Chapter 12. The Start of the Red Revolution! (Not That Revolution.)
“Human trafficking? Come on, Luna. That's way too harsh. This is a perfectly polite ‘talent acquisition.’”
I puffed out my chest indignantly in response, but Luna didn't drop her glare—like she still saw me as a con artist trying to swindle some naive old man.
“The lady has strictly forbidden buying and selling people within the territory. You'd do well to be careful, Your Highness. The laws of the North are closer and colder than imperial law.”
“It's not about buying! It's paying fair compensation for the future of Winterfell...”
As my explanation dragged on, the old man squatting by the machine spat on the floor with a ptui.
“Shut it, you whelp. Who the hell is this pretty boy from some cushy life, coming around bossing folks about their precious inventions? This ain't something you haggle over for pocket change.”
The old man's eyes burned with biting cynicism. Grimy nails, a wrinkled face etched with distrust of the world. The picture-perfect stubborn artisan.
I swallowed hard and shifted my gaze to the machine he'd been tinkering with. Gears meshed in intricate patterns, copper tubes twisted like serpents. I had no clue about the exact mechanics, but the bizarre heat radiating from it felt real enough. Instead of pretending to know, I held my hand near a gap where dry air whispered out.
“Sir, this thing... it keeps the air circulating inside, right? Amazing—no fire needed, and the air comes out bone-dry.”
The old man's eyebrow twitched.
“...And what do you make of it, lad?”
“Well, I don't know much about machines, but it looks like something that sucks in the damp winter breath and spits out fluffy, dry air. Like the only lifeline against this brutal northern humidity.”
At my crude description, the old man slowly rose. Straightening his hunched back revealed a surprisingly burly frame.
“Everyone called it madness. A scrap heap that guzzles fuel for nothing. Winterfell's craftsmen only know carving heavy stone—they won't listen to talk of delicate gears. But you... you think it's alive?”
“Alive? This is the treasure holding my lifeline in its hands. At least to my eyes.”
I met the old man's gaze head-on. His name was Garrett. A lifelong wall maintenance engineer, ousted for preaching machine efficiency. A tragic genius.
“Garrett, sir. Partner with me. I'll get this built in the ducal workshops. Materials, charcoal, workspace—all provided by the residence. You just focus on making it bigger and tougher. We'll prove its worth in gold.”
Doubt flickered in Garrett's eyes. His lifelong scrap heap, dismissed by all, hailed as a ‘business cornerstone’ by some young punk. For the first time, he flashed a yellow-toothed grin.
A week later, the business site at the ducal residence was pure hell. Garrett was a far more ruthless workaholic than I'd imagined. He holed up in the site building, carving gears without sleep.
I rolled up my sleeves too, pride as project lead on the line. To cut maintenance costs further, I scoured the territory's forges for better insulation.
“Your Highness, open this valve and humidity vents out. But too much drops the temperature.”
“Then split it into stages. Full blast first, then just enough to hold steady.”
Whiiir—! Clack, clack!
The massive dryer Garrett had refined over sleepless nights was finally showing its might. Three times bigger than the market model, dozens of copper tubes snaked from the body, a huge bellows pumping steady air below.
“Your Highness, ready. Temperature and humidity optimal—load it up.”
At Garrett's signal, I slid prepped paprika chunks on trays into the machine.
“Here we go—activating!”
I pulled the lever. Gears engaged, unleashing a torrent of hot air inside. The warehouse filled with sweltering heat and the sweet, spicy paprika scent.
Luna and I watched the exhaust tensely. Damp Winterfell air blasted out the chimney, while inside, scorching winds stripped the paprika's moisture mercilessly.
Fifteen minutes later, Garrett cautiously opened the valve.
“...It's coming.”
Shhh—
Incredibly crisp dried paprika cascaded onto the tray below. With trembling fingers, I pressed one.
Crumble.
No trace of moisture—perfectly dried. Rubbing it released a fine red powder like gem dust, hitting the nose with intense flavor.
“Success...”
A result impossible with natural drying, achieved in top quality in just fifteen minutes. The market paradigm was about to shift.
“Sir! Look at this quality! Price it for commoners, and the spice market is ours!”
“Heh heh... this old scrap really did it. You're right—it's a breathing treasure.”
Garrett stroked the machine in awe. I'd poured effort into the last three days too, so I reached to pat it alongside—
Ouch, hot!
Too scorching; I settled for mental admiration. Beside me, Luna—usually impassive—stared wide-eyed at the paprika mountain.
“...Unbelievable. This volume in such short time... Your Highness, this could be Winterfell's new gold vein.”
I nodded, issuing orders.
“First, hire hands to grind mass paprika. Garrett, sir, now research an auto-grinder. I'll sketch a rough design later.”
“Heh heh, how much more you gonna work this old bones...? Fine.”
I flashed Garrett a light smile, then ground some output paprika and packed it meticulously into a small glass vial. Time to show the real boss.
At the duke's office door, I straightened my clothes and knocked.
“Enter.”
A cold, refined voice. Inside, Betty looked up from her paperwork pile. Neat as ever, but her eyes seemed sharper—maybe from my lack of reports.
“No word for days—are you actually working, or just using business as excuse to prowl the market?”
Instead of answering, I set the vial on her desk. Her gaze locked on the red powder inside.
“...This it?”
“As you see, our first fruit. Top-grade from a dryer I recruited artisan Garrett to build.”
“The color's far more vivid...”
Betty uncorked it cautiously. Sweet, potent paprika scent flooded the office. She dusted some on her hand, tasted—and her eyes widened faintly.
“...Unbelievable. Flavor, aroma—perfect.”
“Sir's skill meets my idea. Mass production's just a matter of time.”
Betty set down the vial, staring piercingly. Surprise mixed with odd wariness. She leaned back, propping her chin.
“Your Highness, a perfect start. But don't get cocky. This is just the beginning. It has to outsell golden pepper on scales and bring in gold for real results.”
“I know. You'll be shocked by the revenue soon. Heh heh...”
Betty stared silently, intently.
What's with the stare? Something on my face?
“Hope you're right. You can go now.”
She turned back to papers. But her movements felt heavier than usual. Pen poised to sign, she paused, rubbing her brow.
“Luna.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Tell Hestor Viscount he can take herbs from the ducal stores. Reports keep coming—villages seeking fever meds are rising.”
“Understood.”
Her tone was purely businesslike, like one of thousands of daily territory chores.
High fever...?
A ominous alarm rang from some past-life memory. But Betty flipped to the next paper. To her, it was just a minor nuisance. Without looking up, she added to me:
“Your Highness, still here? Bring the next report with profits. Oh, and no market research in the eastern territories.”
Ambiguous words—concern or not?—as she refocused. Leaving, ‘herbs’ and ‘high fever’ echoed in my ears.
Gotta prepare for this no matter what. Even in modern times, surging fever cases sparked massive outbreaks.