Chapter 35 Progress

The first few days of experimentation had been rough. Failures piled up, pulp spoiled, and more than once I thought I’d wasted my time. Still, persistence paid off. With Lydia’s resourcefulness and Stabs’ knack for organizing people, we managed to procure a few warehouses to use as factories. After much trial, error, and a lot of brainstorming, I relied on the only scientific background I had: high school lessons I barely cared about in life. Somehow, with the help of a body that never tired and a photographic memory that was unnervingly sharp, we finally managed to produce the finest paper possible with nothing more than mundane methods. It felt almost surreal. As a ghost, I wasn’t only untethered from fatigue, but also sharper and mentally superior to the man I used to be.

Soon, we had the first factory up and running, churning out reams of ordinary but reliable paper. Not long after, I began sketching toy designs from memory, trinkets that could appeal to children and parents alike. A second factory followed, dedicated to shaping wood, cloth, and bits of scrap into toys I swore could sell as novelties. Convincing people that hope could be profitable had been an uphill battle, but the results spoke louder than I ever could. Factories meant jobs. Jobs meant food. Slowly, people began to buy into the dream. In truth, I thought starting a working factory would be far more difficult than this. Either I had gotten lucky, or the world itself wanted me to succeed.

While I was floating through one of the warehouses, invisible, I overheard two of the newer workers talking in hushed tones. Both were former prostitutes, and neither sounded convinced about the life they were now living.

“Honestly,” one of them muttered while sweeping sawdust, “this isn’t promising at all. We’d earn more spreading our legs than standing here.”

The other gave a short laugh. “I was thinking the same. At least in the brothel, we knew the money came quick.”

I didn’t announce myself, though the words sank like a stone in my chest. I understood the temptation of easy money. I also understood the cost. I’d seen enough of the world, both living and dead, to know how quickly disease and despair followed that path. The brothels here weren’t just dangerous; they devoured people, body and soul. To me, protecting them didn’t mean allowing them to indulge in that easy road again. It meant steering them away from it, even if they resented me for it.

I thought about it more than I cared to admit. These women weren’t fools. They were survivors. Some leaned on their beauty because it had been their only weapon, their only means to carve out a living. But now, I had given them another option. A better option. With steady wages, they could sustain themselves, even save for a future they never thought possible. Still, money alone wasn’t enough. Happiness needed more than coins in a purse. Self-respect mattered. A person who respected themselves could learn to love, to care, and to believe they deserved something beyond survival. It was cliché, sure, but I wanted them to know the kind of love that wasn’t bought by the hour. I might sneer at horror, but I was always a sucker for romance.

Their conversation shifted, dragging me out of my own head.

“I wonder if Ginny’s doing all right,” one of them said, lowering her voice.

The other perked up. “I heard she became an adventurer. Can you believe it? Ginny, of all people. And still looking out for us, even from afar.”

They shared a quiet laugh, mixed with something like admiration. From the way they spoke, Ginny wasn’t just their old madam, she had been a protector, someone who shielded them from the worst the world could offer. No wonder they adored her. And of course, the gossip wouldn’t be complete without embellishments. Ginny wielded fire magic and had big ambitions. That kind of reputation was bound to leave an impression.

I sighed inwardly. Good for her. But I meant what I’d decided earlier: she’d better not show her face in Enmar again. I had no room for complications, and Ginny sounded like the kind of complication that could spiral.

As a compromise to their grumbling, I shifted gears. I started pouring money into another venture, one I felt could reach the middle class while also giving these workers an alternative path. A fast-food chain. Not the grease-soaked mess from my world, but something adapted here: hearty meals, affordable prices, recipes built around ingredients that were easy to procure yet satisfying to the local palate. It would be quick, reliable, and if I played it right, addictive.

I hired some of the same women who balked at factory work, offering them positions as waitresses or cooks. It wasn’t glamorous, but the pay was steady, the work clean, and the respect earned was their own. If they didn’t believe in paper or toys, then maybe they could believe in food. And food, at least, was something everyone needed.

A few months passed, and I hadn’t been wrong about the rail tracks and the “new era” they heralded. What used to be an ugly stretch of rusted iron and dirt soon became the artery of progress itself. Merchants from both the Empire and Movria’s capital arrived in droves, eyes glittering with greed, hoping to snatch properties from me at bargain prices. They came with words, with contracts, even with veiled threats. Of course, I didn’t budge. Some of them had the audacity to try wrestling my holdings away by force, but they quickly learned their place. Dead men didn’t need sleep, and I made sure they understood I could guard what was mine every hour of the day.

By now, I had purchased nearly all the properties that once belonged to the slums. I had even expanded my reach into wealthier districts, securing estates abandoned by noble families who couldn’t adapt to the changing times. The government too, desperate for coin, had parted with derelict buildings at hefty sums I didn’t hesitate to pay. What was once rubble and ruin was slowly reshaping into something entirely new, something that belonged to me.

The blacksmith who once hammered blades for the gang had succeeded, after countless failures and burns, in producing a working prototype of a printing press. It was crude, clunky, and prone to jamming, but it worked. I felt almost giddy when I watched the first ink-stained sheets roll out of its maw. Novels written with the help of my apprentices, began trickling into the markets. Pietro, true to his word, made sure they sold. His connections spread them from taverns to townhouses, until people were whispering about the new stories over mugs of ale.

The toys followed, riding on the novels’ popularity. They were small things at first from carved animals, little soldiers, and puzzles, but their affordability and oddity made them irresistible. Children begged their parents for them, and adults bought them too, perhaps for nostalgia or perhaps to distract themselves from the changing world. I had been right in my estimates; this world stood on the very brink of an industrial age. In fact, I’d argue it was already there, simply missing certain keystones and instead taking a trajectory different from the twenty-first century I remembered.

As soon as the trains began making regular trips along the tracks, buildings sprung up overnight like mushrooms after rain. Industrial-grade technology bloomed, some even daring to experiment with modern concrete or substances nearly identical to it. The rhythm of Enmar changed, no longer the sluggish crawl of survival, but the pounding beat of progress.

The old church, too, had changed. Where once it was a place of ruin, now it stood refurbished, a sanctuary with gleaming walls and repaired glass. Lydia took to the pulpit with ease, giving sermons when she could. I had half-expected resistance, but it turned out the faith of Silver Promise was more tolerant than I assumed, allowing ordained faithful, man or woman, to preach. There was comfort in seeing her smile at the gathered faithful, staff in hand, fire in her voice.

For the first time since arriving in this world, peace felt tangible. Yet that peace never reached Nira. If anything, her condition worsened. She would stir from her sleep at night, eyes wide, voice trembling.

“Dad,” she whispered one night, clinging to me as though I could vanish at any moment. “You won’t leave me, right?”

“I won’t,” I told her. It was the truth and the lie tangled into one.

Her memory had fractured to the point she no longer remembered I wasn’t her father. She spoke to me freely, even when strangers were in the room. The sight broke me every time, but what could I do? I had already refurbished another property, shaping it into an orphanage so that children her age might learn and play together in a better environment. Helpers had been hired, along with a physician whose entire task was tending to Nira and overseeing her therapy. Yet despite all of this, there had been no progress. The shadows clung to her too tightly.

I stood by the window one late evening, watching the glow of the city’s new factories burn into the horizon, when the door creaked open. Lydia stepped inside, staff in one hand, a travel bag slung across her back. Her expression was steady and resolute.

“I am ready,” she said. “Let’s go.”

One final gambit. One adventure.