Heading to the Royal Capital

Bran swept his gaze across the applicants gathered in the courtyard in front of the forge.

Twenty-seven in total.

There were fewer applicants than positions he wanted to fill, so he hired every last one of them without even bothering with interviews.

Which meant their skill ran the whole gamut. Veterans with a decade or more at the anvil mingled with greenhorns who had never so much as gripped a hammer.

Doesn't matter. A factory runs on a mix of rookies and veterans anyway. Just be diligent—I'll put every man where he belongs.

"Welcome, blacksmiths. I am Bran Stark, Chief Executive of this forge."

The moment Bran opened his mouth, every gaze in the yard converged on him.

"I intend to introduce a new system so that all of you can work in a better environment, and far more efficiently. First, there will be no backbreaking overwork—we will establish fixed working hours and a systematic work environment. Second, your safety and health come first—protective gear will be issued, and ventilation and sanitation will be rigorously managed. Third, night and weekend shifts carry extra pay, and performance-based rewards will be granted on top of that."

A buzz broke out among the blacksmiths.

"Wait, there's extra pay on top?"

"They're even issuing us protective gear? Feels like being knighted...!"

Bran pressed on with his address.

"From this moment on, the era of one man handling every step of production is over. Each of you will take a role suited to your aptitude, and through division of labor we will drive output up efficiently."

And then, at last, he declared with steely finality:

"That said, not everyone will get to stay at Bran's Forge. Your status here is that of an intern. Anyone who fails to prove their ability will be shown the door without hesitation."

Standing beside him were Emma, his maid, and Gerhardt, the blacksmith of House Stark.

Perhaps it still weighed on him that he had ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠flatly refused Bran's proposal—whatever the reason, Drake, the third brother, had assigned one experienced blacksmith to Bran's side.

Bran stole a glance at Gerhardt and thought to himself:

Whether he's here to help me or to keep an eye on me, I couldn't say...

Either way, right now he needed every pair of hands he could get.

Gerhardt, meanwhile, found himself seized by a strange feeling as he listened to Bran's speech. The young lord everyone knew as a hopeless wastrel—thinking this systematically, this far ahead of his time?

All those astonishing changes sweeping through the family... Now I finally understand why Young Lord Bran stood at the heart of them.

Bran led the men inside the forge.

Emma marveled, her eyes sparkling.

"I've seen the family forge a few times before, Young Master, but I've never seen equipment like this!"

The others were no different. Their eyes darted from one unfamiliar machine to the next, and a low murmur swelled through the workshop.

Naturally. Every piece was built by my own hands, based on modern knowledge and blueprints pulled straight from GPT.

Equipment designed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to squeeze out maximum productivity in this medieval fantasy world, where technology lagged centuries behind. Bran had commissioned the parts from skilled artisans and assembled them himself.

Gerhardt asked cautiously.

"Young Lord... what exactly is this equipment for?"

Machines that even he, a man who had spent his whole life in the Stark family forge, could never have predicted.

Bran had no intention of hiding anything.

"This equipment was designed to achieve far greater production efficiency than conventional forging methods. To put it simply..."

He walked them through each machine's function and operation in turn. And as the explanation went on, Gerhardt's face steadily flooded with astonishment.

"Good heavens! To think such a method was even possible...! This is truly revolutionary, Young Lord!"

Bran smiled inwardly.

Don't be amazed yet. This is only the beginning.

Of course, not every piece of equipment had been newly built. The machines they had always used, Gerhardt could handle with practiced skill.

Bran appointed Gerhardt as the forge's head manager. The smiths with real experience were paired as senior hands, while the less seasoned and near-novice workers were set beneath them as assistants. Rank was granted according to ability, and every role was finely divided.

So this is where my years of running a modern factory prove their worth...

The first stretch of days went to mastering the new equipment.

And then, at last, a week later—the first weapon produced at Bran's Forge was complete.

A dagger, among the easier weapons to make. Bran stared at the blade in his hand, a swell of emotion rising in his chest.

Then—

Ding.

It was the lowest tier of artifact—but what mattered was that it was an artifact at all.

Finally. Quality that has crossed into the realm of artifacts.

Bran stepped to the center of the open ground, blade in hand, and performed a sword dance.

Shwack!

As the dagger split the air, the atmosphere itself resonated with a sharp whistle. The blacksmiths knew little of swordsmanship, but even they could sense that his movements were anything but ordinary.

"Wow... so the Young Lord isn't just a sharp mind—he's this good with a sword too?"

"House Stark had a hidden master all along."

But Gerhardt was astonished for a different reason.

"Young Lord, at this production speed... we could turn out more than a thousand artifacts a week!"

he cried, his face alight with excitement.

"No forge in the entire Balathion Kingdom has ever mass-produced artifacts like this. No—there isn't a single place on the whole Gaia Continent that could!"

He could already foresee it: the day was coming when Bran's Forge would shake the entire continent.

But that was a tale for the future.

Bran reined in his own pride.

Now is no time for arrogance. We've only just begun production.

He set the dagger down and spoke with firm resolve.

