The sheet of elven woodweave bent beneath Zeke's fingers like silk, yielding to the gentlest touch with an almost liquid grace. Anyone observing might dismiss it as fragile, a decorative material meant for ornament rather than function. The delicate way it flexed under pressure, the paper-thin profile, the way light seemed to pass through its grain—all of it suggested weakness.
They would be catastrophically wrong.
Zeke's muscles corded as he applied more force, tendons standing out like steel cables beneath his skin. His hands, strengthened by years of draconic essence flowing through his veins, could crush stone to powder. Yet the woodweave merely flexed, patient and unbothered, as if his efforts were nothing more than a gentle breeze.
He twisted, pulled, even tried to fold it back on itself. The material flowed with each motion, never resisting, never breaking. When he finally released it, the sheet returned to its original form without so much as a crease.
Remarkable.
Among Grandmages, few could match the raw physical power of a Blood Mage enhanced by draconic essence. Zeke's body had been honed to the very peak of what his rank allowed. Yet this whisper-thin material treated his full strength as an inconvenience at best.
Under different circumstances, such resistance might have frustrated him. Today, it only widened the grin spreading across his face.
After a few more experimental tugs, each as futile as the last, he carefully returned the sheet to its stack. Dozens more waited beside it, each piece worth more than most merchants saw in a year.
His gaze swept across the transformed workshop. What had once been an orderly space now resembled a dragon's hoard reimagined by a particularly meticulous quartermaster. Crates of dwarven steel gleamed with an inner light, their surfaces etched with runes that seemed to shift when viewed peripherally. Bundles of elven wood lay wrapped in specially woven cloth, their sweet scent mixing with the sharp tang of metal and oil. Crystal components from the depths of dwarven mines caught the lamplight, throwing rainbow patterns across the walls.
"It’s ironic, isn’t it?" he murmured.
"What is?" Jettero asked from somewhere nearby. The old man was busy directing a few workers who were installing a complex hinge on the bare skeleton of an airship.
Zeke picked up another piece of woodweave, running his fingers along its impossibly smooth surface. "Here we are, holding the greatest collection of rare materials in all of Tradespire. The finest elven woodcraft, marvels of dwarven metallurgy, a collection unmatched by anyone else in the city, not even Midas and his Merchant Lords."
Zeke paused, letting that statement settle. "And yet, just last week, I had to send the servants to three different smithies just to find replacement hinges for the manor's kitchen door..."
Jettero remained quiet. He knew just as well how dire their situation had become since Azra had begun to move.
In silence, the two watched the bustling workshop, where mechanics and craftsmen busied themselves with the new prototype. The arrival of the new materials had breathed new life into the crew.
The chance to work with such exotic resources was a privilege that even the most distinguished craftsmen in Tradespire could only dream of. And yet, here, they could do so every day. Perhaps they were the first among humans to access these materials so freely. After all, there could be no more than a handful of people with favorable ties to both foreign races.
Azra’s embargo had forced Zeke to source every single piece of ore, every screw, every sheet of pliewood from outside of Tradespire. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get anything locally, but he was simply done with being stood up or having contracts broken at the last moment.
What he was building here was too important, and he was tired of dealing with people who could be swayed by Azra’s whispers.
That was when Zeke remembered the other channels he had in place.
The elves had all but guaranteed him a monopoly on many of their rarer goods. As for the dwarves, he had signed a large trade agreement that allowed him to purchase a fixed quantity of their finest creations below market rate.
Though these resources had originally been intended for the reconstruction of Undercity, his current project took precedence. And at least with these trading partners, he could be confident they would honor their word.
He almost wanted Azra to try persuading the elves and dwarves to back out of their agreements. With the Empire’s current reputation, the elves might even offer Zeke a generous discount once they realized how badly the Empire wanted to keep those goods out of his hands.
The marriage of elven and dwarven materials had produced something neither race had imagined. Where dwarven steel met elven wood, new possibilities bloomed. Joints that should have been points of weakness instead became the strongest parts of the structure. Alloys that had never been meant to touch organic material bonded with woodweave as if they had been waiting centuries to meet.
Even now, Zeke could already tell that this airship would be a different beast altogether.
The designs had evolved through countless iterations, constantly refined by Akasha’s relentless mind. Then improved further by Gunner and his dwarven contacts, only to be completely reimagined into what it has become today.
They had preserved only the best, discarding anything unnecessary. It was the distilled essence of all they had learned while dominating the airship market for years. A perfect fusion of function and purpose, without a trace of luxury or ornament.
As Zeke looked up at the looming form of the first prototype towering above him, a tingle ran up his spine, and goosebumps rose on his arms.
The others might not have realized it yet, but he was keenly aware of what they were creating in this workshop. This would not just be another popular product or a way to earn a quick profit. It carried the scent of history, the kind of moment that would be remembered as a turning point in the pages of time.
For the first time in a long while, Zeke was reminded of the immense advantage held by concentrated knowledge. While the exotic materials played a major role, it was truly the fusion of disciplines that allowed him to accomplish what others could only dream of. Engineering, enchantment, runecrafting, materialology, blacksmithing, carpentry—the list of fields was longer than any human could master in a single lifetime. And yet, thanks to Akasha’s ability to absorb knowledge like a sponge, he could rely on her to visualize, analyze, and optimize such complex systems with ease.
Honestly, Zeke doubted that any living person aside from perhaps Augustus Geistreich himself had the mental capacity to compete with what he and Akasha had created here.
Even Jettero and the other engineers understood only fragments of the greater whole. They were experts in their fields, no doubt, but much of the design remained beyond their grasp, leaving them to follow his plans with faith rather than comprehension.
