All My Summons Become Divine Girls

Chapter 225: The Wall

Seliza’s master smith stood staring at the table, his thick hands hovering over the black core Hajin had pulled from the anomaly.

The man was built like a stone pillar, carrying a hammer meant for cracking vaults, but he refused to touch the loot. The core sat perfectly still on the table, radiating a pressure that made the air in the registry feel thin.

"I cannot forge this," the smith said, wiping sweat from his forehead despite the morning chill, "my forge would melt before the core even grew warm."

"It is an Apex core," Hajin said, leaning against the doorframe, "your house works with anomaly materials all the time."

"We work with anomaly shells and lesser cores," the smith corrected, taking a slow step back from the table, "that thing is pulling the ambient mana out of the room just by existing. If I strike it, it will shatter my hammer and probably take my arm with it."

"Then you are using the wrong tools," Hajin said, watching the man back away as if the core might bite him, "a master does not blame the material."

"A living master knows when to walk away," the smith replied, bowing stiffly toward Seliza before turning toward the door, "my apologies, my lady, but there is no gold in the world that buys a new hand."

[ LoreSeeker99: ] bro just looked at an Apex core and chose life

[ CringeSlayer91: ] smart NPC, usually they hit it and explode

[ GrandmaViewer: ] he has a family to feed, leave him alone

Hajin picked the core up, ignoring the way the smith flinched as the black stone vanished back into the inventory space. He had hoped Seliza’s craftsmen could refine the anomaly loot into something useful, turning the raw drops into weapons or armor for the region.

"Gold is easy," Seliza noted, sitting in Marrick’s chair while she watched her master smith retreat out the door, "craft is a different war entirely."

She gestured toward the open ledger on the desk, tapping a long finger against a column of numbers Marrick had spent the night calculating.

"You have enough coin to buy a hundred wagons of timber plus raw iron," she said, leaning back to study Hajin, "but you have no masons to lay the foundations, no carpenters to build the watchtowers, or armorers to supply your militia. Wealth is just metal until hands shape it into a region."

"Then we hire the hands," he said, walking over to the window to look out at the square.

"You can hire laborers," she countered, pointing toward the window, "but masters of the craft do not move to empty border towns about to be besieged by the Flint army."

"They will move if the price reflects the risk," he said, watching a cart rumble past the clinic.

"No," she corrected, "they move when the risk stops being fatal. You are buying time with your gold, Lord Hajin, but a wall requires people who know how to mix mortar."

Marrick walked into the registry carrying a fresh stack of slate boards, looking exhausted but focused. He set the boards down, organizing them by priority before looking up at Hajin.

"She is right, my lord," he said, rubbing the ink stains on his fingers, "the southern villages can send us raw iron and uncut logs, but without a forge, we cannot mint our own currency or arm the men. Every spear we hand to the militia right now is a rusted farming tool."

Hajin watched a group of men struggling to unload a cart of limestone blocks in the square, their movements uncoordinated and slow. The region was choking on raw wealth, possessing all the stone and timber in the world but missing the hands required to build with it.

One of the men dropped his side of the stone, shouting in pain as the block cracked against the frozen ground. Nobody knew how to use the lifting ropes properly, turning a basic construction task into a hazard.

"Find me names of anyone who used to work a forge before the mines took over," he told Marrick, turning away from the window, "even if they only know how to shoe horses, I want them out of the shafts and standing in front of an anvil by tomorrow."

"Yes, my lord," Marrick nodded, grabbing a clean slate to write the order down.

He left Marrick to argue logistics with Seliza, stepping out to check the perimeter lines. The square smelled of fresh sawdust mixed with roasted meat, a sharp contrast to the decay that had defined the town two days ago.

Juna dropped lightly from the roof of the registry, landing without a sound beside him as he walked. Her ears twitched, catching the sound of the masons cursing at the dropped stone block.

"The southern road is clear," she reported, brushing a speck of dust from her coat, "but the eastern watch posts are empty. The men you hired for the perimeter are sitting by the fire because they do not have winter coats."

"Send Marrick to the merchant caravans," he said, keeping his pace steady, "buy every coat they have, and double the perimeter pay."

"I also found a den of burrowers near the second switchback," she added, her fangs showing in a brief smile, "I cleared them out, but they left some nice tunnels we could use for fallback lines."

