Chapter 50
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Translator: volt
Chapter: 50
Chapter Title: Agricultural Equipment Knight
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A man sat by a roaring fireplace, reading two letters.
Reports from an uncle and his nephew, carried across the sea.
"...The level of craftsmanship among the natives is utterly crude, far below what the English claim. If Your Majesty saw them in their nakedness, you could only think one word: 'barbarian.' Furthermore..."
This was from the report sent by his uncle, François Gravé.
"...We cannot dismiss the natives' level of civilization. Every tool they use is remarkably precise, infused with thoughtful engineering. Their crops are large and sweet, their livestock fat and healthy. Anyone who sees 'barbarian' here is a fool. Moreover..."
This was a passage from his nephew Samuel de Champlain's report.
The two reports were bizarrely polar opposites.
"...Everything was a vile fabrication by the English. They bribed or imprisoned the so-called 'emperor' of the savages to prop up a fake empire, exploiting the local barbarians..."
One said this.
"A strong bond was evident between the natives and the English. The English here bristled if you called the local Indians 'savages,' insisting on 'natives.' These 'natives' sent lavish gifts to the English..."
The other said that.
"Hmm..."
These conclusions were written on the same day, about the same place.
Was one of them lying?
No, that couldn't be. There was no reason for it.
So the conclusion was simple.
Both held the sincere observations of their authors, each viewing different sides of the same coin.
Even so, reactions this contradictory?
And there was something even more intriguing than the contradictions.
"The so-called 'native emperor' the English keep..."
"The spiritual leader guiding these 'natives'..."
"...There's definitely something."
"Something was evident."
"...Ha."
They overlapped on that one point.
A monarch revered and admired by natives of different faiths and the English alike.
Whether he wielded real power or was merely Baron Ralegh's puppet—they disagreed there—but they concurred he exerted powerful influence.
'...Enviable.'
It was content that France's legitimate king, Henry IV, couldn't help envying.
He had only just begun resolving the kingdom's religious wars. But the war between him and his enemies raged on.
He remained excommunicated by the Pope in Rome. Naturally. He'd been Protestant until two years ago. Now he was a Catholic excommunicated by the Catholic Church.
France's religious wars of the past thirty years were finally nearing their end.
Two years since entering Paris. His enemies would fall, and he would triumph.
But thirty years of war.
Catholics, royalists, Protestants—they'd all borrowed every debt the world offered, and it still wasn't enough.
He himself was collared by England's Queen Elizabeth. And there were heaps more debts to repay.
That wasn't all.
A powder keg.
The kingdom was exhausted, the crown weaker than ever. Great lords not only undermining royal authority but eyeing the throne itself lurked everywhere.
Untrustworthy would-be traitors who'd been at each other's throats until moments ago now sharpened their blades all around.
To survive, to restore royal power...
He needed money.
A new source of funds he could draw on without burden.
From outside. He couldn't risk more debts to domestic or foreign lenders.
Gold, silver, luxuries. Vast luxuries he could squeeze money from the upper crust anytime.
A funding source. For an army loyal only to the king, bureaucrats loyal only to him.
For the crown.
He wanted an ally spewing aluminum and furs, like Elizabeth's.
Power to lightly crush his great nobles underfoot, like hers.
'But... a feat beyond my lifetime.'
For now, he must avoid provoking ally England. France's king Henry de Bourbon sighed, gazing at the map of America on the nightstand.
No expanding influence beyond a limit. Better to set up a few trading posts with a dozen men each, nothing to rile England.
Explorers said fur trade up there wasn't bad. That would be perfect.
Someday he'd live large like England's Elizabeth.
Not now.
Henry IV suppressed the massive curiosity blooming in his chest, neatly folded the letters, and tucked them into a drawer.
He didn't forget.
Across that Atlantic might be a wealthy, powerful monarch.
A potential ally to solidify France's throne.
As if beckoning him.
Huff... huff...
"W-We finished registering the 400-man roster, at least. Now head over there for the land registry!"
I was thrilled at Hewitt's words—until I wasn't.
This was insane... Seven hours of nonstop walking and working, and there was still more?
All because of those damn French. They came snooping around, stirring trouble everywhere, backing up our already delayed work even more.
Those enemies. I won't forget...
"Uh... are you okay?"
No.
"I'm fine, Hewitt. Where to next?"
"The western settlement. Where the Occonahoc and Accomac tribes newly settled."
"..."
Thus, another 14-hour workday ended with me collapsing into bed.
The next day: 13 hours.
The day after: 15 hours. The one after that: 12 hours...
Is this... life?
Weird. Others who know Excel don't suffer like this. Why me?
My daily routine, simplified:
After Excel work, bulldoze land with the excavator, smash rocks, fell trees with the chainsaw, till fields with the tiller, manage household supplies. Plus overseeing others' Excel work.
Wow! One man handling office, production, and management!
...Found the problem.
'Too many tasks only I can do.'
Another day, utterly drained, I lay in bed.
The difference? Only 12 hours.
Enough energy to think before sleep, not pass out instantly.
