Chapter 88 - Viktor’s Efforts to Make a Machine

The door creaked as Viktor stepped out, the dim hallway casting shadows across his bandaged torso.Half an hour had passed since he’d disappeared into that room of the slave woman.

Kaida was still sprawled on the sofa, one arm draped over her eyes, but her fingers had tightened around the dagger hilt the moment she heard his footsteps.

She tilted her head slightly, peeking from under her arm.

"You finished inside her so soon, huh?" Kaida’s voice dripped with sarcasm, though something sharp edged beneath it—disgust, maybe judgment.

Viktor paused mid-step and let out a low chuckle, the sound rough in his throat.

"So you’re the one who corrupted my Mira," he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he rolled his shoulders.

Kaida sat up abruptly, red hair falling messily around her face. "The hell corrupted—"

But Viktor was already walking past her, stretching his back with a groan that made his bandages pull tight against the stitches. The wounds throbbed, a dull ache radiating through his torso, but he ignored it.

He had work to do.

His bare feet made soft sounds against the cold stone floor as he headed toward one of the dustier sections of the manor—a side room that was still cluttered with broken furniture and old debris.

Kaida watched him go, her jaw clenched, then got up and followed.

"Where the hell are you going now?" she muttered, half to herself.

Viktor didn’t answer.

Instead, he stopped in front of a pile of splintered wood and rusted metal scraps. His dark eyes scanned the mess with the kind of focus that made everything else disappear.

His mind was already working—diagrams forming, measurements calculating, mechanisms clicking into place.

He needed clothes. Helena doesn’t have more dresses, Mira needed something better than rags, and Bella... well, she will not have any clothes naturally.

And he wasn’t about to let them walk around looking like that.

Not because he gave a fuck about modesty—but because only he have right to see them naked.

Plus, he had the skills to do so, why not.

Herb Mastery. Craftsman Genius. Textile Expertise. Forge Master. Master Carver.

All sitting in his head like they’d always been there, muscle memory and knowledge woven into his very bones.

He crouched down, ignoring the sharp pain that lanced through his belly, and started sorting through the debris.

Wood planks—some still sturdy enough. Metal rods—bent but salvageable. Gears from an old broken clock mechanism. Nails, rusty but usable.

His hands moved quickly, pulling pieces aside, testing their weight and integrity.

Kaida stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with a mixture of confusion and irritation.

"What are you doing?" she finally asked, her voice flat.

"Making a loom," Viktor replied without looking up. "And a spinning wheel. Maybe a sewing frame if I can scavenge enough parts."

Kaida blinked. "A... what?"

Viktor straightened, holding a piece of wood in one hand and a bent metal rod in the other. He turned to face her, his expression unreadable.

"I’m going to make clothes," he said simply. "From scratch."

Kaida stared at him like he’d just told her he was going to fly to the moon.

"You’re going to... make clothes." Her tone was skeptical, bordering on mocking. "You. The perverted bastard who can barely stand upright with those wounds."

Viktor’s smirk widened. "Yeah. Me."

He turned back to the pile, crouching again despite the way it made his wounds scream in protest.

"I need fabric first," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Which means I need thread. Which means I need to process plant fibers. Lucky for me, the garden’s full of flax and hemp."

Kaida’s eyes narrowed. "You’re serious."

"Dead serious."

Viktor grabbed a hammer from the floor—old, heavy, the handle worn smooth from years of use. He tested its weight, then nodded to himself.

"Get over here," he said, glancing at Kaida over his shoulder. "You’re going to help."

Kaida’s eyebrow shot up. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." Viktor stood, brushing dust off his hands. "I need someone to hold the planks while I nail them together. Unless you want to keep sulking on that sofa."

Kaida’s jaw tightened. She looked like she wanted to tell him to fuck off, to leave her alone with her anger and confusion.

But then her eyes flicked to his bandages, to the way he moved stiffly despite trying to hide it, to the blood that had seeped through in a few spots.

And despite herself—despite the fact that she was pissed at him for manipulating her, for using Mira as bait, for stabbing himself just to prove a point—she couldn’t ignore the fact that he was working.

Even wounded. Even bleeding.

Even after whatever the hell he’d just done in that room with the slave woman.

"...Fine," Kaida muttered, pushing off the doorframe and stalking over to him.

Viktor’s smirk didn’t fade. "Good girl."

"Shut up."

