Ch 470: The First Collapse

The wind carried the smell of scorched ink and damp parchment.

In the heart of the trade-heavy province, within a tall, arch-windowed counting hall that once rang with the laughter of guild brokers and coinlords, silence now held dominion. The Guild of Weighted Trade—the second-most powerful among the five ruling trade houses—had shuttered its doors.

Not from bankruptcy. From irrelevance.

Outside, the streets bustled with a different kind of energy. Wooden carts with clever, gear-cranked wheels rolled smoothly over uneven cobbles. Iron levers, chain-pulleys, and barrel-turners—all from Kalem's open blueprints—were everywhere. New trader families, who just weeks before could barely afford a booth, now operated fleets of carts and mills. Some had even formed their own co-ops, pooling coin not to crush one another, but to expand.

It was not magic.

It was not revolution.

It was design. Simple and free.

And it had shaken the first tower.

Garrick sipped from a clay cup as he stood beside Kalem beneath a wide awning in the plaza.

"Guild of Weighted Trade is done," he said, motioning toward the iron-braced doors of the counting hall. "Five lords have left the city. Three more have sent letters begging for arbitration from the Merchant Tribunal of Hollowglass. Even the toll-collectors fled."

Kalem didn't speak. He was hunched over the base of a wide-spoked wheel, tightening a bolt. His shirt hung from a nearby beam, soaked with sweat. His back was marked with long pale scars, old and faded, as though carved by time itself.

"You're ignoring the news again," Garrick noted.

Kalem grunted. "Not ignoring. Just already knew."

He finished the bolt and spun the wheel. It whirred cleanly, effortlessly. Then he leaned back, wiping his hands on a cloth.

"I gave them the tools," he said, "and they built something. Not a kingdom. Not a rebellion. Just a better way."

"And in doing so, they're bringing the current order to its knees."

"That's not my fault."

"No," Garrick agreed, "but the kings, guilds, and merchant lords won't care. They'll see a name behind the blueprints. And it won't be theirs."

Elsewhere in the city, within a low-lit chamber behind thick velvet drapes, six merchant lords remained.

The last six.

They sat in half-circle, surrounding a gilded table. Before them lay the open scrolls of debt, the ledgers of labor, and the burnt ruins of their rule.

"Have we any answers?" one demanded, a corpulent man with jeweled fingers.

"No answers," a lean, white-bearded lord replied, "but one name: Kalem. The people call him 'Lord of Armaments.' But it is not arms he deals in now. It is liberation."

"Then we outlaw his devices."

"How?" a third asked, bitterly. "Every boy in the streets can draw the plans now. They pass them in taverns and temples. They sing them in rhyme. There are etchings of his carts in the grain sacks we import!"

"Then we outlaw the man."

There was a long silence.

Then a voice spoke from the shadows near the door. "You will not stop him. Not with decrees. Not with blade. He is not conquering. He is... unfolding."

The lords turned as one. A woman stepped forward, dressed in dust-stained robes, her eyes hidden beneath a veil of soot-dyed silk.

"I bring message," she said, unrolling a parchment.

The letters were crude, written in soot-charcoal.

If you fear tools, your fear is proof enough they were needed. If you want your power, keep it. I only build. But I will not unbuild, not for you, not for anyone. —Kalem.

That evening, Garrick wrote under lanternlight, his voice low as he murmured each word for the sake of the totem etched with memory.

The Guild of Weighted Trade has collapsed. No runes cracked, no palace burned. Yet an entire tower of power has fallen. They will try to claw it back. They will rage, and claim theft. But the truth remains—Kalem stole nothing. He gave. And they do not know how to compete with that.

Kalem was seated nearby, carving teeth into a gear.

"You're writing too much again," Kalem said.

"History demands detail."

"History likes quiet people."

"Then you should've picked up a broom, not a hammer."

Kalem snorted faintly.

Then he looked up. "What would they do if I stopped building?"

Garrick raised a brow. "Do you plan to?"

"No," Kalem admitted. "Just curious."

"Then I'll give you an answer: If you stopped, the people would keep building in your name. If they failed, they'd try again. If they were forbidden, they'd find ways to do it in secret. That's what you've started."

Kalem nodded slowly.

"Good," he said. "Then I don't have to stay forever."

He returned to carving, quiet once more.

Meanwhile, in a high spire far across the province, word reached the archon of the remaining merchant lords. A courier placed the report in trembling hands.

After reading it, the archon crushed the parchment and turned to the gathered blades-for-hire, faces hidden behind steel.

"Find him," she said. "Don't kill him."

A pause.

"Break his hands."