Cold War
"Who the hell slapped this door on? Her Holiness specifically said not to cut the corners like that—which bastard—"
"Hey! You lot with the axes, what are you doing? If you don't haul the timber in fast, we can't raise the posts or put up the walls!"
"What the—where's the planking that was right here?"
"Richard took it earlier to build the stairs. Said he already got the Commander's permission, so I just told him fine."
"…Then what am I supposed to build our stairs with?"
"Team Two, mealtime! Get over here and eat before you go!"
Shouts erupted from every direction amid the bustle of people moving about. Men and women who had left their homes behind out of some sense of mission or religious fervor were mass-producing identical huts from locally scavenged materials. Standing in the middle of a scene that felt like a perfect recreation of an unforgettable old memory, I nodded with a satisfied smile.
"In my previous life I went through times just like this, grinding away to put up residential blocks. Looking at it now brings back a strangely wistful feeling."
"You did this sort of work in your former world as well?"
"Yes. The construction site happened to be inside a country in the middle of a civil war—and on the rebel side, no less. Exactly the same."
"…"
The landscape brought back the days when my senior and I had snuck into African civil-war zones to illegally expand refugee camps. The differences this time around were that I had become the de facto leader of the rebels and the very cause of the civil war… and that white phosphorus—the stuff that used to burn those hard-built camps to ash—did not exist in this era.
"Everyone seems to have gotten the hang of house-building. Shouldn't we start breaking ground on the multipurpose hall and the disaster-preparedness room soon?"
"So. You intend to go out to the site again."
"…I didn't say I was definitely going."
Ah—another major difference: instead of my senior, I had become the first casualty of a safety accident. I turned my head slightly to escape Rebecca's icy stare.
That was right. It had already been a full week since our proud holy warriors had started swinging axes at trees instead of human necks. I had been cutting sleep and meals short to pour future knowledge into these medieval people, only for a single moment of carelessness to leave me with a critical injury. I had insisted on inspecting the structural safety of a house by myself, and a collapsing post had crushed my leg, leaving me crippled.
Rebecca had of course rushed over and healed me at once, but the memory of my leg bent the wrong way with bone jutting out still sent a chill down my spine whenever I thought of it.
"But there's no aftereffects left. Can't you just let me go already?"
"There is no way there are no aftereffects! Even His power is not truly omnipotent. The wound may look closed on the outside, but we have no idea whether the damage inside has fully healed. If you overdo it again—"
"I got shot in my previous life, you know."
Compared to the wounds I had taken back then, this one was almost laughably light. Back then I had neither Divine Power nor even painkillers; I had nearly died of shock while they dug the bullet out.
As a Saintess chosen by the goddess and a reincarnator from the twenty-first century who had collected every injury under the sun, I could confidently say that treatment with Divine Power was not only extremely effective but left almost no lingering damage.
"What is a 'gun'?"
"Something like the hand cannon Princess Roberta uses."
"…Did you die from being hit by one of those and reincarnate into this world?"
Oh? This sister was getting bold with the Saintess. Should I just fire off an excommunication beam? Want a taste of the authority I borrowed from the goddess?
"A gunshot wound wasn't my cause of death. Anyway, I'll just lie here quietly, so bring me some paper and a pen."
Come to think of it, the only people in our order who could use Divine Power were me and Rebecca. And unlike me, who could only produce a flame the size of a convenience-store lighter, Rebecca was a veteran who had trained her Divine Power for over a decade. Even if I really did fire an excommunication beam as a joke, I would be the only one who lost out. Better stay on good terms from now on.
"If it's only that much… here you are."
Fortunately Rebecca had no intention of keeping me completely idle; she accepted the compromise of paper and pen without protest. Ah, that nostalgic feel. Before, I had drawn blueprints on bare dirt with a stick. Having money really did make life easier on the body.
"And call Princess Roberta as well. I'm thinking of improving that hand cannon I saw last time a little, and I'll need the real thing in front of me to draw a proper schematic."
Since I was stuck in bed anyway, I might as well draw blueprints. This probably wasn't what Rebecca had wanted from me, but if I went even a moment without work my whole body broke out in hives—what else could I do? Besides, I needed a gift to hand to the holy warriors chopping wood outside. Time to start pulling out, one by one, the pieces of future knowledge I had only been thinking about until now.
When a long voyage prevents sufficient intake of necessary nutrients, severe fatigue appears first, followed by bleeding gums, loosening teeth, and various other abnormalities. This is called scurvy. For prevention and treatment one must consume sour fruits such as lemons, limes, or oranges, or certain vegetables.
