The sun rose slowly over Ironhold, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Soldiers still whispered about the cannon test. Craftsmen who worked all night leaned against benches trying to hide how shaky they felt. Even Rhel, who rarely showed emotion, walked with a tightness in his shoulders.

Evan stood at the cannon again, inspecting every groove. The metal hummed softly with stable flow. But something felt off—just a sensation in the air, like pressure before a storm.

Taron approached rubbing his eyes. “Master… you did not sleep at all.”

“No time. The cannon is strong, but the world is changing around us faster than we think.”

Taron frowned. “You mean the Coil Guild.”

“And the Serpent Kingdom. And whoever else sees this weapon and realizes what it means.”

Rhel walked over. “Reports came in from the scout towers. Footprints found near the forest. Strange residue on the bark. Signs of short range teleportation magic.”

Evan paused. “Teleportation That’s advanced spell work.”

“Exactly,” Rhel said. “The Coil Guild isn’t sending just scouts now. They’re sending their best.”

Before Evan could answer, a soldier rushed into the courtyard. “Commander! Workshop breach!”

Evan and Rhel sprinted toward the workshop.

When they entered, craftsmen were gathered around something on the central table. Not broken parts. Not sabotage.

A gift.

A smooth stone sphere the size of a fist. Surface polished. Lines carved elegantly like veins of light. A coil sigil engraved at the top.

Everyone stepped back as Evan approached. He placed his hand near the sphere. It vibrated with faint energy—not hostile, but intrusive. Like it was reading the room.

Rhel’s jaw tightened. “Another warning”

“Or a challenge,” Evan said.

Taron whispered, “Master Marshall… be careful…”

Evan touched the sphere lightly.

It activated instantly.

A projection burst upward: a figure made of light and mana, cloaked in swirling lines. The face was hidden, but the voice was smooth and resonant.

“Evan Marshall.”

Everyone froze.

The figure continued.

“Your work breaks the rhythm of this world. You introduce foreign logic, foreign structure, foreign discipline. Impressive. Dangerous. Inspiring.”

Evan clenched his jaw. “Get to the point.”

“Your cannon shows your ambition. Your repeaters prove your precision. We do not wish conflict. We wish understanding. So we offer you an invitation.”

The sphere glowed brighter, projecting an emblem—a twisted coil inside a circle.

“Come to us. Learn with us. Build with us. Or continue on your path and face us as rivals.”

The projection dimmed.

“One week. At the Stone Spiral. Decide your future.”

Then the sphere cracked open like an egg and dissolved into dust.

Silence filled the workshop.

Taron finally spoke. “Master Marshall… they want you. Not Ironhold. You.”

Rhel turned to him. “If you go, they may capture you. Or worse—they may convince you to leave Ironhold behind.”

Evan stared at the fading dust on the bench.

He had built a cannon that could shatter towers.
He had built weapons that soldiers praised as miracles.
He had sparked fear in kingdoms.
And now he had caught the attention of the most dangerous crafters in this world.

He whispered:

“I did not come to this world to join anyone.”

Rhel nodded. “Then you stay with Ironhold.”

Evan shook his head slowly. “No. I go.”

The room exploded in shock.

Taron grabbed his arm. “Master you cannot—”

“I go,” Evan repeated, voice steady. “Because if they want trouble, I need to see who they really are. I need to know what they’re building. And I need to make sure they do not get ahead of us.”

Rhel stared at him. “You are walking into the den of the most unpredictable craftsmen alive.”

Evan lifted the spiral weapon he had designed and strapped it to his belt.

“Then I’ll bring something unpredictable of my own.”

The Stone Spiral awaited.
And with it, the next escalation of the arms race.