'Only I can run the tiller, drive the Damas truck and forklift, use the chainsaw, mixer, sprayer—everything grinds to a halt without me.'
And the settlement's population exploded from 30 to over 20,000 in seven years—a 70,000%+ increase.
Operations unchanged.
Me rolling, rolling, rolling. That's it.
This ain't right.
Like with Excel, time to improvise.
'For example, teach usage of some machines to others...'
Yes! That's it!
Brilliant idea—I bolted upright unconsciously.
Me solo-running one tiller for two-four hours a day while multitasking? Better to pick three-four people to run it 12-16 hours!
One on chainsaw, one on Damas, one spraying—perfect!
We already build boats and greenhouses from plastic. No need to hoard modern gear alone, hiding it as 'must keep secret!'
Share skills with trusted folks: productivity skyrockets, my work-life balance restores!
I calmed my swelling excitement and jotted the genius plan in my notebook. Right. Start slow. Easiest, least taxing, safest first...
"This is a chainsaw."
Yeah.
Started with the hardest and most dangerous.
Ridiculous reason: logging with it was the toughest.
I... wanted freedom from hard labor too.
"Ooh... ch-chainsaw!"
"That's right, Oittan."
The guy before me wasn't trustworthy, but he had status and a name. Not bad for handling an 'angel's tool.'
I took Oittan and other chainsaw candidates to the nearby woods.
"Oittan, grip it."
"Y-Yes!"
Tension over possibly wielding an angel's tool? Sweat poured down Oittan's face.
I patted his shoulder to relax him, then handed over the chainsaw.
"Now... what did I say?"
"You touch here to prime it, and the starter's here..."
"Hold on. Engage the brake first."
"Ah!"
Hiss... This feels iffy.
But after days of training, he'll be fine.
I encouraged Oittan last and said,
"As I told you, always keep your arms extended—no, pull it close and power through with your body."
"Got it! I'll do it just like that!"
VreeeeEEE!
Good, startup safe.
Just trimming branches. Safety training solid—no injuries...
"Ah, no! Don't work the tip..."
KANG!
Ah, kickback.
Luckily, Oittan wasn't hurt—he dropped it instantly from recoil.
But not everyone was safe. The chain spins at 20m/s. The flung saw flew through the air.
And that flying chainsaw...
"Gaaahhh!"
"P-Pull it out! The chainsaw's in Nemo's shoulder!"
"M-M-M-Mercy!"
...Did exactly that.
Okay.
One thing crystal clear.
Never give beginners tools that could turn into murder weapons.
No YouTube, no textbooks, no proper teachers, no academies providing it all.
Instinct only.
I learn by instinct. Infinite lives.
Others can't.
No need for safety rules perfected through deaths like some fugu sashimi recipe. Better I handle potential killers alone.
"Damas, chainsaw, excavator, forklift, trimmer..."
I listed them densely, finally grasping it. Ah, that's why they warn against pissing off neighbors in the countryside.
Anyway.
Sprayers, fertilizer spreaders, mixers, tillers, pesticide rigs, pumps...
Everyone else: only these 'safer' ones.
Not just basic use.
"A-A-Are you okay?"
"..."
"N-Nemo, sir, your arm's gone! The arm...!"
"Support Nemo first and grab the arm!"
...Felt it before, tasking blacksmiths to replicate a 2-stroke trimmer engine. 20th-21st century tech isn't mimickable with pre-industrial handcraft.
A 20th-century tin can outdid 16th-century's finest machines.
No more risky replications with 16th-century smiths. Especially explosives.
Oof, that engine blast nearly killed me.
Safety-first tech only, whoever it is. Or I'm not human.
"White, watch closely. I'll show you how to use the tiller. This gear controls forward and reverse."
"Forward... reverse..."
Of course, even 'safe' tech only to truly reliable people.
I don't know yet, but who says a mixer can't kill? Killer in a movie offed three guys with a pencil.
Anyway, seeing John White handle the tiller well made me proud. He crossed himself and muttered Bible verses before gripping the wheel...
Indeed.
Another reason to entrust gear only to the trustworthy: authority.
I'm the only one with these, the only one who can use them. To folks, it looks divine.
Hand shaky authority to the clueless? Trouble brews. Best to trusted longtime no-accident types.
...Yeah. Need a licensing system.
Not many, so test before me, ceremony where I grant certs. Like naming a master craftsman.
What to call it? Not Agricultural Mechanic—that's makers/repairers. Like Heavy Equipment Operator...
Right.
I watched the crowd cheer and tear up at White tilling, then told him,
"Congratulations. You've taken your first step as an 'Agricultural Equipment Knight'."
"Pardon? Er-hem, did you say 'Operator'?"
...Huh?
Huang Suksoft's premium language patch pinged my gut: something wrong.
'Operator' for 'operator/technician'—to him, just surgeon.
So, name it properly for White.
...What?
Authoritative enough.
Familiar to era folk.
Seems specialized profession...
Ah...
Got it.
"Ah, Knight of Agricultural Equipment."
"Pardon?"
'Knight'
Thus began the New World's first Agricultural Equipment Knight investiture.