The Agricultural Tool Improvement Contest (2)
In any case, the chaotic public presentation began.
It was too late to drag the participant—who was also a judge—off the stage while shouting, "That guy over there is a convict!" So, Aiden could only let his insides boil with frustration.
If that old man Faber didn't produce something truly remarkable, he would surely regret it.
'You'd better prepare yourself for a life of mining labor.'
Aiden stood on one side of the stage, staring at Jamie, who was wearing a stiff, awkward smile, hoping his thoughts would somehow reach him.
"Now, behold what this is!"
Oblivious to Aiden’s inner turmoil, Old Man Faber was thrilled to be breathing the fresh air of the outside world for the first time in ages.
The gazes of the audience looking up at him from below the stage were electrifying.
'Ah, this is where I belong!'
He was currently a ruined man with few acquaintances, but in his prime—right before he single-handedly tanked a territorial war—Faber was, to put it kindly, a star; to put it unkindly, an attention seeker.
Perhaps his desperate struggle to escape his status as a convict wasn't because he felt the weight of his crimes was unfair, or because he missed the outside world. What he truly needed was attention and applause.
Because of this, Faber had no intention of letting this opportunity slip by. He was overflowing with confidence in what he had brought.
'If they don't give me the prize for this, the judges must all be blind.'
Though he was a man who had destroyed his own career with his own hands, his skills were undeniable. Just like a child who learned to ride a bike and could pedal away effortlessly even after years of being away from the saddle, a master’s skill did not regress just because he had been locked in a prison for a few years.
Although he couldn't hammer the iron himself in the forge due to his convict status, meaning he hadn't been able to create a finished prototype, Faber was certain.
Once they heard his explanation, the official—whether he was the acting lord or the lord’s grandfather—would shower him with praise, build him a new forge, and bestow upon him a title like "The North’s Greatest Artisan."
"In this mine, where the Myo tribe manages the labor and convicts dig for ore, what we produce is, unfortunately, scrap iron."
Even without a prototype, he had a sample. Faber held up a piece of scrap iron ore he had brought along for the onlookers.
"Scrap iron? Does that mean the iron is trash?"
"But isn't iron still iron?"
The North’s technological level had never progressed, so there was nothing to fall behind. Consequently, the residents were at a point where they had to wonder what "scrap iron" even was. Fortunately, Faber, who had plenty of experience dealing with nobles who had zero interest in blacksmithing, knew exactly what was needed to capture the attention of an ignorant crowd.
"Scrap iron is, you see... Hup!"
CRACK—!
Crunch.
Timing it perfectly with his practice, Faber took a pickaxe from the low-level official acting as his assistant. He straightened his back and brought the pickaxe down hard on one corner of the scrap iron ore, and the ore crumbled instantly.
To those who didn't know any better, it looked like he had pressed down on a clump of sand rather than iron ore.
"Whoa... do blacksmiths in big cities all do that?"
"That guy’s got the strength of a bull!"
"If I try hard enough, I can do that too, hmph!"
If they had been residents of other regions, they would have been horrified at how iron could crumble like that, but unfortunately, this was the North. They weren't particularly hurt by comments about lacking technology, but they foamed at the mouth at comments about lacking strength. In the minds of these Northerners, the ore called "scrap iron" had already vanished, leaving only the image of the ore being crushed like sand, igniting their competitive spirits.
"Isn't he a fraud?"
Of course, there were some quick-witted people among them who realized the truth, but that wasn't the point.
"Ahem! This wasn't done with strength!"
Faber, flustered by the atmosphere in the audience which was different from what he had expected, quickly shouted.
"It’s because of the characteristics of scrap iron."
He then quickly gathered the crumbled bits of scrap iron in his hands and held them out to the people.
"Actually, we lump it all together as scrap iron, but there are different types. There is iron sand, where iron grains are embedded in sand and soil without forming large chunks, and there is pyrite, which contains sulfur and can seriously harm a person during smelting."
"What is the stuff from our mine?"
One impatient onlooker shouted at the continuing explanation.
"You're in such a rush. What comes out of this mine is neither iron sand nor pyrite. I wonder if you've ever heard of limonite."
"Limonite?"
Aiden, sitting on his fake throne, tilted his head as well.
'I was a liberal arts major.'
I don't know many types of rocks. Naturally, this was my first time hearing the word "limonite."
"Actually, blacksmiths call it limonite, but the name isn't important. This limonite, unfortunately, doesn't have a very high iron purity."
"Hmm."
Aiden sat quietly on his fake throne and swallowed his groan.
At least this part was something he understood.
"Because the purity isn't high, even if you extract the iron, you'd be lucky to get half of what you'd get from other iron ores. The only fortunate thing is that the North has abundant timber, so the fuel costs might be offset to some extent..."
"Then isn't there no problem?"
Aiden couldn't wait any longer and interjected.
To the question from the high-ranking official behind the stage, Faber replied with a polite posture, but a regretful voice.
"Unfortunately, even if you extract iron that way, limonite iron has its limits."
"Limits, you say?"
"It lacks strength."
"Hmm."
It seems the nameless administrator from thirty years ago, who discovered the mine and brought in experts to verify it, didn't give a completely wrong answer after all. The atmosphere instantly turned gloomy.
"Well, the strength is only a problem if you intend to wage war."
"?"
Faber skillfully looked back at the audience and held up the crumbled iron bits.