Only he could see the complete picture, the vision that had shaped this creation from the very beginning. Every single aspect was perfectly in sync with the others. It went beyond cooperation; it was the kind of fusion that could only be conceived by a single mind mastering every last discipline.
For a long while, Zeke simply stood there, watching as his vision slowly came to life under the skilled hands of his crew.
"How long?" The question emerged without conscious thought.
Jettero had drifted to his side, close enough to speak without shouting over the workshop's din. "Two weeks if we push. Three if we want to avoid mistakes."
"Two weeks then." Zeke ignored the old man's immediate scowl. Jett wouldn’t like it, but he'd deliver. He always did. "I'll make the arrangements."
"…What arrangements?"
Zeke smiled at him. "You'll see."
He left before Jettero could press further, mind already racing ahead to what needed doing. Two weeks felt like an eternity when anticipation burned this hot in his chest.
He could complete the prototype himself in perhaps three days, with Akasha's help. Her projection could manipulate dozens of tools simultaneously while he handled the delicate work. But that would defeat the purpose. Unless he planned to spend his life building airships by hand, he needed his craftsmen to understand the process.
Besides, his time was already stretched gossamer-thin. Between his public lectures—now drawing crowds that spilled out of the old theater—his painstaking work developing his Blood concept, and the constant refinements to the World Anchor's internal realm, sleep had become a half-remembered luxury.
Yet despite the rational reasons for patience, part of him wanted nothing more than to lock himself in the workshop and build the damned thing himself. To see Azra's face when he realized...
The thought warmed him better than wine.
By now, the ambassador was probably celebrating his victory in whatever manner spiders celebrated. Every metric would tell him he had won. Gondola sales hadn't just slowed—they had ceased entirely. Clients were paying ruinous penalties to escape their contracts rather than be associated with Zeke's name. The merchant elite had closed ranks, leaving him isolated on his little island of principle.
From Azra's perspective, Zeke was a sinking ship, and the rats were swimming for shore with admirable coordination.
The fools had no idea what awaited them.
Did they think Azra would maintain his generous promises once Zeke was crushed? That the spider would continue spinning gold for flies that had outlived their usefulness? Zeke almost pitied them. Almost.
They had chosen their side with mercenary calculation. They would reap mercenary rewards—which was to say, nothing at all.
But their eventual disappointment was a sideshow. The main event would be Azra's reaction when he realized how thoroughly he had been outmaneuvered.
The lack of interference with Zeke's public lectures revealed everything about Azra's priorities. The man cared nothing for the common people. They were beneath his notice, their opinions as relevant as the chirping of birds. Instead, he had focused all his efforts on turning high society against Zeke.
A strategy that might have worked, had he given a single damn about high society's opinion.
The truth was, Zeke owed Azra a debt of gratitude. The spider's persecution had been a gift wrapped in thorns.
No more tedious soirées where he had to pretend interest in some lady’s poetry or some lord’s wine collection. No more careful political dancing, weighing every word for hidden meanings. Azra had liberated him from those golden chains.
Better still, the crisis had revealed who truly stood with him. The fair-weather friends had fled at the first sign of storms. Those who remained—few though they were—had proven their worth beyond question.
And perhaps most importantly, Azra's attacks had reminded him of Maximilian's dream. Not to raise himself up to join the elite, but to raise everyone to their potential. The public lectures had rekindled something Zeke hadn't realized was growing cold, and even the business catastrophe would ultimately strengthen him.
The pressure had been crushing, yes. But Zeke had been formed in harsher crucibles than social ostracism. He had walked through literal fire, faced down Progenitor beasts, and survived the attention of beings that could end him with a thought.
What were one man’s schemes compared to that?
Pressure created diamonds. And in two weeks, he would show them all what pressures had forged him into.
His study door closed behind him with a soft click. Alone at last, Zeke allowed his face to show what he had been feeling all day. Not a diplomatic smile or careful neutrality. This was something altogether more feral: a grin that belonged on a predator who had just noticed the hunter's trap was actually a dinner invitation.
His desk waited, cleared of its usual clutter. Fresh parchment lay stacked beside ink that cost more per bottle than most families saw in a month. For what he had planned, only the best would suffice.
He could have had Akasha handle the correspondence. Her forgeries were perfect, her understanding of social nuance had grown remarkably sophisticated. But this required his personal touch.
One by one, he began to write.
Each letter was a masterpiece of calculated wording. He deployed every remaining favor, every lingering connection, every scrap of credibility he had not yet burned. The promises he made were lavish enough to draw interest, and yet vague enough to inspire curiosity.
Sonnenstrahl, Thorsten, Bloodsword, Raja…
If this failed, if the demonstration fell short of these elaborate promises, he wouldn't merely lose face. He would be a laughingstock for generations. A desperate child who promised the moon and delivered a pebble.
The thought didn't slow his pen for an instant.
Letter after letter took shape beneath his hands. By the time he finished, twelve sealed envelopes sat on his desk, each addressed to someone whose attendance would make the continental elite take notice.
Zeke leaned back, rolling his shoulders to work out the knots from hunching over parchment. The stack of letters seemed to mock him with their potential for catastrophe.
He smiled at them like old friends.
In two weeks, everything would change. The world would see what happened when you backed Ezekiel von Hohenheim into a corner.
He could hardly wait.
But anticipation was a luxury he couldn't afford just yet. The letters would go out within the hour, carried by Akasha's most discreet methods. For now, he had a lecture to prepare. Another crowd of eager faces, waiting to learn what the academies denied them.
The future would arrive in its own time. The present had work enough for any man.