Chapter 394 - 383: Light of Dawn

Chapter 394: Chapter 383: Light of Dawn

The salty, damp sea breeze swept away the last wisp of scorched stench from Steinbach that lingered in Anton’s memory.

He stopped walking and held the sleeping Lina in his arms a little tighter.

Before him, a city burst forth from the gray-white mountain rock, its towers piercing the clouds.

It was no fortress stacked from brick and timber, but a behemoth carved directly out of the mountainside.

Five distinct tiers ascended one after another, the white tower at its apex reflecting a hallowed light in the morning sun. The stone-paved roads, wide enough for three carriages to travel abreast, were clean and neat. On either side, men and women in uniform work clothes pushed handcarts or directed steel cranes, powered by some kind of Magic Power, to load and unload cargo. Everyone moved with purpose, their faces devoid of the numbness and despair Anton knew so well, filled instead with vigor and hope.

"Oh my god..." Martha covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. She tugged on Anton’s sleeve, her fingers trembling with the force of her grip. "Anton, is... is this really Minas Tirith?"

Anton didn’t answer. He swallowed hard.

’He’d thought his cousin Hans’s letter was full of hyperbole. How much could a fellow craftsman exaggerate? Getting a full meal and having steady work, surely that was all. But the sight before him shattered a lifetime of experience.’

Steinbach was a stagnant pond. This place was a boiling crucible.

The immigration registration office was set up in a large stone building on the edge of the port district.

Anton and his family got in line at the end of a long queue. He noticed that while the line was long, it moved quickly. Several clerks in gray uniforms sat behind a long table, a neat stack of papyrus and a bottle of ink before each of them. Their questions were brief and efficient.

"Name?"

"Anton."

"Place of origin?"

"Silver Moon Earl’s Domain, Steinbach Town."

"Occupation?"

"Cooper."

The clerk looked up, sized him up with a glance, then wrote a few words on a small sign and handed it to a nearby guard.

Anton risked a peek and could vaguely make out a few of the words. As an artisan, he had to know common words and numbers to read orders and measurements, but complex documents were a nightmare. The guard took the sign and said to Anton, "Follow me."

Anton was led to a shed behind the registration office. An old man, also dressed like an artisan, sat amidst a pile of lumber and iron hoops.

"New arrival? A cooper?" The old man didn’t even look up, just pointed to a broken-down oak barrel in the corner. "Fix it. Materials and tools are over there. You have half an hour."

No wasted words.

Anton set down his tool bag and flexed his stiff fingers. He picked up a spare plank, tracing the grain with his fingertips, then hefted an iron hoop to feel its weight. The familiar sensation returned.

He started to work—planing, fitting, and hammering. Wood shavings flew, and the hammer striking the iron hoop produced a crisp CLANG.

At some point, the old man had gotten up and was now standing behind him, watching in silence.

As Anton hammered in the final rivet and wiped the dust from the barrel with an old rag, the last grain of sand trickled through the half-hour hourglass.

The old man stepped forward, carefully inspecting every seam of the barrel. He even stuck his head inside and took a sniff.

"The craftsmanship is passable, but some of your techniques are outdated." The old man made his assessment, then called out, "Log it. Anton, cooper. Assessed as ’Level 2 Assistant.’ Recommend assignment to Workshop Number Three."

Soon, Anton was back at the long table, now holding a metal tag engraved with his name and "Level 2 Assistant." The clerk handed him a set of keys and a crude map.

"Provisional citizenship, valid for three months. You’ll be reassessed in three months based on your merit points," the clerk said, speaking quickly. "Your residence is in Workers’ Dormitory Area Three, Building B, Room 307. Your wife... Martha, correct? Can she weave?"

"Yes, sir, she can," Anton replied hastily.

"Have her report to the textile workshop tomorrow. She’ll start as an apprentice, same as you. How old is your child?"

"Seven."

"She can go to the Childcare Center. It’s free and they provide lunch. That way, you two can work without worry."

Anton and Martha stood rooted to the spot, scarcely daring to believe their ears.

Workers’ Dormitory Area Three consisted of neat rows of four-story, quadrangular buildings.

Their room was a single chamber on the third floor. It wasn’t large, but it was spotlessly clean and even had a small balcony. There were some inconveniences; the kitchen, latrines, and other communal facilities were all on the ground floor and had to be shared with the other residents.

Lina’s cough had vanished. She was now curiously surveying her new home, her little face alight with wonder.

Martha walked out onto the balcony. She watched the workers coming and going below and gazed at the bustling port in the distance as tears welled in her eyes. This time, however, they were not tears of fear.

"Anton," she said, her voice choked with emotion, "we... we’re really safe now."

Anton walked over and awkwardly patted his wife on the back. Gazing out at the city, he felt, for the first time, truly solid ground beneath his feet.

The next day, Anton walked into Workshop Number Three.

