Chapter 12
Chapter 12
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 12
Chapter Title: From Primitive Era Chieftain to Space Era Emperor
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The refugees who had come to us looked no different from beggars, plain and simple.
Their hides were poorly tanned, reeking to high heaven, and even those were being shared among a few people, wrapped around them like straw mats.
Their hands were swollen red from frostbite, and every breath brought on a dry, hacking cough.
Crusty scabs flaked from their cracked lips.
Some had toenails turned black, dangling as if they might fall off at any moment.
Up close, they smelled like a beast pen.
Not even a rabbit hutch—they stank like a pigsty.
There were twenty of them in total.
Ten women, three elders, three young men, and four children.
Half the women were young, but the fact that they'd been driven out meant their condition wasn't normal.
A good number looked like they needed urgent treatment.
Even with a healthy group showing up, we'd have to debate whether to take them in—but like this, there was no clear answer.
The tribe members' reactions weren't good either.
Our tribe was well-prepared for the cold, kept decent hygiene, and ate well enough to stay healthy.
Taking in people who could drop dead any minute was something only a cannibal tribe would welcome.
'Every era has its own common sense.'
If we tried to save the refugees and our own people starved as a result, we'd have turned host into guest and back again.
If it were spring, we might have taken them in, but in the dead of winter, we needed a solid justification.
"Do I have any reason to take you in?"
"We'll do anything!"
"There are people among us with special skills!"
"Special skills?"
After checking them out, here's what we found.
One architect, two midwives, one healer, one hunter.
I called in the tribe's executives.
Black Stone, Blue Tree, Red Rock, and Eagle's Eye—the core group of early power holders.
Black Stone, the most experienced and eldest, spoke first.
"The lineup isn't bad. An architect would be a huge help with the chieftain's planned brick houses and village foundations come spring. Midwives go without saying. A healer is essential too. And a hunter's no different. A few of them are worth taking."
Red Rock shook his head.
"They're too frail. No guarantee they'll last till spring. They'll just burn through our food in the meantime. You want to save dying refugees by killing off our own tribe?"
It was a valid point.
The advisor types like Black Stone and Blue Tree argued to take them in despite the difficulties, while the warriors—Red Rock and Eagle's Eye—opposed it.
'Personally, I'd like to take them.'
An architect in the primitive era.
Their tech level was undoubtedly low, but they'd mastered knowledge suited to this age.
And with a mind geared that way, raising them up would make a big difference.
The rest of the specialists' merits were as Black Stone had said.
But.
If even the executives were split, the tribe members' opposition would be even fiercer.
This was about survival—how could it not be?
If I wanted to take them in, I needed a justification.
Without one, resentment would build and eventually explode.
"We'll build them a fishing hut. If they live off fish alone, it shouldn't be a big issue, right?"
"Ooh! Good idea!"
"The chieftain's so smart!"
It was an answer even Red Rock and Eagle's Eye, the dissenters, could accept.
We could build them a fishing hut and provide a bit of labor.
If they survived till spring, great. If they died, it wouldn't hurt the tribe.
We could do this much because they claimed to be specialists.
I didn't think they were lying.
In modern society, deception gets you morally condemned or even legally punished, but in the primitive era, there was none of that.
If you got caught lying openly, they'd just beat you to death.
I announced the decision from our tribe council(?) to the refugees.
A low murmur rose among them.
They'd need time to decide too.
The meeting didn't last long.
"If it means we live, anything!"
"Good. Move out now."
For now, I crammed the refugees into one house.
We'd decided to take them in, like it or not—I wasn't about to shove them riverside without any prep.
First things first: wash them.
Herding twenty people to wash at once was barbaric, but no choice.
Better than them dying from all their diseases.
We heated water over the hearth, mixed in ashes, and made them scrub.
Teeth floated loose, pus and blood dripped off.
Frostbite everywhere, bodies bloated and swollen.
I'd expected bad, but it was serious.
Half of them probably wouldn't make it through winter.
We'd told them to live off fish, but for vitamins, we'd have to trade some dried fruit or stored veggies.
Of course, with tribe backlash possible, it'd be bartered for fish they caught.
For now, their status was semi-tribe members.
Once washed and dressed in coats from our stock, they at least didn't look like beggars anymore.
Treatment used stored herbs.
Crushed willow bark on wounds, covered with leaves—primitive medicine.
After treatment, straight to the fishing hut.
They seemed more surprised than expected.
"We're living here!?"
"You'll go between the fishing spot and the house where you washed."
"Ooh!"
The refugees were thrilled just with that.
A shelter from the wind with a hearth.
Treatment and food—that alone felt like immense grace to them.
Come spring, population mattered for war, but dead of winter meant cutting mouths to feed was natural.
"Work hard. Catch a lot of fish, and you can trade for dried fruit or meat."
"Got it!"
A few days passed, and the refugees' appearance improved noticeably.
Color returned to their faces, movements more lively than before.
They fished like their lives depended on it—because they did.
Even at night, light glowed from the ice hut's roof.
Of their catch, as agreed, three out of seven went to the communal warehouse as tax, four for them.
They even traded some of theirs for dried fruit and veggies.
I—and the tribe—had figured half would die.
We were wrong.
A few of the sickest or most frostbitten elders were bound to go, but the rest looked like survivors.
I called the man who'd claimed architecture expertise.
"I'm Quick Hand!"
"Good name."
"Been that way since I was young. Great at making things—not just huts, but weapons too!"
Quick Hand pitched his value.
Architecture and weapons?
I saw potential.
Potential as workshop overseer.
In this era, names were usually given in childhood.
Infant mortality was too high for names then; in boyhood, traits earned them nicknames that stuck.
Did Quick Hand live up to his boast?
I unrolled a stone slab.
Our village layout and mud-brick house designs.
Four-way roads, drainage gutters, communal hearth and warehouse, smokehouse, hide racks, latrines, compost heap.
Brick houses had foundations, walls, stove, chimney, eaves—all detailed.
Quick Hand's face showed culture shock.
Our current homes already showed advanced tech; brick houses were peak overtechnology.
"You can really make these bricks?"
"Possible."
I briefly explained the prep.
Dig clay from the riverbank, mix with sand and chopped straw for temper, form in wooden molds, shade-dry half a day, then fire in a kiln.
Doable with current tech.
Quality? We'd see.
Quick Hand's eyes sparkled.
He fetched a fresh slab, started redesigning.
He'd bragged about his handiwork, and his drawing skills were no joke.
Shockingly, he suggested not plaster bonding for walls, but interlocking.
"Stack the bottom two courses like this (a running bond variant), then one course offset for locking... corners need tight interlocks so wind won't pull the walls apart."
"......"
Quick Hand sketched and explained.
No era-specific terms, so 'like this' or 'that way'—but the drawings said it all.
He proposed waterproofing: clay, charcoal powder, oil mixed thin.
"Charcoal hates water."
Waterproofing, got it.
Roof angles tweaked, added a waist beam on walls—likely to distribute roof load.
And more.
"Your drainage gutters are too straight. Ice'll clog them solid. Make 'em snake-like, leave gaps at corners for upper flow."
He revised the village layout.
"Straight wind paths are trouble. Better curve them so blizzards glance off."
I stared at Quick Hand in amazement.
This scrawny guy was a genius.
Every era births brilliant minds.
To me, Quick Hand would greatly advance our civilization.
"Outstanding! I'm putting you in charge of redesigning all buildings and layouts."
"Really!?"
"Work hard. Good results, and I'll treat you right."
"Whoa!"
Quick Hand gasped in shock.
I was thrilled to have snagged a smart lifelong slave.