All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 245

The rune-carver grinned. “Of course. It’s all about layering. We etch a set of directional wind runes in a spiral, each one activating in sequence, and add a secondary siphon rune inside the lines. When the water flows through, it gets pulled and stripped of excess mana at the same time.”

They began immediately. Ludger stood nearby, watching every motion carefully as the engineers worked. Rina used a chisel to carve a spiral inside the stone tubing, while the rune-carver etched sigils along the inner grooves, three concentric rings of symbols, each slightly misaligned to create a cascading flow.

When they finished, they poured water through the pipe to test it. The flow began slow—then quickened, drawn by an invisible suction. A faint hiss filled the air as the water’s faint blue glow dimmed; the mana inside it was being siphoned out before it reached the channel.

Ludger crouched beside the mechanism, eyes sharp, studying every detail. “So the sequence matters,” he muttered. “Wind rune, directional anchor, siphon rune… each one reinforcing the next.”

“Exactly,” Rina said without looking up. “It’s like gears in motion, each one keeps the next turning. If you break one link, the whole system collapses.”

Ludger nodded slowly, memorizing the order and pattern. “You just turned a pipe into a mana-filtering pump.”

Rathen crossed his arms, smirking. “That’s Ironhand craftsmanship for you. We build things that don’t break more often than not.”

Lucius chuckled softly, but his tone carried approval. “Good work, everyone. If this holds, we’ll have the labyrinth dry by tomorrow.”

As the engineers kept refining the setup, Ludger stayed close, absorbing everything—the structure, the logic, the tiny adjustments they made to balance airflow and mana flow.

He wasn’t just watching. He was learning—the kind of learning he hadn’t done in far too long. And as he watched the water begin to drain again, faster this time, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of pride.

Maybe this wasn’t magic. Maybe it wasn’t even genius. But it was progress—the kind built with hands, grit, and thought.  And in Ludger’s mind, that kind of creation was worth more than any spell. Besides, he learned once more that he didn’t have to do everything himself.

After the water-siphon system had been installed and tested to everyone’s satisfaction, most of the camp began to wind down. Fires flickered along the beach, and the smell of cooked fish mixed with salt and oil from the engineers’ tools.

But Ludger didn’t rest. He stayed by the workshop area where the Ironhand rune crafters had set up their supplies—tables of chisels, metals, and stone plates marked with layers of chalk lines. They were an older bunch, the kind who had calluses thicker than armor and eyes that gleamed when they talked about precision instead of power.

When Ludger asked if he could sit in, they looked up from their work in surprise.

One of them, a bald man with a beard streaked white, grunted. “Didn’t expect you to be interested, boy. Thought you were just that prodigy who smashes things faster than we can build them.”

Ludger gave a faint smirk. “I like knowing how the things I break actually work.”

That earned a low chuckle from the group, and the old man gestured for him to come closer. “Fair enough. Grab a stool, then. Let’s see if your head’s as sharp as your mana control.”

What started as a short conversation stretched into hours. The rune crafters explained layering theory, the balance between elemental resonance and geometric alignment, and how overlapping inscriptions could either reinforce or cancel each other out.

They drew symbols on the sand, showing him the difference between compression runes and flow runes, and how a craftsman’s pulse of mana, if uneven by even a fraction, could ruin the entire sequence.

Ludger asked questions constantly. Not just how it worked, but why it worked.

He tested small patterns in the sand, matching their rhythm, repeating the incantationless method they showed him until the symbols glowed faintly gold.

By midnight, the old engineers were laughing like they’d just found a long-lost apprentice. “Hells,” one said, “and here we thought every new generation only wanted swords and glory.”

“Most of ’em do,” another added. “They see runes as boring. Too much patience, not enough noise. But this one—he’s different.”

Ludger didn’t deny it. He just kept carving until his fingers ached, eyes fixed on the glowing lines.

A little farther away, Viola and Lucius stood by one of the campfires, watching. The soft orange light flickered across their faces as they listened to the distant murmurs of the group.

Lucius tilted his head slightly, smiling. “Your little brother sure likes to learn all sorts of things,” he said, half-amused, half-genuinely impressed.

Viola frowned faintly, arms crossed. “Yeah,” she said after a pause. “He likes to improve in every way he can. It’s… kind of annoying.”

Lucius raised a brow. “Annoying?”

“He doesn’t care about being stronger than anyone. Doesn’t even care about winning duels,” she said, her voice carrying a mix of irritation and admiration. “He just keeps growing, piece by piece. He studies, adapts, moves on. It’s impossible to catch up with someone like that. Even if I did, it would be useless, it would be just for my ego since he wouldn’t care.”

Lucius chuckled softly. “Sounds like someone’s frustrated.”

Viola’s eyes narrowed. “You’d be frustrated too if you couldn’t beat a ten-year-old who treats fighting like part-time work.”

Lucius laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Fair point.”

Back by the rune tables, Ludger wiped a streak of chalk from his gloves and leaned forward to inspect the glowing sigil the craftsmen had made together. The lines pulsed with perfect rhythm, and for a moment, even the veterans looked proud.

They had seen a boy who could fight like a monster. Now they saw a mind that built like one too.

