Dmitry shifted his grip on his weapon with practiced caution, moving slowly to avoid any unnecessary sound, though he kept the barrel pointed firmly at the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Koen press himself into the back of his chair, transforming into a motionless shadow.
The small spark in Bruno’s palm flared for a moment, illuminating the moneylender’s face. He was no longer the "old miser." This was a predator who had allowed himself to wear the mask of a merchant for a time, but now, he was bored with the game.
“We came here to dine and discuss business,” Bruno continued, the flame on his hand shifting from a warm orange to a deathly, spectral blue. “Master Dmitri is as much my guest as he is the Baron’s. And I would very much dislike for our hospitality to end in bloodletting. You shouldn't get so worked up, Oliver. Your face is the color of a ripe plum.”
Dmitry noted to himself: Bruno saw Hoof’s symptoms too. Or perhaps he simply knew exactly which pressure points to push.
“Light... light the fire, you old devil,” Hoof wheezed. The authority had vanished from his voice, replaced by the raw panic of a man realizing his gold couldn't protect him from a spark capable of turning this manor to ash in seconds.
“No-o-o,” Bruno drawled, his eyes fixed on the tiny petal of flame in his palm. “First, I shall explain a few things.”
The old man’s voice, usually dry and raspy, took on a resonant depth that made the shadows on the walls vibrate.
“Koen is the proud son of an ancient house. Yes, for various reasons, his house has fallen into decay, but he remains an aristocrat, bearing the burden of power with the blessing of the late King. Disrespecting him, Oliver, is a spit in the face of the Crown. Keep that in mind.”
Bruno slowly turned his wrist, the light catching Dmitry’s face.
“And Master Dmitri is his guest. And, as I suspect, his confidant. A man of an exceptionally sharp mind. We can only guess at his true capabilities, but the facts speak for themselves. For instance, with this ‘club’ here,” Bruno nodded toward the Benelli Dmitry still gripped, “he single-handedly tore five wights to shreds yesterday morning. Hans whispered to my nephew that the creatures were simply... obliterated.”
Bruno paused, giving Hoof a moment to digest what he’d just heard.
“So think, Oliver, about how and with whom you are speaking. These are not your clerks you can just silence. If your business is dear to you—show some diplomatic tact. I know you’re capable of it when you want to be.”
The silence in the dining room became almost tactile. The only sound was the stone of the fireplace cooling. Finally, Hoof let out a long, whistling breath. The rage evaporated, leaving only heavy breathing and fear.
“Yes... you’re right, as always, Bruno. I snapped. I don’t know what came over me...”
Hoof rubbed his temples, his face looking almost purple in the flickering magical light.
“My head is failing me. It’s splitting so hard I’m seeing sparks. It hurts, damn it... I can’t stand it...”
Dmitry listened, and in his mind—wired for the clear algorithms of first aid—a plan formed instantly. He remembered the small plastic vial in the side pocket of his backpack. There, among the bandages and antiseptics, lay Captopril—a rapid way to drop blood pressure. He’d packed it "just in case," knowing his own tendency for migraines after heavy exertion.
It seemed the case had arrived. It was time for modern chemistry to settle a medieval diplomatic crisis. If he "removed" this pain now, Hoof would become far more cooperative.
“Master Bruno,” Dmitry said quietly, breaking the silence. “Bring back the light, please. I believe I can help our host with his... ailment.”
Bruno raised an eyebrow inquisitively but didn't argue. With a light snap of his fingers, the candles, lamps, and fireplace roared to life simultaneously, flooding the room with a bright, almost festive light.
Hoof winced, groaning from the sharp pain in his eyes, and Dmitry knew he couldn't delay. The crisis was on the threshold.
Dmitry didn't wait for Hoof to recover from the light shock. Smoothly, without sudden movements, he released the forend of the shotgun—the weapon tapped softly against the chair leg. His hand dove habitually into his pack, fingers unerringly finding the correct container.
