“Remote items for contact? Sure, they exist. Most come chained with limits,” Spring Tide said, her voice like rain tucked under eaves.

If sending word were that simple, we’d answer crises like lightning and steer tragedy away before it took root.

Magical tools for remote talk do exist, even for free conversation, but they’re coin-heavy and hedged with thorns of restriction.

There are special message items too, like paired zi-mu sigils—carry one, shatter the child rune, and the holder of the mother rune is alerted.

The content they carry is meager, a whisper in a storm.

Every magical item and spell, and the new arcanotech communication stones, get scrambled by mana storms and go mute like birds before thunder.

It’s simple: all tools ride mana as their vessel; that river bends to many winds, and only overwhelming force can punch through.

Even Spring Tide, at Sixth Rank, can barely push a communication spell from city to city, no matter how hard she burns her mana.

More complex spells are carved with labyrinthine sigils; they’re hard to learn, like walking a maze in fog.

Specialists haven’t formed a profession; the gate is too high, a cliff without handholds.

“But the usual city-to-city methods—couriers or tamed small beasts—crawl like snails,” Cerqin said, her mood gray as a cold drizzle.

“Why the sudden interest?” Spring Tide asked, watching the pink-haired girl like a cat tracking a fluttering leaf.

“I’m thinking the stones’ mana frequency is low. They’re more efficient than simple spells,” Cerqin said, hope rising like dawn over hills.

“Without heavy interference, they can chat in real time across a city. If we boost performance, could they reach farther?”

“The communication stone is convenient,” Aileaf joined, her researcher’s calm bright as polished glass. “But city use and intercity are different storms.”

It’s already epoch-making: small mana ripple, compact form, real-time, no barrier—stuff even pricey communication crystals can’t manage.

But the flaw is plain as frost: it’s easily disturbed by mana eddies and can only work inside the city’s calmer air.

Too far or cross-city is hard; pouring more mana changes nothing essential, like shouting into a gale.

“In the wild, mana currents aren’t like the city’s. They twist unpredictably,” Spring Tide said, her brow a tightened bowstring.

“True…” Aileaf murmured, a low echo under the carriage’s hum.

Even in the city, small incidents jolt mana, and stones fall silent, like lamps snuffed by a draft.

Given that sensitivity to mana flow, a communication stone might serve as an early warning bell, the first chime before a storm.

Cerqin’s eyes lit up, sparks under rain. Ideas cross-pollinate; once you see a structure, other uses bloom like spring grass.

They chatted idly in the carriage, smooth wood gleaming like river light, then drifted back to tasks; even bunk-side mischief needs rest.

They shared one compartment, cramped but workable, like a crowded teahouse still warm enough to breathe.

Cerqin skimmed Arcanotechnology primers, mind circling back to the earlier talk, thoughts fluttering like paper birds.

She’d had bright ideas: a breakthrough in modifying instruments of punishment; the design drawings were already inked, sharp as winter reeds.

Sadly, she couldn’t send the new plans to the An Sisters in Northfort, that partnership like a bridge waiting for planks.

Before leaving Northfort, she’d met them again, settled guild matters, fixed their direction like a compass set to true north.

She planned to contact them after reaching the capital, but a round trip by normal courier eats half a month like locusts.

Hiring an expensive beast courier takes days, and you must find licensed tamers in each city, a path cobbled with delays.

It’s inconvenient, grit in the gears.

So she brought it up with Spring Tide, voice tentative, like testing ice with a stick.

But it’s near a non-starter—almost wishful thinking—real-time intercity communication is a kite tugging at a hurricane.

If it were possible, it could tilt the world in a single season, like a river finding a new bed.

Thinking so, Cerqin glanced down at her boots and muttered, words soft as moss.

“This refit carriage is epoch-shaping too. If we can drop the cost… I wonder how it runs at full stretch.”

She eased open the forward-facing door. Wind didn’t flood in; the carriage’s enchantments held it like an invisible screen.

The others glanced over and let it be. Cerqin stepped out; the knight at the reins didn’t notice, gaze narrowed like a spear point.

He guided the unicorn with focus, his hands steady as stone.

The near-double speed came from the carriage’s assistive rig, shaving the unicorn’s burden and letting its speed run free like a river.

If the carriage’s power plant grew stronger, we might not need unicorns at all, engines pulling like oxen under steel hides.

Different from the knights’ war-mounts, two-horn horses can sprint like arrows, faster than draft unicorns, but their stamina frays like old rope.

They can’t hold pace over distance; their average lags behind a unicorn’s patient pull.

Over a full day, a two-horn’s top speed only edges a unicorn-drawn carriage, a thin line ahead of a steady tide.

They’re war mounts because, as tamed beasts, they’re agile and brave, unblinking before a strong beast’s aura, hearts like iron bells.

Scenery streamed backward like water; sparse roadside trees slipped by; no monsters or animals showed, the road a quiet river.

First- and Second-Rank small beasts and harmless animals avoid the official road because of the beast-repelling stones planted along it.

Those special devices exhale scent-laced air most small beasts dislike, shooing them from the path like brooms of wind.

Cerqin remembers it’s a Holy Dragon Empire specialty; patrol crews replace and check the stones regularly, steady as seasons.

They say the road-inspection corps is well paid, a warm hearth in winter for those who walk the miles.

Stepping out, the wind pressed her hair back like a hand. After a moment’s looking, she spotted a beast-repelling stone ahead.

Taller than a person, a stele-like pillar standing at the road’s edge, its carved sigils plain as ripples on sand.

They convert air into a mix carrying a scent beasts hate; it’s air magic shaped into a warding breeze, a subtle fence.

The engraving is simple; one activation lasts long. Patrol injects mana during rounds, and stones keep working for ages.

Suddenly, Cerqin’s eyes shone as the stone loomed closer, like a lantern catching.

Communication stones are limited by distance and hypersensitive to mana, but being closer cuts interference like fog thinning at noon.

If we chain many stones together, a physical net could carry signals farther, like fire jumping hearth to hearth.

For instance, set communication-stone nodes along both sides of the official road, a spine of light across the land.

In a flash, Cerqin recalled pieces from Arcanotechnology primers; the more she thought, the more it felt feasible, a map taking shape.

She rushed back into the carriage, excitement bright as dawn, and told the other three, words tumbling like beads.

Spring Tide frowned, thought it through, then spoke gently, like silk over a blade. “It’s feasible, but the imperial roads are royal-managed.”

“So only the royal house can lead. Once we reach the capital, I can help pass word.”

If it truly works, it changes the world; the royal family won’t sit it out, and every major power will wade in like cranes.

“Of course, that’s if it’s truly feasible.”

“I think it will be fine. We’ll test it in the capital,” Cerqin said, resolve a tight knot in her chest.

She knows it can’t be rushed; theory is one thing, while practice demands redesigned structures and swapped materials, stone and wire in new dance steps.

Trial and error will decide how many nodes bridge what distance, a path measured by lanterns.

If they pull it off, the communication stone becomes another epoch-making invention, a bell ringing a new era into the streets.