He handed her a plank of wood, positioning her hands where he needed them. "Hold it steady. Don’t move."

Kaida held the plank, her grip firm despite the irritation radiating off her in waves.

Viktor picked up a nail, positioned it carefully, then raised the hammer.

The first strike rang out through the manor—sharp, metallic, echoing off the stone walls.

Then another. And another. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn N0veI.Fiɾe.net

Each strike precise, controlled, the hammer landing exactly where it needed to despite the way his hands trembled slightly from pain and exhaustion.

Kaida watched his face as he worked.

Sweat was already beading on his forehead. His breathing was shallow, controlled, like he was forcing himself not to wince with every movement.

But his hands never stopped.

"Why are you doing this?" Kaida asked quietly, her voice losing some of its edge.

Viktor didn’t look up. "Because my wives need clothes."

"That’s not what I mean."

He paused, the hammer hovering mid-swing, then brought it down with another sharp crack.

"I know what you mean," he said, his voice low.

Kaida’s grip tightened on the plank. "Then answer me."

Viktor set the hammer down and looked at her. Really looked at her.

His dark eyes were tired, shadowed, but there was something sharp in them—something calculating and raw all at once.

The hammer came down.

"Because," Viktor added, his voice quieter now, "I want to fuck them as a perverted bastard I am."

Kaida stared at him, her jaw working, her knuckles white around the plank.

"I hate you," she muttered.

Viktor chuckled, the sound dark and bitter. "Yeah. I get that a lot."

But she didn’t let go of the plank.

And when he handed her another piece of wood, she took it.

They worked in silence after that, the sound of the hammer filling the dusty room.

Kaida held planks steady while Viktor assembled the frame of what would become a crude loom. His Craftsman Genius ability guided every measurement, every angle, every joint.

Despite having no formal training in textile work, his hands moved with the confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times.

Because in a way, he had.

The hours dragged like rusted chains across stone, each minute heavy with exhaustion and the sharp tang of metal and sweat.

Viktor’s hands ached, his fingers raw from pulling wires and tightening bolts, but he didn’t stop. The loom frame stood crooked in the corner now—half-assembled, unstable, but *something*.

Kaida had stopped complaining an hour ago, maybe two. Time blurred. She just held the planks when he told her to, handed him nails when he gestured, her jaw tight and her eyes hard but focused.

Outside the cracked window, the darkness had started to thin.

The horizon bled from black to deep indigo, then to a bruised purple that hinted at dawn. The faintest sliver of gold touched the edge of the world, soft and reluctant.

Viktor squinted at the contraption in front of them—a crude spinning wheel cobbled together from broken furniture, clock gears, and bent rods. It looked like it might fall apart if someone breathed too hard on it.

But it might work.

"Pull it tighter," Viktor muttered, his voice hoarse. He was bracing one side of the wheel with his shoulder, sweat dripping down his temple, his bandages soaked through in places with fresh blood.

"Don’t teach me," Kaida shot back, her voice raw with fatigue. She yanked the rope hard, lashing it around the axle with more force than necessary.

The tension snapped into place.

The wheel jerked.

Viktor stumbled back, his legs giving out beneath him. Kaida fell backward too, landing hard on her ass with a grunt.

For a moment, neither of them moved, just breathing hard in the dusty room.

Then Kaida turned her head, looking toward the machine.

Her eyes widened.

The spinning wheel stood there, crooked and ugly and barely holding together—but *standing*. The gears meshed. The pedal hung at the right angle. The spindle sat ready.

"Holy shit," she breathed.

Viktor was already slumping to the side, his shoulder hitting the floor.

"Hey—" Kaida scrambled over on her hands and knees, grabbing his shoulder. "Hey!"

His chest rose and fell slowly, steadily. His eyes were half-closed, unfocused.

"I’m going to take a nap," he muttered, the words slurring together.

Kaida stared at him, her breath still coming fast. His gaze had drifted—not to her, but to the machine. Even now, barely conscious, he was looking at it. Checking it. Making sure it worked.

Then his eyes slid closed.

"Y..you perv—," Kaida muttered, but her voice cracked.

She bit her lip, looking between him and the spinning wheel.

With a grunt, she hooked her arms under his shoulders and started dragging him toward the corner where there was a cleaner patch of floor. His head lolled against her collarbone, his breath warm against her neck.

She couldn’t help but muttered, half to herself, her voice soft and bitter and confused.

"Do noblemen even know how to make machines?"