Overwork, Promotion, and the Baron's Fury
Through field tests, the empire had confirmed the power of matchlocks and cannons. With that, they poured imperial funds into mass-producing weapons and training operators on a massive scale. Shipyards were flooded with orders for refits and new warships. The empire's industries entered a booming era.
But sadly, the world doesn't spin happily for everyone. If there's a winner taking profits, there must be a loser footing the bill—that's the harsh law of the world. Even in John Brown's previous life, this was plain as day with stocks and coins (let's gloss over how he'd gotten burned by both).
So who was suffering the losses? None other than the weapons R&D department that had sparked the boom. Strictly speaking, they weren't losing out, but judgments are subjective, right? The weapons R&D team was buried under paperwork for production, distribution, and management—swamped to the breaking point.
"Ugh, this isn't what I signed up for? This isn't it? This isn't it?"
"Sorry, kiddo. Overtime again tonight..."
"At least the hazard pay's good..."
"Shut it! We didn't join this department for extra overtime pay!"
"Why won't the work ever end?"
The department staff, pushed to the brink of burnout by the avalanche of tasks, could no longer find the old work-life balance and easygoing vibe.
They started hunting for the root cause of the ramped-up workload—and found it closer than expected. John Brown. The man once hailed a hero for saving the department from shutdown.
"Was it you who stole my work-life balance?"
"Where'd you get that voodoo doll?"
"Delivering [justice] to [evil] and realizing [righteousness]. Is that my [mission]..."
He could feel the department's seething atmosphere too.
"John Brown, I curse you!"
He flinched.
Brushing off yet another curse from somewhere, Brown fled to his office.
"...Mr. Brown. Where've you been? You didn't sneak off for a break, did you?"
"Look at this. The workload hasn't budged an inch. Weird, right? We're cranking through it, but..."
His teammates greeted him with chilling glares for some reason.
No paradise in his hideout. Brown just squeezed his eyes shut.
John Brown headed to work as usual that day. Someone called out to stop him.
"...John Brown?"
It had finally come. Brown squeezed his eyes shut and sighed.
"Please, make it quick and painless."
"What?"
"...Aren't you a hitman?"
"What nonsense is..."
The man scowled in irritation.
"Kyle McCallson. Researcher at the magitech lab."
"Oh."
Realizing his mistake, Brown awkwardly changed the subject.
"Ah, right. What brings you here..."
"Don't get cocky."
"Pardon?"
"Don't let developing a few new weapons go to your head."
"What the..."
Brown wanted to snap back—Who the hell are you? Since when do you talk down to me like that? Mind your own business!—but he held his tongue. One hard-earned lesson from twenty years in this life: Guys who strutted like that were usually high-ranking nobles or their spoiled kids. Brown was noble too, but as the son of a baron's family—the weakest rung—he couldn't afford to mouth off. Defying the elite meant clan annihilation on easy mode. Swallowing his rage, he bowed his head.
"...Yes. I'll keep that in mind."
"Hmph. I'll be watching."
Brown watched him walk away, thinking:
'Feeling the hater's itch.'
Today, he tasted the woes of bottom-tier nobility again. But Brown's bitterness didn't last. It was the day the imperial court would reward him. Time flew, and soon an emissary from the palace arrived at the department.
Unfurling documents and clearing his throat, the man began.
"The empire highly values John Brown's dedication and passion... Field tests have proven the new weapons' effectiveness... thereby strengthening our national defense..."
The gist: Matchlocks and cannons rock. Mass-training operators. Economy's booming too. Thanks for making this happen.
After the long preamble, he got to the point.
"Thus, the empire honors your merits and..."
'Oh... reward time?'
Brown started getting excited. What bounty would the empire bestow? A thrilling moment.
"...shall provide a monetary reward of gold..."
Enough for a spacious, prime-location house even by capital prices. Calming his thrill, Brown awaited the next words.
"And..."
What came next was utterly unexpected.
"The weapons R&D department shall merge with the munitions management division to establish a new Weapons Research Lab, with John Brown appointed as researcher."
'?'
With that bombshell, he handed Brown the papers and left.
'Did I hear that wrong?'
Researcher posts started at imperial civil service grade 6 or 7 minimum. As a grade 9, Brown had skyrocketed. Doubting his ears, he pondered—until the team's cheers snapped him out.
"Congrats!"
"Congratulations."
"Omedetou."
"Hey, treat us later."
Unlike usual, they were genuinely congratulating him.
"Guess that means you're done with this department, huh?"
"Yeah, dump the mess and run?"
"Can't you take some of the work with you?"
Not quite.
"Still, last day today. Let's do a farewell party."
"Make it good?"
"Don't ghost us?"
The send-off was a blast anyway.
After the party, Brown enjoyed a short vacation. Time flew, and soon it was his first day at the new posting. Heading out, he buzzed with anticipation for his new colleagues.
"Just hope they're not weirdos."
He arrived at the lab before he knew it. Checking his attire, he opened the door with trembling excitement. Who should he face but Kyle McCallson from the other day.
'Why the hell is that guy there...'
Brown froze in shock. McCallson looked equally stunned, then scowled.
"Tch, never thought I'd end up working with you."
Stuck with their most hated person on day one. Rough start to the new department.
'Ha... he's high noble spawn, so I should yield, right?'
Feeling the bottom-tier noble blues again, Brown backed down first.
"Ahaha. I'll work hard anyway."
"Don't talk to me. You annoy me."
"..."
He got a sharp rebuff in return.
'Resignation letter incoming.'
Brown's patience held—thanks to twenty years of life lessons. Proof of steady learning's value.
'But what's his deal, acting like that? What's his rank?'
Curiosity won out, despite the risks. Like a League support warding a risky bush before dragon, Brown asked McCallson.
"Sorry to ask, but could you tell me your rank?"
McCallson scowled at the question.
'Screwed?'
Asking a noble's rank was a huge faux pas. Implies Are you even noble? Who do you think you are?
"...You don't recognize my house name? I'll overlook your rudeness—this once."
McCallson let it slide more gracefully than expected.
"Thank you for your generosity."
"Yeah, yeah. My house is..."
He leaned back in his chair casually.
"House McCallson, barons. Memorize it."
Barons. Excluding baronets, the absolute bottom of nobility. By sheer coincidence, John Brown was from a baron's house too. No need to grovel or watch his step.
"Ha."
Brown let out a hollow laugh. His mind reeled. Something boiled up. No more holding back.
"You fucking punk."
Sudden shift stunned McCallson.
"Talking back to a noble? No fear of repercussions?"
"Repercussions from a baron's whelp? Fuck off, asshole. Duel me."
Brown held back from punching—twenty years' discipline...
"Barbarian. Nobles have dignity..."
"Dignity my ass. Jawbreaker punch!"
"Do you know who I am?!"
"...Who?"
'Wait, my boss?'
Brown's reason flickered.
"I'm a researcher! Our ranks and grades are worlds apart!"
"Oh? Really?"
Brown ditched reason again.
"Kyaa! Calm down!"
A voice from the entrance made Brown and McCallson turn. There stood Luna Karen.
"..."
Brown quietly released McCallson's collar.