The light, dry click of the plastic lid sounded like the cocking of a hammer in the silent room. Every eye—Hoof’s bloodshot gaze and Bruno’s narrowed eyes—was now fixed on Dmitry’s palm. On it lay a tiny, almost weightless white tablet. In this world of pungent salves and murky tinctures, this perfectly even disc looked disturbingly artificial.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Dmitry carefully handed the tablet to Bruno. He understood that Hoof was unlikely to take anything from the hands of the "drifter" he had just threatened. The usurer was the only bridge of trust.
“Tell him to put it under his tongue,” Dmitry’s voice was steady, with the specific tone of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. “Do not swallow. Do not chew. And most importantly: no alcohol today. Master Oliver, you’ll feel better before the servants bring out dessert. I promise.”
Bruno inspected the "artifact" with curiosity, rolling it between his fingers, before passing it to the master of the manor with a short gesture.
Hoof hesitated. He looked from the tablet to Dmitry, his breath coming heavy and raspy. His face still burned a sickly crimson, and a vein pulsed visibly at his temple. The pain clearly outweighed his paranoia. With a short groan, he snatched the white grain and tucked it under his tongue as instructed.
A strange pause hung over the dining room. The tension hadn't vanished, but it had shifted focus. Now, it was anticipation.
Dmitry calmly returned to his plate. He knew the Captopril would start working in ten to fifteen minutes. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Hoof freeze, listening to the sensations inside his own head.
“Eat,” Dmitry said softly to Koen, who was still sitting there looking more dead than alive. “We need our strength. The conversation is only beginning.”
Silence fell. After the recent outburst of rage and magic, no one was eager to break the quiet—everyone simply focused on consuming their food. The only sounds were the clinking of silver against porcelain and Hoof’s heavy breathing, which grew steadier with every passing minute.
Dmitry ate slowly, listening to his own body. The Diclofenac was still holding, but he knew this was a temporary truce with his spine. When he finished eating, he set down his utensils and looked intently at the master of the house.
Hoof’s face no longer resembled an overripe tomato. The crimson hue had been replaced by a healthy pink; the veins in his temples stopped throbbing, and in his eyes—which had been throwing lightning just moments ago—there was now a look of sincere, almost childlike bliss. Oliver leaned back against the high "throne" of his chair and closed his eyes, savoring the moment.
Bruno glanced at Dmitry—there was unmistakable approval in the old mage's eyes. The old man turned to the host: “How are you, Oliver? Still with us?”
“Magnificent…” Hoof exhaled without opening his eyes. His voice had deepened, losing that sickly rasp. “Bruno, I’d forgotten what it was like—to have nothing hurting in my head. It feels as if red-hot coals were lifted out of my skull.”
He opened his eyes and focused his gaze on Dmitry. There was no hatred in that look now—only the greed of a man who had found the fountain of youth.
“I will buy all of this medicine you have, Master Dmitri. Name any price. I swear, I won’t even bargain. Gold, stones, land—ask for whatever you want.”
Dmitry met the gaze calmly. He understood the temptation, but the survivalist’s calculation was stronger than the thirst for profit. He still had his own emergency stash for himself and his "Ark."
“Alas, Master Oliver, this resource is extremely limited,” Dmitry replied evenly. “It is not a commodity, and it is not for sale. These supplies may be needed on my journey, and they cannot be replenished in your lands.”
Hoof visibly darkened, but didn't dare argue—the memory of Bruno’s extinguished flame was still too fresh.
“However,” Dmitry continued, “I can give you some useful recommendations. If you change your habits, you won't need my tablets so often. We can discuss this after breakfast, if you wish.”
“Fine. Agreed,” Hoof nodded, accepting the terms. “Then let us get to business.”
He turned to the servant frozen by the door. Now, the master’s voice was much quieter and calmer, but no less commanding. “And where, in the end, is Amalia? Why is she keeping our guests waiting?”
The servant vanished like a shadow through the heavy doors. Hoof, now completely composed and without that frightening flush, turned to Koen.
