Novel Full Chapter 1526 Going Above and Beyond
Chapter 1526 Going Above and Beyond
<One centralized structure,> she said, and her mental voice had sharpened into something that sounded like it belonged in a boardroom. <Multiple floors. Ground level for daily goods and high-volume vendors, the kind of trade that moves fast and feeds the city. Second level for specialty merchants, craftsmen selling finished goods, anyone who needs display space. Third level for offices, contracts, trade negotiations, guild administration. If you can manage a fourth, make it a public gallery or auction space. The wealthy will pay through the nose for premium access.>
<I was thinking the same thing.>
<Of course you were. I trained you.>
<Huh?>
<Who taught you how tax infrastructure actually works? Who explained why centralized commerce generates more revenue than distributed markets? Who spent three evenings with you and a bottle of dwarven wine going over trade flow optimization?>
<…You did.>
<I did. You’re welcome, my love. Now build me my market, please.>
<Yes, Ma’am.> Quinlan started building upward.
The foundation went deep, a massive compressed earth platform sunk three meters into the ground and spread wide enough to distribute the weight of what he was about to stack on top of it. The walls rose thick at the base, half again as wide as the residential structures, with internal columns of compressed stone spaced every few meters to carry the load of upper floors.
The first level climbed from the earth and kept climbing.
Four stories. Each one narrower than the one below, stepping inward so the weight narrowed as it rose, the same principle that had kept mud-brick towers standing for thousands of years in places where the people had never heard of an architect but understood that wide bottoms held up narrow tops.
Arched ceilings on every floor distributed the load laterally through the walls instead of pressing straight down. Stone staircases spiraled up through the corners, wide enough for crowds, with landings at each level.
The ground floor was open and airy, a covered market hall with high ceilings and vendor stalls lining every wall. The second floor was smaller shops and display space. The third was offices, meeting rooms, administrative space for the merchant class to organize themselves. The fourth was an open gallery with a view of the settlement in every direction through wide quartz openings that he’d fill with panels once he figured out the window problem.
The crowd noticed.
The evacuees who had been filing through the gate with the numb obedience of the displaced stopped and stared as the structure climbed. A few children pointed. A few adults swore. The soul soldiers directing traffic didn’t even try to keep people moving and just let them watch.
<Now put a tax assessor’s office on the third floor with a clear view of the ground-floor stalls. I want every vendor to know they’re being watched.>
Quinlan finished the market hall and turned his attention to the opposite side of the central square.
The bathhouse went down instead of up.
He carved a sprawling complex into the earth itself, sinking the main structure two meters below ground level so the pools sat close to the magma conduits and the thermal mass of the surrounding soil provided natural insulation.
Wide stone steps descended into a central atrium with vaulted ceilings held up by thick columns. The pools branched outward from the center like spokes, each one fed by channels from the magma system that kept the water at varying temperatures, hot in the deep pools, warm in the shallow ones.
Stone benches lined the walls. Changing alcoves flanked the entrance. Ventilation shafts angled upward through the earth to the surface, pulling steam out and fresh air in.
The entire complex was heated by the same system that warmed the homes, because the magma chamber didn’t care whether it was heating a floor or a pool. Heat was heat.
<Hot baths,> Quinlan said. <In the middle of winter. For a population that just marched through a magic gate.>
<Morale infrastructure,> Jasmine agreed. <Good. Happy subjects spend more money, and clean subjects get sick less often. Both save us gold in the long run.>
<I was going for ‘basic human dignity,’ but sure, let’s go with your version.>
On the surface, communal stone ovens rose at the major intersections of each district, squat and heavy, connected to the conduit network so they ran hot without fuel. Bread could bake by evening.
<Communal ovens,> Jasmine said. <Free heat, no fuel cost. The bakers will set up shop around those within a day or two, and you’ll have a food economy before the first week is out. Charge them a licensing fee for proximity.>
<Jasmine.>
<What?>
<They just lost their city. Maybe give them more than a week before we start charging fees.>
She sighed tiredly. <My Primordial Villain lover is too kind-hearted of a tyrant. Who could’ve guessed?>
<Or you’re just way too much of a terror. The IRS would’ve loved having you on board.>
<Who?>
<Nothing.>
<…Fine. Instead of a week, they can have ten days without needing to pay taxes. Aren’t I generous?>
<Uh->
<The answer is yes, my love.>
<…Yes. Whatever makes you happy.>
<Yay!>
<…>
Workshop row took shape along the western edge, larger structures with reinforced floors, higher ceilings, and dedicated ventilation for the heat and fumes of smithing, tanning, carpentry. Quinlan laid them out with the same grid logic as the residential blocks but scaled up, each workshop large enough for a proper operation with storage and workspace.
