So, I asked for clarity, because the pieces weren’t adding up.
"Bundi, were you also the one in charge of building the towers and the structures in the clan?"
Bundi shook his head imdiately.
"No... that... that was my father."
So, he wasn’t the one behind the earlier construction. That explained the inconsistency in craftsmanship. The walls and watchtowers were solid—but nothing like this weapon.
"And where is your father now?" I asked.
"Dead," Bundi replied, and his voice dipped into a somber tone that made the workers behind him bow their heads slightly.
Dead?
A cold thought slid into my mind before I could stop it.
Don’t tell he was among the many goblins I killed.
My chest tightened, and I swallowed, suddenly feeling like I was walking on thin ice.
"How did he die?" I asked, trying to sound casual, but probably failing miserably as a nervous edge crept into my voice despite myself.
"He died with dozens of others," Bundi said quietly. "They were working on the tower on the east side, but it collapsed, and many fell to their deaths."
I let out a slow breath.
That was... tragic. Brutal in a very real, very mundane way. No battle. No monster. Just poor structure and gravity doing what they do best. It made sense now—why the eastern side had looked abandoned, why the half-built fra had felt wrong the first ti I saw it.
Bundi continued, pointing toward the artillery behind him.
"After that happened, Chief Jael scrapped the idea of building more towers and told to focus on this instead."
I glanced at the machine again. So Jael redirected the clan’s only real builder to weaponry after losing the original construction team. That explained a lot.
But another question tugged at .
"If that’s the case," I said, turning back to him, "then why did Gork say the one who built my shelter was you?"
"Gork?" Bundi echoed, confused.
Before he could explain, one of the workers leaned in and whispered into Bundi’s ear, loud enough that even I heard it.
"The Chosen... the one who’s still alive."
Bundi’s eyes widened with understanding.
Ah.
"Oh, him? It was probably a mistake," Bundi said, brushing it off.
"Not many Chosen pay attention or even care about the affairs of the clan," he added, a hint of bitterness slipping into his voice. "They only eat, sleep with the females, and hunt monsters mindlessly, so he wouldn’t know anything. And since I look exactly like my father, it was easy for him to confuse the two of us."
"I see..." I replied, letting the information settle.
Bundi continued, his tone shifting into sothing more asured. "But since I worked with my father for so long, I understand a bit about how structures are made. I could try to build sothing similar to your shelter. Not perfectly, but close enough. A tower, though... that might be too much for ."
"That’s fine," I said, and I ant it.
I wasn’t planning on having him build a tower anyway. Even if he was the original builder, I only had two weeks left—no, one week and six days—before the King’s Ga began. A tower that massive wasn’t sothing you threw together in that kind of ti fra, not with our manpower, not with our current skill level, and definitely not with the distractions piling up every day.
It was better to focus on what was right in front of us.
What was achievable.
What could actually shift the odds in our favor.
I turned back to the artillery and placed my hand on the polished wooden fra.
"This," I said. "How many more can you make in thirteen days?"
Bundi’s ears twitched. "How many...? We can make about two more," he answered carefully, like he wasn’t sure whether that number would please or condemn him.
"Really? That’s good then." My grin spread without forcing it.
Two more of these?
Two more machines capable of firing volleys strong enough to rattle my mana shield?
Two more engines that could turn any battlefield into a death zone before the enemy even reached our walls?
I was ecstatic.
Bundi and his coworkers lit up instantly.
I could tell they’d been bracing themselves for the usual—being pushed to produce an unreasonable number and then punished when they inevitably failed—but that wasn’t happening here, and the relief on their faces was almost comical.
"Are you sure you’ll be able to make two?" I asked, just to be certain.
"Of course, Chief," Bundi answered without hesitation. "It’s possible now that we understand how it works. And the materials are already gathered. Making more will be much easier."
"Good," I said with a nod. "Then I’ll leave you to it. The earlier you begin, the better."
I turned and started walking away, satisfied.
Behind , Bundi dropped into a bow so fast it sounded like his knees hit the ground. His workers followed a heartbeat later.
I lifted a hand for acknowledgnt without looking back and gestured for Narg to follow .
"You were gone for a while," Narg said as we walked out of the yard where the artillery test had taken place. Now that I was paying attention, I noticed the spot was tucked behind the storage shed, almost hidden on purpose, surrounded by uneven mounds of dirt and piles of discarded tal parts. It made sense—if you were going to fire sothing that could tear through a mana shield, you wouldn’t do it in the middle of the camp.
To the left, long stacks of lumber rested beneath a slanted canopy made from stretched hide, the kind of makeshift shelter that kept the workers shaded while they cut, shaped, or stored whatever materials they needed. Tools were scattered around—hamrs, chisels, coils of rope—all arranged in that chaotic-but-functional way goblins seed to favor.
I answered Narg without breaking stride.
"Yes. I failed to do my daily quest, so I received the penalty."
"Daily quest?" Narg repeated, brow furrowing in confusion.
"It’s sothing tied to being a Chosen," I said simply.
Narg fell quiet after that. He didn’t press further, didn’t pry, didn’t ask what the penalty involved. He just walked beside , the silence settling comfortably between us as we continued through the work yard.
I broke the...
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