The first month at Blackwood Outpost was a blur of grueling labor, governed by the rising and setting of the sun. The incessant rain gave way to a humid, oppressive heat that seemed to rise from the marsh itself, bringing with it swarms of biting insects. Yet, for the first time in years, the twelve men had a purpose beyond waiting for their next meal or their eventual death.
Under Kaelen's relentless direction, the rhythm of the outpost changed. He was a demanding commander, but a fair one. He worked alongside them, his hands becoming as calloused as theirs, his face tanned by the sun. He introduced concepts that were utterly alien to them. A strict schedule of work, patrol, and rest. The digging of latrines a safe distance from the longhouse and the stream that provided their water, a simple measure he explained would prevent "the sickness of the gut." He showed them how to create charcoal and mix it with waste to enrich the soil in a small, cleared plot where they planted scavenged seeds.
These were not the orders of a nobleman; they were the actions of a creator, and the twelve broken swords began to look at their young lord with a reverence that bordered on worship.
The true turning point came during the reconstruction of the main gate. The original gate had long since rotted away, and its replacement was a massive, green-log monstrosity that a half-dozen men could barely budge. Their task was to hoist it onto its heavy iron pivots. After an entire morning of fruitless, back-breaking effort, the men were exhausted and demoralized.
"It's no good, my lord," Brandt grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. "We don't have the numbers for a lift this size."
Kaelen, who had been observing silently, picked up a stick and knelt. In the mud, he sketched a series of circles, lines, and angles. "We don't need more muscle," he said. "We need to multiply the force we have. We'll build a compound pulley."
The men stared at the strange diagram as if it were arcane scripture. "Scholar's tricks," one of them muttered. "We need strength, not scribbles."
"My lord's 'scribbles' saved our hides in the woods," Brandt snapped, his loyalty now reflexive. "Explain it, my lord."
Kaelen patiently outlined the principle of mechanical advantage. He had them fell a smaller tree to act as a crane arm and weave their thickest ropes through a series of salvaged wheels from a broken cart. The construction took the rest of the afternoon. The men were skeptical, their faces etched with doubt as they assembled the strange contraption under his direction.
When it was finished, Kaelen pointed to the main rope. "Brandt. Pull."
The sergeant, a man of considerable strength, gripped the rope with both hands, expecting to struggle. He pulled. To his utter astonishment, the massive gate, which six men had failed to lift, rose smoothly and easily from the mud. The other men gasped. A single man was doing the work of an entire crew.
They guided the gate into place with ease. The awe on their faces was absolute. This was not skill with a sword or an unnatural eye. This was a different kind of magic altogether—the magic of a superior mind. It was the moment they understood that Kaelen wasn't just leading them; he was elevating them.
That evening, the mood around the communal fire in the longhouse was buoyant. Kaelen sat with Brandt, sharing a stew of salted pork and marsh vegetables.
"No lord I've ever served knew things like that," Brandt said, his voice quiet with respect. "That... pulley. Where did you learn such a thing?"
"Where I'm from," Kaelen said, staring into the flames, "we learned it is better to sharpen the mind than to strain the back. This is only the beginning, Brandt. Once this place is secure, we will do more than survive. We will prosper."
Brandt simply nodded, his belief in his young lord now as solid as the new gate.
Later that night, long after the snores of the exhausted men filled the longhouse, Kaelen sat alone in his small, private chamber. The day's victory was a step, but his mind was on a deeper, more fundamental challenge. His power. The Sharingan was a gift of his blood, but he knew from the lore of his past life that it was only one half of a shinobi's strength. The other half was chakra.
He knew it wasn't the Anima his men possessed. It was a different energy, an internal reservoir he could feel coiled deep within him. He had to learn to control it.
He placed a single dry leaf on his forehead. He closed his eyes, shutting out the world and focusing inward. He tried to draw out that nascent energy, to will it up from his gut, through his chest, and to the surface of his skin. He focused on the single, simple task: make the leaf stick.
The leaf immediately fell to the floor.
He picked it up and tried again. And again. For over an hour, he sat in focused silence, sweat beading on his brow from the sheer mental effort. Each time, the leaf fluttered uselessly away. The sublime power of his eyes stood in stark contrast to his complete inability to perform this most basic of exercises. It was a humbling, frustrating reminder. His intellect and his bloodline gave him an immense advantage, but true mastery would not be given. It had to be forged.
His mind weary from the effort, he brought his practice to a close for the night. He walked to the door of the longhouse and looked out into the night. The massive new gate stood silhouetted against the starry sky, a dark, solid shape that promised security. It was the first wall of his new world, a tangible symbol of his will made manifest. A kingdom, he thought, was not so different from chakra control. It was built one piece at a time, through failure, effort, and an unrelenting, single-minded focus. He would master them both.