“Forgive my lack of restraint, boy,” he said, and for the first time, his voice carried notes of something resembling fatherly concern. “But understand this—I am not your enemy. Though I wasn't your father’s best friend, I owe him a great deal. Just before he died, he asked me to look after you.”
Hoof sighed heavily and locked his massive, ring-adorned fingers together.
“I can do nothing against the titled vultures who are already carving up your barony in their minds. I have gold, but I have no name. Any petty Baron can legally take your head simply because he has a crest and you have an empty treasury. I’ve had to spend mountains of gold just to delay this moment. But if you don’t accept my offer, the end is inevitable.”
He leaned forward, looking Koen straight in the eye.
“I want a better future for my daughter and my future grandchildren. And I want to close this debt to your father. This is a win for both of us: you get the money and my support to revive Rotten Hill, and I get... well, I won't lose out on my own benefits either. Well? Do you agree?”
Koen, still pale, looked openly at Dmitry. His gaze no longer pleaded for rescue—it was a silent question: “What do you think?” But Dmitry didn't have time to answer.
The dining room door swung open. Every head turned in sync toward the sound.
Dmitry, who had seen plenty in his life, felt his eyebrows involuntarily climb. Koen jumped from his seat so sharply that the chair shrieked against the carpet, and he froze like a statue.
A girl stood in the doorway. She was slightly shorter than Koen, and against the backdrop of the house’s tasteless luxury, she looked like a rare flower on a heap of golden manure. A magnificent mane of red hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a lovely face. Dmitry noted the dusting of freckles on her nose, which didn't spoil her looks at all but added a sense of living, earthly charm. Her large green eyes looked at those present with curiosity and slight embarrassment.
She wore a dress—simple by the standards of this house, but impeccably tailored and, most importantly, "appropriate." No screaming velvet or unnecessary gold.
“Good morning,” she said. Her voice matched her appearance: clear, melodic, and devoid of the falseness Dmitry had expected to hear in this home.
Dmitry shifted his gaze to Koen. The boy stood there with his mouth open, completely forgetting about honor, debts, and baronial dignity. It seemed Hoof’s plan had just received the kind of support the old man could only have dreamed of—biological support.
[STATUS: ANOMALY DETECTED] [SECTOR: UNKNOWN WORLD] [SUBJECT: DMITRY ANTONOV]
?? THE STEEL ARK
Hard Survival [Tech Uplift Isekai] ??
He prepared for the end of his world. He ended up saving another.
Dmitry Antonov is not a hero. He is an engineer with a titanium spine, a paranoid mind, and a bank account drained to zero. He spent eight years and thirty million dollars building the "Ark"—a 26-ton expeditionary monster based on a MAN KAT1 military truck. Autonomous. Indestructible. Capable of turning dead wood into diesel fuel. ????
He thought he was ready for anything: sandstorms, financial collapse, isolation.
But when a catastrophic anomaly transports him and his machine to a dying world under two alien moons, Dmitry realizes his manuals are useless. There is no GPS. There is no internet. There is only a poisonous swamp, a crumbling castle ruled by a desperate young Baron, and a magical winter that kills without mercy. ????
In a world where steel rots and magic is fading, Dmitry brings the most terrifying power of all: Engineering. ????
?? INCOMING FEEDBACK:
"These chapters aren't even low quality, these are pretty good!"
— Verified Reader
?? ENGINEERING PRECISION IN EVERY CHAPTER
Authentic tech realism — physics, chemistry, machinery upgrades, grim consequences. Hard survival meets fading magic in a poisoned world.
What to expect:
- ? Hard Sci-Fi vs. Dark Fantasy: Modern technology meets a dying magic system. ???
- ? Competence Porn: A protagonist who solves problems with physics, chemistry, and heavy machinery, not just fireballs. ????
- ? Kingdom Building: Restoring a ruined castle using modern tech. ?????
- ? The Truck: The "Ark" is a character in itself. Upgradable, mobile base. ????
- ? No Harem. Just pure survival. ????