My Perfect Isekai: Pragmatic Protagonist, Progression Fantasy and Strategy

The air inside the kitchen of the new black basalt manor below Crossgard had the thickness of a hot, humid shroud. The aroma rising above the massive tile stove was so intense that it almost physically settled on the walls of dark basalt. It was a heavy, predatory composition – the smoky scent of roasted game, the resinous note of mountain juniper, and the sharp, nose-tingling aroma of savory herbs that Mina had sourced from the Lower City through Silas’s contacts.

The cat-girl cook stood beside a great copper cauldron, wielding a large wooden spoon with the expression of a commander preparing an assault on a fortress. Her fluffy tail beat rhythmically against the oak platform of the stove, and in her yellow, bead-like eyes burned the frenzy of a culinary overclock. According to her own feline logic, she was preparing a broth for Shnee and Karys that could raise a dead titan to its feet. The girls were gearing up for their first multi-day raid into the deep, wild dungeons of Crossgard, so Mina had decided to reduce twenty liters of rich bone broth from forest beasts down to the consistency of a liquid, oily paste.

”Just two more handfuls of powdered ginseng root... and five measures of congealed shadow-lynx blood...” Mina muttered to herself, leaning over the steaming cauldron. ”When they drink this, their conduits will roar like a giga-furnace for thirty hours straight without stopping! Zero fatigue, pure caloric dominance!”

At that moment, Elena entered the spotlessly clean kitchen. The manager of the manor, dressed in a simple, dark gown with rolled-up sleeves, moved with a silent, military grace. Her vigilant gray eyes immediately swept over the cauldron, the steam settling on the basalt, and the mucky, dark purple suspension bubbling in the copper.

Elena approached the stove without a word. She extended her hand, took the wooden spoon from Mina’s hands, scooped up a drop of the paste, and carefully touched it to her tongue.

For a fraction of a second, a microscopic shadow of a wince appeared on her stoic, mature face. She spat the sample into the sink and set the spoon down on the oak countertop with a quiet, sterile clink.

”Mina,” Elena spoke in the low, calm voice of a former guard captain. ”This is not tank fuel. This is mucky tar.”

”What?!” Mina sniffed, standing with her hands on her hips. ”This is the most concentrated, high-calorie recovery potion I’ve ever cooked! Half a cup of this broth provides double muscle mass and immediate mend of micro-fractures in the conduits!”

”Think about it practically, Mina,” Elena replied, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at the cook with a maternal yet unyielding gravity. ”Analyze this through the logic of combat. Shnee and Karys won’t be lying in bed after surgery. They will be dodging in fractions of a second, leaping over acid pools on the deep floors. If you pour this mucky sludge into them, their stomachs will suffer a massive lag under pressure spikes and combat stress. They’ll get intestinal cramps and severe heartburn right in the middle of a monster charge. Instead of a smooth Lynx Footwork dodge, Karys will tense up in abdominal pain and take a strike to the spine.”

Mina froze with her mouth open. Her cat ears nearly lost their upright posture. She swallowed hard, rapidly processing this military verdict.

”Heartburn... during a dodge?” she blurted softly.

”Exactly,” Elena summarized. ”Dilute this concentrate with pure spring water by a full third. You’ll retain eighty percent of the caloric density, but the liquid will be light on the stomach and absorb instantly into the bloodstream without straining digestion. You’re supposed to maintain their engines, not clog them.”

Mina looked into the cauldron, then at Elena, whereupon her cat ears slowly rose back up.

”Fine,” she grumbled, reaching for an adjacent clay pitcher of clean water. ”You’re right. Combat logistics is your domain. But I’m refining the herb mix my way!”

”I’ll gladly allow that,” Elena answered with a rare, barely perceptible shadow of a smile, before turning and heading toward the dining room.

The dining room of the black manor had temporarily transformed into the operations center of a predatory syndicate. On the large, heavy table of dark oak – the very one Dave had bought during his furniture blitzkrieg in the Upper City – stood no decorative bowls; instead, carefully sorted trade reports, Crossgard tax maps, and leather-bound ledgers piled high.

Seated at the table was Luthia. Her long, lustrous white hair fell over her shoulders, contrasting with her dark silhouette and the deep violet of her simple, elegant corset. The dark elf held a quill in her hand, running a slender finger down columns of figures supplied by Silas. Her sharp, yellow eyes analyzed every single copper coin that had flowed out of their budget since taking over the manor.

