Chapter 29
Chapter 29
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 29
Chapter Title: The Generous Crown Prince (3)
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Inside the Drime Workshop's workroom
Normally, at this hour, the ceaseless clamor of hammers from the artisans affiliated with the workshop would fill the air without respite. But right now, only silence hung over the place.
In the center of the workroom stood a cotton gin, a spinning machine, and a loom equipped with a flying shuttle.
Count Venner, who had come to the demonstration in place of His Highness the Crown Prince, gazed at them with evident interest and spoke to me.
"When I heard you'd earned the Silver Knight's Sword Cross Medal at such a young age for your great achievements, I thought you were simply gifted in the arts of war. To think you even conceived of machines like these... remarkable."
Truth be told, all I'd done was dredge up vague memories from my past life's dives into medieval-era wars and economic history, sketch out rough designs, and hand them over.
But I couldn't very well say that Heinz, the workshop foreman, had built them all on his own from blueprints I'd glimpsed in another world.
No, that would have the esteemed gentleman in front of me staring at me like I was a madman.
"You're too kind. Well then, shall we get them running? Foreman Heinz, begin."
At my command, Heinz signaled to his smiths underlings, and they sprang into action, operating the machines with hands and feet in perfect sync.
The cotton gin's cylinder whirred to life, spitting seeds from the stuffed cotton and churning out fluffy bolls.
Feed those into the spinning machine, and in a flash, skeins of thread emerged. The pre-warped threads on the loom then wove into fabric at astonishing speed.
To modern folks used to machines, it might not seem all that impressive. But in this world, where everything was handmade—where a single garment could cost tens or hundreds of millions—this was nothing short of revolutionary.
Not surprisingly, everyone except the technicians who'd already tested the machines was dumbstruck.
The knights escorting the count managed to hold their tongues, thanks to their training in stoic silence.
But their faces looked as if they'd witnessed the dead rising.
Count Venner, intuitively grasping the immense value of churning out vast quantities of cloth in moments, turned to me with a voice laced with awe.
"I've lived over fifty years, but I never imagined cloth could be produced at such speed... incredible."
From the moment I'd suggested Heinz build the spinning machine and the rest, I'd been dead certain they'd succeed.
Still, hearing validation from Count Venner, here as the Crown Prince's proxy, sent my spirits soaring.
For an instant, my lips twitched upward, temptation bubbling to boast wildly about my machines' superiority.
But no—in moments like this, feigning humility was the way to inflate my value further. So I steadied myself and replied calmly.
"I may have had the idea, but without His Highness the Crown Prince's support, it would've remained mere fantasy."
"A humble one, aren't you? Most impressive for a young man these days—you've a knack for navigating the world. And at your rank and age, with the Silver Knight's Sword Cross Medal no less, yet no arrogance. Refreshing to see."
"My thanks for the praise."
With the pleasantries wrapped up, the count probed further, testing me.
"That said, all the technicians and artisans here belong to His Highness. If he wished, he could simply replicate your machines outright without issue. Yet you sought his aid regardless."
History books from my past life noted that before patents were a thing, copying good inventions was commonplace and accepted.
Take the cotton gin: its inventor revolutionized America's industry, yet because it wasn't hard to replicate and patent law was lax, countless Southern slave states pirated it freely.
And here I was, using manpower provided by the Crown Prince to build mine. He could steal the tech anytime he wanted.
But the Crown Prince, scrambling to win over capable commanders and nobles, wasn't about to stab me in the back.
That would have them all turning on him in a heartbeat, thinking, "Have you lost your mind, Your Highness?"
Besides, this question was a test to see if I grasped the dynamics.
"How could I doubt His Highness after all he's granted me? And had I pursued this alone, as you worry, countless nobles from rival factions would've copied my machines unchecked. I made the smartest choice."
My answer hit the mark precisely. The count smiled at me and said,
"Just as you say, His Highness has no intention of slaying the goose that lays the golden eggs. On the contrary, once he grasps these machines' utility, he'll protect you and propose a mutually agreeable deal."
"An honor. Then, if His Highness uses the machines to make and sell clothes, I'd take 20% of the revenue. And once I procure my own machines and produce cloth, I'd ask him to buy it all at cost."
"...These machines will produce garments far faster and easier than before, generating immense profits. You'll receive no small subsidy from His Highness as well."
The Crown Prince wasn't one to cheat on payments, sure. But squeezing every coin now was crucial for the future.
The Reich Empire supplied troops with bare-minimum gear, provisions, and pay.
Enough to keep soldiers alive and somewhat combat-ready, but woefully short for plate armor to boost survival, quality weapons for fighting prowess, or decent food for morale.
Moreover, the Empire subtly encouraged battalion and regimental commanders to chip in personally for upkeep—unless it involved raises or land grants, which were overt bribes.
"As you know, Your Excellency, meeting His Highness's expectations demands better gear and supplies for my unit. But requesting more directly from him puts me in an awkward spot, doesn't it?"
He'd send them if asked, but plenty in his faction already resented me...
It might breed envy among his noble supporters, and jealousy could trip us up in battle.
"Supporting me generously through trade, however, won't ruffle many feathers. I've aided His Highness with mass-produced textiles, earning fair compensation—no grounds for backlash."
The count said nothing, but nodded slightly in agreement.
Seizing the momentum, I delivered what I hoped would be the clincher.
"If His Highness accepts my terms, I'll pour every bit of this income into developing Bruno Territory and winning the Checovia War. Please convey that faithfully."
At that, Count Venner sighed and replied,
"You've got me. His Highness does plan to showcase you on this front for merits. It's prime for glory, but just as perilous. I'll make sure to emphasize that."
He said he'd relay it, but given the count's clout in military circles, it was as good as approved.
Now I could focus on turning the territory into a supply hub and training soldiers without money woes.
I let out a relieved breath, and the count asked,
"To convince His Highness, though, I'd appreciate more details on your spending plans. Can you share? Or by tomorrow or the day after, if it's tricky."
"I'm thinking plate armor for frontline troops, meat, alcohol, around 120 crossbows, bastard swords, and a weapon called a pyeongon—refined from the traditional flail. Plus facilities for preserved rations to feed the army long-term, and some military supply ventures from the base."