The estate creaked like it had forgotten how to stand.
Floorboards moaned beneath his boots. Plaster flaked from ceilings. Cold drafts whispered through cracks in the walls, slipping past heavy tapestries like ghost fingers. The Varnhart crest above the stairwell—a half-faded silver hawk—hung crooked, dust thick enough to dull the steel.
Leonel pulled his coat tighter, though it wasn't the chill that unsettled him.
Three days since he woke up in this body. Three days of pretending to be the son of a noble house no one seemed to respect anymore. Servants avoided eye contact. The butler stiffened every time Leonel entered a room. No one asked how he was healing.
No one cared.
If the old Leonel had burned bridges, there were no ashes left to sift through.
He crossed the grand hall, steps echoing too loud. Marble tiles, cracked down the center, led to the solar where his father held court—if it could still be called that. Once, nobles and merchants must've gathered here, seeking favors, hearing war stories. Now, the air tasted of stale firewood and mold.
Leonel paused near a stained-glass window, hand resting on the dusty sill. Outside, the fields lay fallow. The stables, half-collapsed. A windmill stood still, blades broken.
This place is dying.
And somehow, he was supposed to save it.
He didn't flinch when the screen appeared.
It didn't pop. Didn't flash. Just shimmered into being—soft blue light against stone and shadow.
[Blueprint System Unlocked]
A line of elegant text floated midair, steady and surreal. Beneath it, a small menu unfolded, tiled like an archive drawer.
Category: Civil ToolsCategory: WeaponryCategory: InfrastructureCategory: AgricultureCategory: Miscellaneous
His breath caught.
No way.
He reached toward it. His fingers passed through, but his thoughts shifted the menu. Scroll, select, expand.
A thousand designs revealed themselves. Machinery, devices, inventions from Earth he'd helped prototype—or remembered from competitors. Each had a price. Some simple things—like a precision compass—cost 50 gold coins. A basic forge press? 2,400. Reinforced steam-driven excavator? 300,000. Advanced military satellite? 40 million.
There was a catch, of course.
No blueprint is free.
Each one had to be purchased. With real gold. No shortcuts.
Leonel frowned. Gold, here, wasn't easy to come by. Not in a noble house on the brink of collapse.
Still, the potential was absurd. A part of him almost laughed.
Out of everything fate could've given him—magic swords, a superpower, a destiny—he got… blueprints. Schematics. The very thing that once built his old empire.
He scrolled further, heart quickening.
Then stopped.
[Runewriter Mk. I]A refillable, rune-stabilized writing tool. No mana required. Crafted with stabilized alloy and enchanted ink.
He opened the details.
• Ink Core Chamber: Capillary enchantment for smooth flow.• Pressure-Sensitive Tip: Variable flow mimics natural quillwork.• Rune-Stabilizer Frame: Helps steady glyph lines for inscription.• Cartridge System: Refillable. Leak-resistant.
No one in this world had anything like it. Not even the Magic Tower. Students still carved runes with trembling hands and shaky quills. This? This would change things.
Price: 50 gold coins.
He smiled.
Not cheap.
But possible.
If he could just convince his father.
The door to the solar groaned as he pushed it open.
Sunlight filtered through tall, dust-smeared windows, casting thin beams across a cluttered table. Maps, papers, ledgers. A few melted candles. A half-finished decanter of wine. Behind it all sat Lord Darius Varnhart—upright, even now, one hand resting on a cane, the other flipping through faded reports.
He didn't look up.
"You're not dead yet?" the old man said.
Leonel stepped inside. "No. I have an idea."
That got him a glance. Not much. Just a flick of the eyes.
"I need 70 gold coins."
Darius scoffed, setting the paper down. "You're not even worth ten."
"I'm building something. A tool. One this world's never seen."
"Mm. And what will this miraculous object do? Pour wine? Whistle when you're drunk?"
Leonel didn't flinch. "It's a pen."
The silence that followed was almost funny.
Darius blinked once, slowly. "You walked into my solar, days after nearly dying, to ask for seventy gold… to build a pen?"
Leonel crossed the room, hands in pockets, tone steady. "Not just any pen. A rune-stabilizing, enchanted pen. Refillable. Portable. It can inscribe glyphs with more control than any scribe or mage we've got in this province."
His father's jaw worked. He didn't answer.
Leonel pressed on. "Our local ink is crude. The writing tools are worse. Students make mistakes, spells misfire, and craftsmen waste materials. I can fix that."
Darius stared at him, unreadable.
Leonel stopped beside the table. "Let me build fifty. I'll pay for the materials myself—after the first sale. All I need is the startup."
"Seventy gold isn't 'startup' to a house bleeding dry."
"You're bleeding dry because you're selling nothing. Because you've given up."
The words cut deeper than intended, but Darius didn't lash out.
He stood slowly. Limped toward a nearby chest. Unlocked it. Inside, tucked beneath moth-eaten cloth, were three small pouches. He took one. Tossed it to Leonel.
It landed with a soft clink.
"I want results," Darius muttered. "Real ones. Not dreams. Not toys."
"You'll get them."
"If I don't," he said, voice low and final, "you're out."
Leonel met his gaze. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, the weight of the pouch heavy in his hand, the system flickered again in the corner of his vision.
[Transaction Possible: Runewriter Mk. I – Purchase Now?]
He didn't hesitate.
Yes.
The future had to start somewhere. A pen was as good a weapon as any.