It was even larger than he had imagined. Hundreds of artisans bustled about in their designated areas. The air, thick with the smell of sawdust and hot oil, was noisy but orderly.

The foreman was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline. He wasn’t some nobleman’s steward; Anton overheard in conversation that the man, Rogan, had been just a common worker six months prior. He’d been promoted to ’Level 7 Supervisor’ after improving a work process and earning an outstanding merit assessment.

"New guy? Anton?" Rogan glanced at the list in his hand. "You’re on shaping for the wine barrels. Standard procedure manual is on the wall. Go read it. If you don’t get it, ask Old John next to you. And don’t waste any materials. Every piece of oak here is accounted for."

He didn’t crack a whip or even shout. He just methodically assigned tasks, checked progress, and occasionally pointed out errors, showing the workers the standard way things should be done.

Anton quickly threw himself into his work. The tools were finer than the best he’d ever used, and the process was so clear it left him dumbfounded. Every step was clearly defined, minimizing mistakes and waste.

By the end of the day, Anton was exhausted, but he felt a sense of fulfillment he had never known before.

At the workshop entrance, he updated his "merit point tag"—a small copper plaque stamped with a number he could recognize: "6".

The foreman, Rogan, clapped him on the shoulder. "Six merit points for today. You can take that to the exchange for food and supplies. Spend ’em wisely, kid. Want to earn more? Work faster, work better. Take another look at that standard procedure manual on the wall. It’s got diagrams for improving your technique. You can make sense of pictures, can’t you?"

"I... I can understand some of it," Anton answered, a little embarrassed.

The exchange was bustling with people.

Anton used four merit points to get enough black bread, a piece of salt pork, and some vegetables to feed his family for two days. As he was about to leave, he noticed the shelves held not just oil, salt, and cloth, but also things he had never seen before.

He saw a young man trade one merit point for a thin booklet. Its cover depicted a Knight and a dragon.

"That’s a comic book," said Old John, who was standing nearby and had noticed his curiosity. "For the kids. One merit point each. A bit pricey, yeah, but the children love them."

Anton clutched the two remaining merit points in his hand, hesitating.

That night, when he returned to his dormitory, he found a crowd gathered around the downstairs notice board. A new bulletin had been posted. Using his limited reading skills, Anton struggled to make out the title: "Light... of the White...: ... is the Ladder."

He pushed his way into the crowd and struggled to read the bulletin’s text. He recognized many of the individual words, but when they were combined into the jargon of an official decree, he was completely lost.

From the chatter around him, he pieced together the general idea: the Lord was introducing a certification called "Knowledge Levels" to encourage everyone to learn how to read, write, and do arithmetic.

"...In the future, this ’Knowledge Level’ will give you bonus points for promotions! Plus, some of the best jobs will require a certain Knowledge Level just to apply!" a young worker said, his voice filled with excitement.

An older worker scoffed. "A pipe dream. At my age, how is a hand used to swinging a hammer supposed to hold a pen? I’d rather spend the time sleeping."

"It’s not the same!" the young man shot back. "Who knows, maybe the good jobs of the future will depend on this stuff!"

Those words hit Anton like a hammer blow.

He was restless all night. He thought about the comic book at the exchange. He thought about earning more.

The next day, he used the merit points he’d saved from his work to buy the latest issue of the *White Tower Weekly* at the exchange.

The last page of the weekly had a special section. It was filled with simple drawings, each labeled with letters and words. It was a literacy lesson designed for beginners.

Late that night, Martha and Lina were fast asleep.

Under the dim light of an oil lamp, Anton spread the newspaper out on the wooden table. He found a piece of burnt charcoal and, on a scrap of wood, clumsily began to copy the first word from the paper.

In the common tongue, the word meant "person."

He struggled to trace the unfamiliar symbols, composed of straight lines and semicircles. His copy was crooked and clumsy.

"Papa, what are you doing?"

Lina had woken up. Rubbing her eyes, she padded over to his side, curious.

Anton froze. He looked into his daughter’s clear eyes, and a gentle smile spread across his face.

He turned the piece of wood toward his daughter, pointing to the clumsily scrawled word.

"Lina," he said. "Papa’s going to teach you how to read."

「Meanwhile, inside the Lord’s Mansion.」

Velin stood before a massive floor-to-ceiling window, looking down upon his city. Beneath the blanket of night, the lights of the port and workshop districts merged into a single expanse, a river of stars flowing across the earth.

Tristan stepped forward and handed him a report.

"My Lord, it’s the first day since the ’Light of the White Tower’ decree was announced. As of this moment, total enrollment for night schools across the domain has already surpassed three thousand."

Velin’s gaze followed Tristan’s words, settling on several exceptionally bright patches within the city. Those were the newly opened night school classrooms, now blazing with light.

He could picture the scene inside: men and women who had spent their day swinging hammers and hoes, now clumsily gripping charcoal pencils, taking their first stumbling steps into a brand new world.

’Desire is the greatest motivator of all.’