In her long, two-hundred-and-twenty-two-year life, Luthia had witnessed the birth and collapse of merchant dynasties, the flourishing of cities, and the corruption of officials. To her, what was unfolding in Crossgard was a simple, almost boring game of chess. The only unpredictable variable in her calculations so far had been Dave – his chaotic, aggressive pragmatism could shatter any logical arrangement, only to create something lethally effective from its rubble moments later. Now, while their leader underwent a year-long training in the wilderness with the blind Master, the entire responsibility for market dominance rested on her and Elena’s shoulders.

”How stand our affairs with the craftsmen in the Upper City?” Elena asked, entering the dining room and sitting down opposite the dark elf.

”Poorly,” Luthia answered briefly, without looking up from the parchment. ”The local armorer’s guild in the Upper City is trying to impose a ’newcomers’ markup’ on us. Since we aren’t registered as an official clan in the local city registry, Guildmaster Berthold considers us an easy target. He demanded double the rate to craft armor for Karys according to your specifications.”

Elena narrowed her eyes slightly, a cold, dangerous glint of a former commander appearing in her gaze.

”The armor for Karys is crucial,” Elena stated firmly. ”Her fighting style relies on extreme mobility in the shadows and operating her tentacle-tail, but at the base of her spine, she needs flexible steel plates. They must protect the sensitive node of her Vessel from damage without restricting the dynamic twists of her hips. An ordinary tailor cannot sew this. Berthold is the only one in this district with the proper furnaces and technology for quenching carbon steel onto flexible leather strips from forest beasts.”

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”I know,” Luthia replied calmly, rising from her chair and smoothing her gown. ”Which is why we won’t negotiate with him through intermediaries. We are going there in person. Prepare the specifications and bring what Shnee and Karys retrieved from yesterday’s dungeon reconnaissance. It is time to show these craftsmen that monopoly works both ways.”

The headquarters of the Armorer’s Guild in the Upper City dripped with wealth designed to intimidate clients. The walls were panelled in light, imported oak, and on carved stands gleamed ceremonial armors adorned with gold and the crests of Halgardian noble houses. The air carried the scent of expensive wax, polished steel, and arrogance.

Behind a carved counter of dark mahogany sat the guildmaster – a massive, corpulent man named Berthold, dressed in a luxurious purple kaftan with silk trimmings. His hands, though bearing traces of past labor with a smith’s hammer, were now hung with heavy gold signet rings.

When Luthia and Elena crossed the threshold of the workshop, Berthold barely raised his eyes. On his fat face painted an expression of condescension and weariness. He pleased himself thinking he was dealing with helpless refugees seeking alms.

”My ladies,” he began in a patronizing, greasy tone, resting his thick forearms on the counter. ”If you come regarding an order for light leather armor, I fear my schedule is booked for the next two moons. Furthermore, the prices I presented to your messenger are final. Guild standards require appropriate compensation for custom designs. Especially for... non-human warriors.”

Luthia approached the counter with impeccable, aristocratic grace. Her cold, yellow eyes rested on the armorer with as much indifference as if she were looking at a cracked paving stone. She did not raise her voice, and her delivery was flawlessly distinguished, devoid of any emotion.

”Master Berthold,” Luthia spoke, her words cutting through the muggy air of the workshop with surgical precision. ”The price you propose exceeds the cost of importing finished plate steel from Halgard itself by exactly forty-two percent. Your monopoly within these walls does not extend to the open trade roads, which – as you surely know – have been considerably safer since last week thanks to a purge conducted by our people.”

The armorer shifted uncomfortably in his chair, startled by the woman’s icy professionalism and calculations.

”The guild sets the prices, not I...” he tried to interrupt, but Luthia raised a hand slightly, silencing him with the gesture alone.

”Furthermore,” the dark elf continued, reaching for a small leather pouch at her belt, ”we possess liquid assets that might interest you greatly.”

Luthia placed upon the dark mahogany a impeccably cleansed, gleaming amethyst mana core that Shnee and Karys had farmed on the deep floors of the dungeon below Crossgard. The crystal was the size of a small child’s fist and throbbed with deep, dense violet energy. In the luxurious interior of the workshop, a subtle, metallic scent of pure ether immediately spread.