By the next morning, the results spoke for themselves. When the first light of dawn crept over the ocean and poured through the fog, the entrance of the labyrinth looked almost dry. The shallow water that had once reached their knees had receded to a thin sheet that barely covered the stone floor. Inside, faint rivulets trickled quietly toward the sea channel that Ludger and the Ironhand engineers had built.

It wasn’t perfect yet—but it was working.

As soon as the soldiers noticed, a cheer went up across the camp.

A few Ironhand mercenaries jogged over, grinning wide, and began slapping Ludger hard on the back in thanks.

“Ha! Knew the kid would pull it off!”

“Finally, we can walk in there without soaking our boots!”

“About time someone fixed what the labyrinth broke!”

Each “thank you” came with another heavy thud on his shoulder. Ludger winced with each one, jaw tightening as his balance wobbled slightly.

“Yeah, yeah—thanks,” he muttered, brushing off his coat. “But I didn’t do all of it myself.”

He straightened and pointed toward the group of older rune crafters standing by the supply tent, polishing tools and pretending not to notice the scene. “Those old men deserve a few of those hits too. They did half the work.”

At that, several of the soldiers turned, grinning. “Oh really?”

The rune crafters froze. One of them, a bearded man who had been bragging about their craftsmanship the night before—took a single step back. Another grabbed his tool kit, whispering, “Oh no, not again.”

Then Kharnek turned around, his massive form looming like a mountain. He cracked his neck, spotted the engineers, and smiled far too broadly. “Aye! If it worked, then all of you deserve some appreciation!”

That was all it took. The old men immediately scattered.

One dove behind a cart, another sprinted toward the shore, and a third pretended to suddenly be very busy tightening bolts on a cannon. Their tools clattered as they scrambled away, shouting half-hearted excuses.

Ludger exhaled through his nose, the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth. “Guess they weren’t ready for northern gratitude.”

Kharnek laughed loud enough to shake dust from the tents. “Bah! I only pat hard enough to show respect!”

“Exactly my point,” Ludger said dryly, rubbing his shoulder.

Lucius, standing nearby, chuckled while watching the chaos unfold. “Well, whatever method you used, it worked. The labyrinth’s water levels are down, the engineers are terrified, and morale’s up. I’d call that an absolute win.”

“Yeah,” Ludger said, glancing toward the now-draining entrance. “Not bad for a day’s work.”

The morning wind carried the sound of laughter through the camp, and even the rune crafters—once they peeked out from hiding—couldn’t help but smile. The labyrinth was drying, the path forward was clearer, and for the first time in days, everyone felt like they might actually win this fight.

The labyrinth floor was slick with the thin layer of water that still clung to it, but for fighters who’d seen every kind of battlefield—from muddy plains to frozen ravines—it barely slowed them down. Their boots splashed through puddles as they moved.

When the first runic golem appeared, its metallic joints whining as it turned the corner, Kharnek was already grinning. He charged like a thunderstorm, axe swinging in wide arcs, while Arslan cut in low from the side. Without the knee-deep drag of water to slow them, their rhythm was perfect, hit, pivot, strike. The golem barely managed to raise its spear before Arslan cleaved through its arm, and Kharnek shattered its torso with a downward blow that echoed through the corridor.

It was over in seconds. Faster than before. Cleaner, too. As they advanced, the pace only picked up. The team fell into sync, each fight quicker, each maneuver sharper. The labyrinth that had once felt like a slog now opened to them like a challenge begging to be cleared.

Ludger followed from the midline, scanning the newly dried stone and the precision of their coordination. “You ever fight these things with the floor like this before?” he asked over his shoulder.

Rathen, trudging just behind him, nodded grimly. “Yes. When the water levels were the same as now.”

“And?” Ludger pressed.

Rathen’s expression tightened. “It was hell. As i saw, we needed twenty members per team back then, mages, shieldmen, you name it. Even then, every fight burned through our reserves. Half of us couldn’t walk straight after clearing a single zone.”

Ludger stopped for a moment, glancing down at the damp stone beneath his boots. “Twenty,” he repeated quietly. His tone was thoughtful, not disbelieving.

Rathen frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

Ludger didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the faint trails of dried sediment along the corridor walls, markings that hinted at how high the water had once reached. The more he looked, the clearer the picture became.

He finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with suspicion. “You said the water levels changed over time. Went up between expeditions.”

Rathen nodded slowly. “Right. After each attempt, we’d come back and find the water higher. We figured it was a quirk of the labyrinth’s magic.”

Ludger’s gaze hardened. “Or it wasn’t a quirk.”

Rathen blinked. “What are you getting at?”

Ludger’s tone was dry, but the weight behind it was unmistakable. “I’m wondering if the water didn’t rise on its own. Maybe it was raised. A deterrent. A defense mechanism designed to slow anyone who got too far.”

The idea hung in the air, heavy and quiet. Arslan and Kharnek finished smashing through another golem up ahead, the sound of cracking metal echoing down the corridor, but even over that, Rathen’s low whistle carried. “You think the labyrinth’s… adapting to us?”

Ludger glanced forward, eyes narrowing as he watched steam rise from the fallen golem’s wreckage. “Maybe. Or something’s making sure we never reach the end.”

No one said anything after that. The sound of dripping water filled the silence as the group pressed deeper into the dark—each step echoing like a reminder that something down there was watching.

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