Chapter 15
Chapter 15
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Translator: penny
Chapter: 15
Chapter Title: From Primitive Era Chieftain to Space Age Emperor
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The war was over.
Our side's casualties numbered zero.
It was an utterly absurd figure. In this era, once a war broke out, unless one side had an overwhelming advantage, half the warriors were as good as dead. Even I was stunned.
I'd figured a couple might die by mistake, but not a single one had. Morale shot through the roof.
"Whirlwind is truly brilliant! We were right to follow you."
"Great Whirlwind!"
"Woooh!"
The primitives' lexicon had gained a new addition: 'Great'.
I ordered the cleanup of the battlefield.
Black Stone took charge, tending to the wounded.
In an age without antibiotics, the lucky ones would survive; the unlucky would perish.
The Upstream Tribe had around two hundred people.
Of their fifty warriors, about twenty lay dead, with ten more seriously injured. Roughly half could be saved.
The Whirlwind Tribe originally numbered about a hundred and twenty, so now we had swelled into a grand tribe of three hundred strong.
While conducting a census, I deliberately divided them into classes.
The criterion ignored gender and age, prioritizing ability above all.
From the dawn of civilization, I planned to strictly control wealth and power, adjusting their flow meticulously. Establishing a solid system from the start was crucial.
The makings of the elite (future nobility) were those who excelled in combat, crafting, or intellect.
The rest would be common tribesfolk handling labor.
I selected three new candidates for leadership roles.
Black Bear, with his massive build but gentle nature.
Slow Foot, the all-around craftsman with a somewhat sly look.
And Wise Flower, suspected of sharp intellect.
Black Bear would lead the shield bearers, Slow Foot would apprentice under Quick Hand, and Wise Flower would serve as strategist.
I worried Wise Flower, being a woman, might face backlash, but positioning her as a mid-tier leader among women—without full ruling authority—kept objections at bay.
"You three are candidates for mid-level command under me. Ask Black Stone what that means. Wise Flower, you'll have the right to choose any man you desire."
"Woooh!"
"......"
The reactions couldn't have been more polar.
The original tribesfolk raised their weapons in cheers, while the conquered ones looked like they were marching to the slaughterhouse.
Who could blame them?
In this era, postwar protocol meant culling the weak.
Useful captives were absorbed, but excess numbers posed a revenge risk, so they were selectively executed.
Before heading back, I called Wise Flower aside.
The entire Upstream Tribe had a Latin vibe, like South American beauties.
I'd taken a bit of a liking, granting her some extra leeway.
For now, White Flame kept me drained every night—no chance to touch her. But she'd toughen up in time.
"You called?"
Her tone was soft and coaxing.
If it felt off, blame my modern sensibilities.
"Our tribe doesn't kill people. With abundant food and collective effort, no one starves."
"Is that true?"
"You'll need to convince the newcomers."
"Understood."
She grasped my intent immediately.
Having promised favoritism for her brains, she had to prove it.
If she fell short despite the chance, I'd regrettably revoke the privilege.
*
All the way back, the Upstream Tribe wore funeral faces.
They'd barely survived winter in rough shape; defeat in war left them dreading imminent death.
"They're gonna kill us."
"Should we run?"
Whenever whispers arose, Wise Flower scurried about, assuring them we wouldn't kill them. Faces eased a bit.
As the wooden palisade came into view, shock rippled through them.
They checked our armament and nodded in acceptance.
Having witnessed incomprehensible battle prowess, our civilization didn't seem so alien.
The river-backed wall exuded intimidation—no ladders meant no crossing.
One step past the gate revealed the main avenue.
Not mud, but gravel-packed for solidity, flanked by S-curving drainage ditches.
Spring thaw should have turned it to muck, but it hadn't. Jaws dropped.
In the center, the communal fire blazed; roads radiated four ways from the plaza.
Northwest: south-facing wooden homes in rows.
South: vast fields.
Southwest: rabbit pens.
Northeast: workshops, smokehouse, neatly arrayed.
Primitives' mouths gaped.
"Incredible!"
"Better than where we lived, right?"
"No more tiger attacks, at least."
"Even invaders couldn't breach this."
We might struggle on expeditions, but defending? Thousands of primitives couldn't take it.
With our numbers secured, redistribution was next—but first, other tasks.
"From now on, aside from foraging and hunting, build your own homes."
"Like the ones here?"
"No. These will all be demolished and rebuilt."
"......!"
"So erect temporary shelters yourselves."
Feeling our civilization's weight, they gawked.
"Better than these?"
"What kind of houses?"
Brick houses.
Quick Hand and I had designed through winter.
Now with Slow Foot, we'd refine over days if needed.
*
We finalized the brick house designs.
Slow Foot studied the winter blueprints, eyes wide, absorbing knowledge and suggesting tweaks.
No Quick Hand genius, but solid apprentice material.
His sly face hid humility; Quick Hand approved.
"Very useful! Follow me from now on, help with everything!"
"Just give the word! I'll do anything!"
Thus, tech slave number two was born for life.
He puzzled over some terms but inferred quickly.
Final blueprint: walls in alternating half-brick (long side) and full-brick (short side) interlocking bonds. Corners alternated headers (short) and stretchers (long) to seal cracks.
Windows high for safety.
South yard mandatory, with eaves.
Eaves were vital: no eaves meant leaks at doors, weakened structure.
Build to last, no design flaws.
Mid-wall timber ring beams planned; hearth refined too.
Wanted ondol floors, but too labor-intensive—risk of suffocation scrapped it.
Ondol later, with advanced civ.
More features added.
Bricks remained.
Mixing mud, molding, drying: easy.
Firing in kiln: the hurdle.
Too early for sowing, so peak manpower unavailable.
Still, tasked river alluvium harvesting.
Roots and gravel sieved; large pond filled, mud aged by sea breeze and sun.
Skim debris, scrape fine silt, mix sand in pit.
Chamotte ideal, but impossible—settle for this.
Mold interiors dusted with ash-sand mix to prevent sticking.
Then labor grind: pack mud, tamp out air.
Pop out raw bricks.
Dry days, ready to fire.
Kiln-building skyrocketed difficulty.
Brick kiln equaled capacity for iron smelting with add-ons.
Find copper ore and fluxes: Bronze Age beckons.
For the future, perfect it now.
Site: gentle slope.
Dig drains first.
Base: flagstones, gravel tamped firm. Twin fireboxes side-by-side—hearth of the kiln.
Rear: flame channels for heat rise.
Grate floor: bricks cross-laid lattice for flames below.
Dome ceiling: corbel arch, bricks fanned slantwise, interlocking ring by ring.
No fired bricks yet—dried raw ones stacked, mudded gaps.
Top rear: vents and peepholes. Smoke out, gauge heat.
Temporary props: willow hoops inside propping dome, bricked over.
Closure: wedge-locked capstone.
Exterior: thick straw-mud plaster for insulation. Done.
Load dried raw bricks and fuel.
No coal—massive wood devourer.
First try, failure possible.
Even failed bricks beat crude mud huts.
Light up: kiln warms slowly.
Journey: over seventy-two hours.
Could I spark civilization's miracle?