"Map them," he ordered, scanning the tree line, "and keep Loccy away from them until we know the ground is stable."

She nodded, vaulting onto a stack of raw timber to get a better vantage point of the valley.

Near the eastern tree line, Cassie and her party were running combat drills on a patch of flattened ground. The young mage held her staff, shouting instructions to Toby and Jonas as they practiced holding a heavy shield wall against imaginary raiders.

Toby took a sloppy step backward, letting his shield drop an inch too low as Jonas braced against his flank.

"Hold the line," Cassie yelled, smacking her staff against Toby’s shield to correct his posture, "if the line breaks, you die, and the person behind you dies."

"My arm is numb," Toby complained, readjusting his grip with a wince, "we have been drilling since dawn."

"The Flints will not care if your arm is tired," she shot back, raising her staff again, "reset the line and brace."

Lana stood near the edge of the trees, clutching her slate to her chest as she watched the drills with an unblinking stare. She wore the same oversized dress from yesterday, tracking Cassie’s footwork without making a sound.

Hajin walked up behind her, stopping a few feet away to watch the young knights stumble through another rotation.

"They are too slow on the pivot," he said, keeping his eyes on the sparring yard, "the shield catches the weapon, but the legs are not ready to brace the impact."

Lana jumped slightly, tightening her grip on the slate before turning to look at him.

"I saw them fight in the alley," she said, looking back at Cassie, "they won, but they looked scared the entire time."

"Fear keeps you breathing," he said, stepping closer to the tree line, "those without it are usually the first to die."

He stepped past her, walking directly into the sparring yard just as Toby raised his shield for another rep.

"Stop," he ordered, catching the edge of Toby’s shield with one hand and pushing it down, "you are treating the wood like it is a wall. A shield is a weapon, not a hiding place."

Toby swallowed hard, taking a nervous step back while Cassie immediately lowered her staff in a clumsy salute.

"Show me your stance," he said, ignoring the salute and pointing at Toby’s feet.

Toby widened his stance, bending his knees while holding the shield up to cover his chest.

Hajin kicked the bottom edge of the shield, a sharp, precise strike that sent Toby tumbling backward onto the ground.

"You planted your feet," he explained, looking down at the coughing man, "if you cannot move backward to bleed the momentum of a strike, your arm takes the entire force, and the bone breaks."

"I thought we were supposed to hold the line," Toby wheezed, sitting up to rub his elbow.

"You hold the line by staying alive," he corrected, gesturing for him to stand up, "brace with your back leg, keep the front foot light, and let the shield ride the impact instead of fighting it."

Lana stayed quiet for a long moment, watching Cassie help Toby back onto his feet while Jonas tested the new stance.

"Teach me," Lana said, walking forward to meet Hajin’s gaze directly.

"You are my registry runner," he said, turning to look at the small girl, "Marrick needs you finding names, not swinging a sword."

"I am finding the names," she replied, holding the slate up to show a neat list of stolen rations and old debts, "but writing down a name does not stop a blade."

He looked at the child, seeing the same desperate pragmatism that had kept him alive in the undercity for years. She was not asking for glory or revenge; she was calculating the math of survival in a region preparing for war.

"I freeze," she said, lowering the slate, "when the enforcers came to take our rations, I hid in the wall and I froze. Teach me how not to freeze the next time they come for the witnesses."

"I cannot teach you how to be brave," he said, dropping his hands to his sides.

"I do not want to be brave," she said, "I want to survive."

[ ashley (Mod): ] she gets it

[ TaxpayerOnEarth: ] give her a knife and she will rule this town in five years

[ SleepDeprivedSteve: ] local orphan demands violence, stream loves it

Hajin stared at her, recognizing a request he could not refuse, pulling a basic hunting knife from his inventory and holding it out handle-first.

"You train after your registry work is done," he ordered, watching her small hands reach for the leather grip, "and you start by learning how to fall without breaking your wrists."

Lana took the knife, nodding once as she slid it into the oversized pocket of her dress. She did not smile, turning back to watch Cassie’s footwork with a new kind of focus.

The wall of gold had bought them time, but Hajin knew the real foundation of the region was standing right in front of him, learning how to hold a blade.