<Workshop district,> Jasmine said, and her approval was tangible through the link. <Separated from residential. Good. Noise complaints kill neighborhoods. Put the tanners downwind.>
Three streets away, the craftsman was standing in one of the new workshops, knocking on the reinforced floor with his boot heel and listening to the solid thud that came back.
“Reinforced floor,” the craftsman said to his wife, who had followed him with their children because the heated roads made walking pleasant and staying home boring. “Ventilation rated for forge heat. The ceiling’s high enough for a proper bellows setup.”
His wife looked at the workshop, then at the market hall still settling on the far side of the square, its four-story silhouette dominating the skyline.
“He expects us to work,” she said.
“He expects us to pay taxes,” the craftsman corrected.
“Same thing.”
The craftsman looked at the workshop one more time, ran his thumb across the smooth interior wall, and nodded to himself in a way that suggested the Primordial Villain had just earned a grudging point in a ledger the craftsman would never admit to keeping.
A flicker of urgency pulsed through the telepathic link.
<Quin, I need to go. The warehouse allocation is about to turn into a fistfight between a set of beastkin and dwarven workers.>
<Go. Handle it.>
<I’ll check in tonight. And Quin?>
<Yeah?>
<What you’re building is extraordinary. I’m proud of you and I love you.>
<I love you too.>
The link went quiet, and the warmth of her voice lingered for a few seconds before the gate drain pulled his attention back to the work.
Quinlan turned east, toward the sound of the Katalin River, named in honor of his mother on Planet Earth, running through Lumi forest, feeding Miri Town. His three mothers were each given a memento in his budding empire basically as soon as he was given the chance.
One might say that he was a mama’s boy. But Quinlan would argue, he just respected his mothers like any good son would, cherishing their memory without being ashamed.
He carved a branch channel from the Katalin River, diverting flow south toward the settlement in a stone-lined trench that split into smaller branches threading through every district. Six wells followed, sunk to the water table and capped against contamination.
Four hours in. The gate drain was a constant companion now, a weight on his chest that got heavier with every passing second. His regeneration kept him functional, but comfortable had left the conversation hours ago.
He kept going.
The settlement was warm, watered, and structurally sound.
And dark.
Quinlan stood in the doorway of one of the finished homes. Thick walls, arched ceiling, warm floor, ventilation channels humming. No windows. The interior was a comfortable, well-ventilated cave, and once night fell, these homes would be pitch-black boxes where families sat in the dark and listened to the wind.
‘Windows. I need windows.’
Ice would melt from the geothermal heat. Glass required expertise he didn’t have. But the soil near the Katalin was rich in mineral deposits, small crystals scattered through the clay and sand. Quartz could be extracted, refined, and compressed into translucent panels.
In theory. He’d never done it before.
He extracted a handful, separated the crystals from clay with earth manipulation, and tried heating them. The first panel came out milky white and opaque. The second cracked down the middle. The third had the optical clarity of a dirty puddle.
‘I need help.’
He reached inward and found the telepathic links. Two in particular.
<Aurora.>
A pause. Then the warm, amused presence of his alchemist filled his mind.
<My love. I was wondering when you’d call.Jasmine bragged about you for a moment, but she was pulled away by work and wouldn’t say what you were up to. Kaelira has been worried. The rest of us girls have been taking bets on what you’re building.>
<A city.>
<…I’m sorry, a what?>
<A city. For a hundred thousand people. I’m almost done but I have a problem. I need to make windows out of quartz and I can’t get the panels clear.>
<Windows.> Aurora’s mental voice carried the particular tone of a woman who had been told something so ridiculous that she needed a moment to decide which part to address first. <You’re building an entire city, and you’re calling me because you can’t make windows.>
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