"Are we going to wage war with sickles and hoes!"
They say he's a descendant of dwarves; his voice was truly fit for a general.
"What we need is not a weapon to stand against a steel sword held by a soldier, nor a spear to pierce a thick steel shield! What we need is a hoe that can break through packed earth and a sickle that can cut through tough crop stalks. For dealing with mounds of dirt and plant vines, high-strength iron is just pearls before swine!"
"That's right, absolutely right!"
"Then does that mean we can make farm tools out of that scrap iron stuff?"
"Iron farm tools? Really?"
"Honey! That means we don't have to use stone knives anymore!"
At Faber’s speech, the audience instantly began to stir.
"Now, farmers of the North! I, the blacksmith Faber, shall place iron sickles, not stone knives, into your dirt-stained hands! I will burn this scrap iron that everyone said was useless and end your hunger! I—!"
"Drag him off."
"Yes, sir."
"Ugh, why are you doing this, the presentation is still—!"
"You've shown us enough, so go back to your seat."
At Jamie’s rough handling, Faber, who had been acting as if he had found his own world, was quietly returned to his seat. He still looked quite satisfied, though.
Aiden’s expression, however, remained twisted.
'I left him alone because he seemed decent, so why did he suddenly try to declare a revolution?'
It didn't seem intentional, but it was a good thing he was cut off there.
"But what exactly was the new farm tool that blacksmith brought out?"
"...Who knows?"
"Didn't he just talk about iron the whole time and then leave?"
"Oh, you're right."
"Ugh. He talked like it was something amazing, so I expected something incredible. What a waste of focus."
A few disappointed spectators even began to send jeers.
Still, Faber was confident.
'Iron comes first if you want to make anything!'
Therefore, he was certain he would take first place in this contest.
Unfortunately, it seemed Faber didn't have eyes in the back of his head, as he failed to notice Aiden clicking his tongue.
Where would a master who lived for his own greatness ever need to worry about anyone else's opinion? This is all because he never lived a life of corporate employment.
***
"No, why? Why on earth am I not in first place? Huh?"
After finishing his mining labor and returning to the temporary prison, Old Man Faber received the shocking news.
"It's not even first place, but you're telling me I'm not even in the rankings? Does that make any sense!"
"Are you complaining about the rankings decided by the Administrator?"
"W-well, that's not it, but... this must be some kind of mistake!"
"The judges' scorecards and the Administrator’s final decision document have arrived, so read them if you want."
The one who received the decision document was another convict whom Faber had recently been training as a sort of apprentice.
"So, it says they calculated the average score of three people after excluding the highest and lowest scores from the five judges?"
"No, why would you exclude those?"
"Well..."
The apprentice looked at Faber with blatant disrespect. It was no wonder, as the document revealed the scores of all five judges, and his master had been recorded as giving a perfect score only to his own limonite smelting method while giving 0 points to all other participants.
Anyone could see it was a biased judgment. Since he had pulled such a stunt in the first public contest for the residents of the territory, he would be applauded even if he were hung at the city gate for three days and nights; that would be considered a lenient punishment.
"Anyway, based on these scores, a meeting was held, including the Administrator. They call this the final judgment, and that's where the first to third places were decided."
"I, uh? I might have made a slight mistake! Look here, even if you just look at the average scores of the other judges, I'm in first place! So why didn't my smelting method win an award!"
"Uh... Ah! There's an explanation here! Let's see... 'While Faber’s smelting method is undoubtedly a very practical technique, it is difficult to see it as fully conforming to the purpose of this contest, which is the "Northern Farm Tool Improvement Prototype Contest," and there were significant concerns that he could be embroiled in fairness disputes as he served as a judge for the same competition, so he was excluded.'—it says. Well, that seems to make sense, doesn't it? Anyway, what you submitted, sir, was a smelting method, not a farm tool."
"That’s much more valuable, you ignorant fools!"
"Heh."
Old Man Faber was about to go mad with frustration, but there really wasn't much he could argue against the decision. This is why justification is important for everything.
"But they say a forge is being built in the Myo tribe village."
"What does that mean?"
A model prisoner who had come out to distribute rations threw out a word to soothe Faber, whose face was so red it looked like it might explode.
"I only heard the guards talking, but what could it mean that a forge is being built here? Doesn't it mean you're going to be pardoned, sir?"
"I-is that certain?"
"I've never heard of the Myo tribe handling iron, so there's only one conclusion."
"Aha!"
Old Man Faber’s mouth instantly curled upward.
"That’s right! I am free now! Hahaha!"
A few days later.
Old Man Faber was indeed moved to the forge in the Myo tribe village.
"......?"
His feet were still shackled, and he was still wearing the prison uniform that symbolized his status as a convict.
"...Where is my freedom?"
"Freedom? If you liked freedom so much, you shouldn't have committed a crime."
"......"
Old Man Faber.
Work location changed!
***
"Who’s badmouthing me? Why are my ears so itchy?"
Around the time Old Man Faber was showing off his expertise at his new labor site, Aiden of the Lord’s Castle was picking his ear while reviewing reports.
"Hmm?"
Aiden felt a sense of unease while processing routine documents.
"Why is it like this?"
"What is?"
"No, why are there so many soldiers not participating in training? It’s not sick leave or vacation. What is this, where did they all go?"
The soldiers' training logs were a bit strange.