Cornelius stood at the edge of the pit, watching workers haul mud from the hole. The vaults were down there somewhere, filled with gears no one had touched in centuries. He needed them all. Every mechanism, every spring, every tooth of bronze that still held its shape. He'd heard rumors that others were asking questions in town. Treasure hunters with more hope than sense. To make his claim clear, he ordered his men to drag old Hillman cars from the scrapyard and plant them in a wide circle around the dig. They painted his name on each rusted door in white letters three feet high. Anyone coming through the swamp would see those markers a mile off. At the center of the excavation, his crew assembled something more permanent. They built a tower from salvaged timber and iron, twisting it like a gnarled tree. Moss and vines already clung to the beams, but the structure stood solid. At its peak, they mounted a brass gear the size of a wagon wheel, one he'd pulled from his first plantation. It caught the light and threw it back like a warning. By sunset, the monument cast a long shadow across the pit. Cornelius walked its perimeter once, then twice. The vaults beneath his feet belonged to him now, marked and guarded. Let the rivals come if they wanted. They'd see his claim from the road and know they were already too late.