However, if fruit is fermented into vinegar or fruit wine, or heated over fire, the effect disappears. Therefore, if long-term preservation is the goal, it is best to pickle it in salt or sugar whenever possible.
First, for the holy warriors of the Italian peninsula—where maritime trade was well developed—I provided the treatment for scurvy and the first hints of nutritional science. Friends who could barely manage coastal voyages, let alone dream of ocean crossings, probably did not feel an urgent need for a scurvy cure. Still, when the Saintess herself offered to teach medicine, who would dare complain?
I already had a special gift prepared for Princess Roberta's Kingdom of Venice; the rest could figure out their place and be content.
As soon as this war ends, I intend to establish the first branch of the Agricultural Society in the Avignon Peasant Republic.
The Agricultural Society will be responsible for collecting and improving major crop varieties, ecological surveys, and the like. Methods for variety improvement are enclosed; I would be grateful if you could begin work as soon as possible.
To the pitifully underpowered rebels of Avignon I passed on the basics of genetics and the secrets of selective breeding. In truth this knowledge would help almost anyone, but spreading it in an age still deep in feudalism would only funnel the benefits straight to the lords. I could not yet manufacture rotary tillers or chemical fertilizer and scatter them about; introducing half-baked advanced farming methods into a society where serfdom still stood intact would only amplify the voices of the wrong landlords.
Rather than let an innovation meant to feed more people be abused that way, it was better to teach it only to the rebels and plant it as a foundation for the future. By recognizing the national character of the Peasant Republic in the indirect form of an Agricultural Society branch, Count Montpellier would think twice before casually crushing Avignon.
The Avignon Peasant Republic had to survive. A buffer state was needed between the new Kingdom of France that would be founded with Montpellier as its capital and the Italian peninsula. This was a world where intelligent life other than humans had built advanced civilizations, and the front line against those other races was the Kingdom of Venice. For Venice to station every soldier on the eastern border with peace of mind, it needed a canary in a cage that would warn of any French invasion.
"Um, Your Holiness… I was told you were looking for me…"
"Yes. Hand me that thing you're carrying for a moment."
Of course, strengthening Venice's military power was also a perfectly viable option. I carefully examined the hand cannon Roberta had handed over—not because there was anything worth learning from it, but because I was curious whether firearms in this world might have developed differently from Earth's.
The result, as expected, was disappointing. The hand cannons of the Europa Continent in 1299 matched almost exactly those used on Earth around the same period. In other words, they were complete garbage.
"Princess, why are you carrying around an antique like this?"
"Pardon? This is the absolute latest model…?"
"Ah."
The bore was needlessly large; loading required pouring powder straight into a pan; firing demanded a separate matchcord; there was no stock, let alone a trigger. This was not a gun so much as a miniature cannon stuck on the end of a stick. I had not expected much, but this was still far too primitive.
"A full blueprint would be beyond my specialty, so I'll draw a few conceptual sketches that capture the key ideas. When you return home, show them to your craftsmen."
"Craftsmen?"
"Yes. Preferably the ones who make cannons."
At least the lack of sophistication let me bluff with incomplete knowledge, so it was not all bad. On several sheets of paper I sketched the core technologies of firearm development—trigger, stock, rifling—along with brief explanations. I had no idea how well the craftsmen of this era would absorb it, but even if they only managed to produce matchlocks it would still be a major boost to military strength.
"Th-thank you so much!"
"It's nothing special."
Was it really all right to casually hand over such dangerous technology? It did not matter. Venice's productive capacity had limits. Discovering that adding a stock and cutting rifling inside the barrel improved accuracy was one thing; systematically manufacturing firearms, issuing them to soldiers, and securing a powder supply was another entirely. Even if I perfectly reproduced the blueprints of an AK-47 I had seen in my previous life and showed them to the people of this era, they would never be able to interpret and fabricate the real thing on their own.
And as long as Venice shared a border with the demon races, even if they succeeded in developing firearms the chance of those weapons being turned immediately against other human nations was slim. In a world where mana and miracles truly existed, a musket that took forever to reload was never going to end the age of knights. A stopgap for those who were physically excellent yet lacked aptitude for mana, or who had missed the chance for education—that was still more than enough for the role of the gun.
"Ah, and if any problems or sticking points come up during development, feel free to ask me anytime. As long as it's something I know, I'll do my best to answer."
Of course, our Holy Kingdom planned to take the precious know-how that Venice's craftsmen would sweat blood to discover and use it as the foundation for mass-producing sleek bolt-action rifles of our own.
So go ahead and do the research and development for us.