"Starting today, we run two shifts for the next month. We'll raise output gradually, but quality must never fall below this standard."

The blacksmiths answered in one resounding voice.

"Aye, my lord!"

Their voices brimmed with excitement and anticipation. In that moment, they felt the pride of standing at the very center of weapons-making history.

And on top of it all, the finest treatment around—night-shift pay and weekend overtime bonuses guaranteed.

With treatment like this, who'd envy a knight?

And so the ringing of hammer on iron poured out of Bran's Forge, day and night without cease.

Two weeks later.

Bran set out for the royal capital with a wagon loaded with a thousand daggers.

The thousand daggers produced the previous week had already been shipped to the Free City of Belogar under his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠contract with the Stella Trading Company. But if he released this week's thousand on top of them, the price risked collapsing.

So he changed targets.

The royal capital, Erdia—a metropolis of nearly one million souls. A market like that could absorb ten thousand blades, not just a thousand, and still have demand to spare.

But the journey there alone took a full three days.

Feeling every jolt of the lurching wagon, Bran looked over his fellow travelers.

Ygritte, and three soldiers.

I've been shut up in the forge all this time—no wonder I've had no chance to get to know the men.

Ygritte had assumed command as Captain of Bran's company. A knight who had already awakened to the 3-Star rank at so young an age, she drew the soldiers' respect in full. Most knights left for the great cities the moment they reached 2-Star; that a 3-Star knight existed at all in the northern backwater of House Stark was a rarity in itself.

As for the three soldiers riding in the wagon—they too were talents with more than enough potential to grow into full knights, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and among them were men Bran had personally picked out in the interviews.

Bran quietly let his mana flow as he probed the soldiers' realms.

Kyle, Hans, and Rianna... all three are on the verge of the 1-Star knight realm.

Then the wagon rolled to a halt. The driver let the horses rest and gave them water, and the soldiers climbed down as well, loosening their stiff limbs.

Bran stepped forward with a wooden practice sword in hand.

"I haven't been able to look after you much lately, have I? For the trip to Erdia and back, at least, I'll personally oversee your training."

Ygritte nodded, pleased.

"That works out well. Learning from you, Young Lord Bran—you who are stronger than I—will do the soldiers a world of good."

But the soldiers traded skeptical glances.

Wouldn't it be better to learn from Captain Ygritte, a 3-Star? Feels like we're just wasting our time here.

Ygritte had said Bran was stronger than she was, but the soldiers wrote that off as the kind of exaggerated praise loyalty produces.

He's barely twenty. How strong could a young lord that age possibly be?

Besides, Bran's nickname—the "Wastrel"—was common knowledge among the people of the territory. Opinions inside the family had turned, but for these men, outsiders until only recently, word of that change had yet to arrive.

Bran rapped his practice sword lightly and spoke.

"Let's start with a light spar. I can't teach you until I know exactly where you stand."

At his words, Hans stepped forward first. Then, from the side, Rianna whispered quietly.

"Hey, don't go at him full strength. If you so much as scratch the Young Lord's pretty face, Captain Ygritte will kill us."

But—

WHAM!

Before Hans could even register Bran's movement, he was rolling across the dirt. He rubbed his nose, his face a mask of disbelief.

Wh-what the—? When did he even move?

But he soon steadied himself.

Right—I let my guard down. This time I'll do it properly.

"Then... here I come, for real!"

The result was the same.

CRACK!

Bran's practice sword cracked squarely against Hans's wrist, and the wooden blade went spinning from his hand.

Good heavens...! He's faster than Captain Ygritte?

Bran sighed and shook his head.

"All that hard training, and this is what it amounts to? Then I have to say—I'm disappointed."

He tossed his practice sword aside, then beckoned to the soldiers who had only been watching.

"None of that. All of you, come at me at once. That's the only way this might actually be worth my while."

At the provocation, the soldiers' eyes changed. They were all young men, hot-blooded and in their prime, and now the urge to win surged up in them—superior or not, they wanted to put him on the ground.

"HRAAAH!"

The soldiers charged as one.

But—

THWACK-THWACK-THWACK!

Not one of their practice swords so much as touched Bran's body. In the blink of an eye, every last man was flat on the ground.

Bran dusted off his hands and spoke.

"The wagon won't be leaving for a while yet. Everyone up—pull yourselves together."

The soldiers staggered to their feet, bewilderment written across every face.

Bran said, perfectly at ease.

"Land even one hit on me, and I'll promote you to Vice-Captain."

The soldiers threw themselves at him again, fired with fresh resolve—but not one of them could so much as brush his collar.

"Hrk...! He's too fast!"

"Damn it...! He really is stronger than Captain Ygritte!"

Yet amid all the chaos, one man kept his cool: Kyle, who had the richest mercenary experience of them all. While his comrades were being tossed about, he watched with a hawk's eyes, hunting for his moment.

And then—

Now!

His practice sword came whistling down in an uncanny arc.

This is why I made my name as Kyle the Mercenary—this hidden trump card of mine! The Vice-Captain's seat is mine!

But in that very instant, a faint, wolfish smile bloomed at the corner of Bran's mouth.