At this sight, Berthold was literally struck speechless. His eyes widened, and greed instantly displaced his previous arrogance. As a craftsman, he knew perfectly well that cores of such purity were the key to crafting powerful, magic-infused armaments and cost a fortune on the black market.

”This is... pure ether from the deep floors,” he stammered, extending a trembling hand toward the crystal.

Luthia covered the core with her hand, preventing him from touching it. Her smile was as cold as mountain peaks.

”The logic of this market is remarkably simple, master,” she said coldly. ”Either you accept this core as full and final payment for Karys’s armor, crafted strictly according to Elena’s specifications within the next three days, or this crystal – along with this modest pouch containing ten more in our possession – goes directly to Master Alden’s workshop in the Lower City.”

Berthold paled slightly, his fat neck turning mottled crimson.

”Alden... is a renegade! He doesn’t belong to the guild!”

”Alden is your greatest competitor, who for years has been trying to secure the contract to supply armor for the city guard,” Elena interjected, stepping forward.

Her hand rested on the hilt of the simple sword at her belt. She made no sudden movement, but her posture, coldness, and the pride of a former military commander made Berthold feel cold sweat on his back.

”Ensure, master,” Elena continued, looking him straight in the eye with an unyielding calm, ”that the seams of the armor are double-reinforced with thread from basilisk leather, and the steel plates are quenched in oil at a constant temperature. I will personally inspect the quality of every rivet. My standards are considerably higher than those tolerated by the city guard. And believe me, I can spot the smallest flaw in steel from a distance of several paces. If the armor fails to meet requirements, we will return. And then the terms of our agreement will not be so favorable.”

Berthold looked at the gleaming amethyst core, then at the icy, distinguished dark elf, and finally at the silent, lethally calm Elena. Pure economic calculation and self-preservation quickly aligned in his mind to the only logical conclusion.

”Three days,” he squeezed out, reaching out a trembling hand for the parchment specification. ”The armor will be ready. Without any markup.”

Luthia slowly withdrew her hand, allowing him to take the crystal.

”Excellently,” she summarized coldly. ”Logic always triumphs over greed, Master Berthold. I wish you fruitful labor.”

The crimson sun was slowly setting over the black forest, painting the sky above Crossgard in deep shades of blood and gold. The dark, basalt walls of the new manor gleamed in this light with a stark, secure radiance.

In the dining room reigned a pleasant twilight, broken only by the warm flames of candles and the glow of the fireplace. Steaming bowls of Mina’s stew landed on the table – now, after Elena’s adjustment, perfectly balanced, aromatically fragrant, and providing a powerful yet gentle surge of vital strength.

Shnee and Karys sat beside each other. The Snowy Diamond, divested of her former paralyzing fear, looked proud and calm. Her white, distinguished garments were impeccably clean, and in her bright eyes was no longer darkness – only focus and readiness. She was chatting with Mina about herb supplies, and on her face rested a rare, authentic tranquility. The trauma of the Red Trail had faded into the shadows, lulled by the safe, familial warmth of this place.

Beside her, Karys, quiet and vigilant as ever, methodically finished her portion. The girl from the Black Fenrir tribe felt her Vessel slowly growing in strength under the influence of the powerful energetic background of the manor’s basalt walls, which Dave had designed with their development in mind. Time and again she glanced at the sapphire ”D” seal on her hand, which gave her a sense of absolute belonging to the family.

Luthia and Elena sat down at the table, and Luthia gave a brief nod toward Shnee.

”The contract for Karys’s armor has been signed on our terms. In three days, we retrieve the equipment from the Armorer’s Guild.”

”Excellently,” Shnee replied, her voice clear and melodious. ”Our reconnaissance confirmed that the entrance to the third zone of the dungeon is stable. We can move out as soon as Karys receives spine protection.”

Dave was not in the manor – his physical presence had been replaced by a rigorous, year-long training on the basalt wilderness. Yet his spirit – the pursuit of perfection, the rejection of wasteful chaos, and ruthless loyalty to his own family – hovered over this table like an invisible suit of armor.

The girls were not helpless damsels waiting for their leader’s return. They were a well-oiled, lethal, and ruthlessly logical combat-logistics machine that slowly, step by step, was building an indestructible empire in the heart of Crossgard.

The machine operated flawlessly. And when their predator returned from his training, he would find a sanctuary that no one in this world would dare violate.