"Amalia, my daughter, do you remember Cohen Prast?" Hoof’s voice was slick now. "You met as children when he and his father stayed with us. And this," he gestured carelessly toward Dmitry, "is his advisor, Master Dmitry. Master Bruno claims he is a hunter of the restless dead."
Hoof uttered the last words in a mock-ominous tone, as if telling a ghost story to a child.
The girl sank into a flawless curtsy, bowing her head. "Good morning, Your Lordship," she said softly to Cohen. Then she turned to the second guest. "Good morning, Master Dmitry. I am glad you have visited our home."
Doesn’t take after her father in manners, it seems, Dmitry noted, professionally assessing her posture. Either he spent a fortune on her education, or her mother was cut from a much finer cloth.
Cohen remained standing with his mouth agape. He didn't move, didn't breathe; he seemed to have forgotten his own name. Watching this monumental awkwardness, Dmitry felt his teeth ache with frustration. My god, kid, you're a Baron, not a salt pillar, he thought.
Dmitry rose, pushing back his chair, and gave Amalia a polite, measured bow.
"Good morning, beautiful Amalia. We are truly delighted by your arrival. Like a ray of spring sunshine, you’ve chased away the gloom of our purely masculine conversation. We would be honored if you joined us. Isn't that right, Your Lordship?!"
Dmitry intentionally raised his voice, practically drilling the words into the frozen Baron’s ears. Cohen flinched as if struck by a live wire and finally found his voice.
"Yes… yes, good morning, Amalia. You’ve… changed. Grown bigger… I mean… older… anyway…"
Each word was a struggle, and the Baron’s face flushed a deeper shade of crimson with every syllable. He was tangled in his own thoughts like a fly in a spiderweb. Dmitry mentally facepalmed, experiencing a massive wave of second-hand embarrassment. He glanced at Bruno; the old man was openly enjoying the spectacle, a genuine, grandfatherly smile on his face.
"Anyway, you look better… sit with us, here…" Cohen awkwardly pulled out the chair next to him. Amalia, judging by her calm expression, was unimpressed by the Baron’s antics but not repelled either. She took her seat with practiced grace, smoothing the folds of her dress.
As the commotion settled, Hoof turned back to Cohen. His tone shifted instantly. He was no longer the doting father; he was the cunning shell-game player setting the cups back on the table.
"And what is your answer to my proposal, Cohen Prast?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
The question hit Cohen like a bucket of ice water. The romantic fog in his eyes vanished, replaced by the harsh weight of reality. He straightened his back and, to Dmitry’s surprise, spoke with unexpected firmness.
"I need to consult with my… advisor."
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Hoof paused for a second, clearly not expecting such independence, but then nodded easily. "Excellent. A sensible approach. I expect a decision by lunch."
The rest of breakfast passed quietly. Bruno and Hoof spoke in low voices about port news—the arrival of a massive Leviathan and rumors of a Royal Legate coming with it. Amalia and Cohen only traded occasional glances. While the Baron was still radiating awkwardness, the girl maintained the icy composure of someone who knew her exact worth.
After breakfast, Hoof excused himself for "urgent trade business." Amalia was whisked away by a stern dance mistress—Oliver was clearly determined to forge his daughter into a perfect Baroness.
Dmitry, Cohen, and Bruno stepped out into the mansion’s courtyard for a walk. Once in the fresh air, Dmitry instinctively reached for his pocket. His fingers found the pack, and a cigarette emerged. A sharp metallic click of his Zippo, a flash of flame, and a foul cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the damp autumn air.
Cohen was used to this ritual, but Bruno simply arched an eyebrow, watching Dmitry take a deep drag. Overcoming the initial sting in his throat—the local air didn't mix well with cheap tobacco—Dmitry exhaled a stream of smoke and squinted.
"So… cough… what are your thoughts?"
Bruno spoke first, walking slowly with his hands behind his back. "Well, I covered for you as best I could. Tricks like the one in the dining room don't come cheap—they require power and a certain reputation. However, the deal is worth it, Master Dmitry. I’m still on your side. If things go sideways, I’ll help you get out of the city. But as for the proposal… I think it’s a solid one."
"Understood, Master Bruno," Dmitry nodded. He turned to the Baron. "And you, Cohen?"
The boy stood staring into the void of eternity. A shadow of the bewilderment he felt upon seeing Amalia still lingered on his face. He snapped out of it, meeting Dmitry’s gaze. "I feel like fate is mocking me. I no longer find the idea repulsive. On the contrary. I am inclined to accept Hoof’s offer."
"I bet!" Dmitry let out a short laugh. "You looked like a sober freshman at a party seeing a live girl for the first time! Don't worry about it," Dmitry cut off any questions about what a "freshman" or a "party" was. "If we’re all in, we need to shake Oliver down for everything he's worth. Strike while the iron is hot and he's still impressed by my 'magic' pill."
Dmitry took another drag, calculating the logistics.
"We start with the castle restoration. No promises—we want workers, and we want them moving immediately. We’ll pitch it as 'care for his daughter.' He wouldn't send her to live in a damp barn, would he? No offense, Cohen, but that’s exactly what Rotten Hill looks like right now."
Cohen grimaced but nodded, acknowledging the truth.
"Next, my business," Dmitry continued, ticking off fingers. "I need woodcutters. The BTL unit in the Ark is a hungry beast; I need at least two tons of dry wood, preferably more. So, the lumberjacks come with us. And since the undead aren't going anywhere—let Oliver hire soldiers for the caravan. Any objections?"
Bruno, listening intently, shook his head but intervened. "I’ll help hire the soldiers. It’ll be cheaper and more reliable. There are a few units sitting idle right now who wouldn't work for a nouveau riche like Hoof. The Marsh Walkers. They’re specialists when it comes to the restless dead. They know how to cut what’s already dead."
"I’ve heard of them. Who are they, exactly?" Dmitry tried to regain his cold tone, though his pulse was racing with excitement. "People say Hoof took their base in the river port."
Bruno squinted at the smoke. "Essentially, they’re smugglers. They cross the Great Marshes into the Empire, carrying goods past royal outposts. Mostly alchemical ingredients—easier to carry, worth a year’s tavern revenue. Sometimes they harvest things in the bogs: snake skins, rare roots... Some desperate souls haul marsh iron. High effort, low pay, but it works for village smiths. Then there's marsh oil..."
"What did you say?!" Dmitry turned sharply to the old man. Steel rang in his voice, making Cohen flinch.
Bruno blinked in confusion. "I said the iron isn't profitable. It's heavy, breaks your back, earns you coppers..."
"No! About the oil. The marsh oil!"
"Oh, that…" Bruno shrugged. "They skim it off black puddles. Viscous junk, smells terrible. They usually use it to grease cartwheels so they don't squeak, or they burn it in lamps, but that’s only for the truly poor. It smokes like hell—more soot than light. Why do you care?"
[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. ????