called.”

Jesco’s arms curled to his chest. “You promise you won’t tell anyone I had it if I tell you?”

“Tell anyone?” Dimitry grabbed the young man’s shoulder. “I’ll keep your secret to the grave. But you won’t care about that anymore. Your biggest fear will be walking in public with a fat coin purse.”

“Y-you’re gonna pay me?”

“Yes. A lot.”

Hesitant stare fixed to Dimitry, Jesco lowered himself to the granite floor. He sat a while in silence. One of the farmer’s hands shivered on his lap as another ran through his hair. “It’s… it’s lomnent. I made it from crushed and boiled lomn bark skins.”

The word struck Dimitry as familiar. Lomn was a tall breed of tree. He unsuccessfully used its charcoaled form during his extensive black powder experiments. “Can you make me more lomnent if I bought lomn bark?”

“You gonna go hunting?” Jesco asked, his voice quavering.

“Hunting? Explain.”

“Well, what we do is spread lomnent on branches so that when a bird sits on it, they get stuck. Lots of farmers eat aerfowl and pigeon now since it’s winter and other stuff made food expensive. But hunting is illegal if you’re poor, so if Your Lordship Richter finds out, we villeins have to pay a big fine. People like me can’t afford it, meaning—”

“Richter won’t find out, and even if he does, I’ll have your back.”

“A-are ya sure?”

“I’m sure.” Dimitry contained his excitement behind a pleasant smile. “What I need you to do is make me this lomnent and lots of it. Can you do that for me?”

“Yeah, but why do you need so much?”

“Because I’ve taken a sudden interest in hunting, and I have my eye on some really large game.”