010. Tedious Schemes (1)
The first was a fire safety inspection. The next morning, three fire inspectors dispatched from Peluah's city hall arrived at the factory by the Rene River, flanked by armed guards.
"Let's see this factory that's got Peluah in an uproar."
The inspectors' eyes were blatantly hostile and arrogant. Their minds were no doubt filled with the thick pouch of gold coins Muller had slipped them, along with images of a horrific, filthy slum workshop where cotton dust billowed everywhere and a single spark could ignite disaster.
"We've received reports that unidentified fire risks in large-scale power facilities have spiked exponentially. If you fall short of standards, operations will halt immediately."
"Is that so." I nodded calmly. "Good thing, then. This factory was designed from the ground up assuming the worst-case fire scenario."
"......What?"
Confusion flashed across the inspectors' faces, right as they were about to sneer. I led them inside with feigned politeness.
The moment we pushed open the heavy iron door, they froze in unison.
Choking cotton dust ready to ignite at the slightest flame? Flammable trash strewn everywhere? Nothing of the sort existed.
A wide, straight central aisle. Fireproof partition walls of red brick and steel beams perfectly sectioned off to block flame spread. Rows of massive red-painted water barrels and manual compression pumps stationed between machine lines. Above all, enormous forced ventilation systems lining the ceiling and walls sucked floating dust relentlessly outdoors.
High-speed gear sections prone to friction heat were all shielded by sturdy wire safety guards, and evacuation routes painted on the workshop floor gleamed brightly.
The inspectors' faces grew paler by the second. The crude "safety checklist" in their hands was nothing but childish scribbles before this overwhelming modern safety design.
"Th-this is......"
"A textile factory's greatest enemies are dust accumulation causing explosions and spontaneous combustion. We've reduced that risk by 99 percent with the ceiling vents, and friction heat around shafts—the main fire culprit—is...... right here."
What the hell? Their pupils dilated. They clearly had no clue what I was saying.
From the start, they'd come expecting medieval-level nitpicking: spot something flammable and chew us out. I held up a ledger stamped densely with approvals before their glazed eyes.
"Operators log lubricant status every two hours. Part replacement schedules and night patrol signatures are all documented here. Even if a fire breaks out, we've rigged the system to force open the Rene River sluice gates and flood the factory pipes from external reservoirs in seconds."
I smiled softly at the trembling chief inspector, awed by the thoroughness.
"Anything else on the checklist?"
He barely caught the parchment before it slipped from his grip, mumbling blankly.
"As far as I know...... even scouring every top-tier artisan workshop in Peluah...... nowhere has safety this insane."
His defeated mutter drew a lethal smirk from Aila, arms crossed behind me.
"Then hurry back and tell Foreman Muller."
Her voice echoed through the factory.
"That the one jumping into the fire with an oil barrel won't be us—it's him."
That afternoon, instead of a shutdown order, the city hall sent a notice bizarrely thick with official seals.
The Carnoble Factory by the Rene River is hereby designated a model example for Peluah's power facility safety standards.
Aila stared at me after reading the document.
"......Insane."
Watching the inspectors slink away dazed, she let out a hollow laugh.
"This is just the beginning," I replied, stretching leisurely.
Muller's institutional pressure didn't stop. The second blow was a petition from the Peluah Handweaving Guild. The pretext was impeccable: Machines, those monstrosities, were stealing jobs from skilled traditional weavers. The factory was an antisocial blight, hiring unskilled laborers en masse and destroying Peluah's textile ecosystem.
A dingy tavern in Peluah's back alleys.
"Finish your drinks, lads. This might be our last beer in this dump."
Dozens of weavers, knocking back cheap ale, wore thick despair on their faces. They'd spent lifetimes hunched over looms in bone-grinding competition. More than anyone, they knew trade city life: guild rivalries drove quality up, fattening the city.
But this was different. The Carnoble factory was a catastrophe beyond competition.
"There's a limit! Machines churning out more and cheaper cloth in a day than we weave in a gut-busting month...... That's smashing market rules!"
Amid the furious cries, agitator Barton—bribed by Muller's guild—slipped onto a table.
"Brothers! That wastrel Carnoble is choking us out!"
He stabbed their sore spots cunningly.
"Look at old Giles there! Forty years at the loom, fingers gnarled to hell. Jeff! How're you repaying that top-shelf loom loan this month? Thompson! Your girl's got fever, but you can't sell a bolt to buy medicine!"
Weavers' eyes reddened, fists shaking. Honest workers to the core, they knew the weaver's grind intimately—the bloodied pain Barton dissected flawlessly.
"At this rate, we'll all starve on Peluah's streets! It's all that devil Carnoble! Let's go show him our tears of blood!"
"Down with Carnoble!"
"Give us back our looms!"
The tavern turned mob rally in seconds, torches and pitchforks in hand. Barton smirked inwardly. Not smashing the factory yet—just "protest politely," clash with Elpanso's mercenaries, get injuries, then cry "Carnoble brutally suppresses peaceful weavers." Perfect pretext to boot him from Peluah via council.
"Lead on! To the Rene River factory!"
Hundreds of jobless weavers marched the night streets, hunger and venom in their eyes—killers with nothing to lose.
"Ma'am! Mob incoming! Weavers armed, heading for the main gate!"
Aila's hired mercenary captain burst in. She gripped her sword hilt with a feral grin.
"Finally, Muller's unleashing the trash. Arm up! Anyone scratching a brick gets dumped in the river!"
"Hold. Weapons down."
I raised a hand calmly, stopping them. Aila whipped around, incredulous.
"You nuts? Their eyes are bloodshot. No talking this out!"
"Talking? Who said talk? People shut their ears when heads get hot, but empty bellies open noses first."
Chasing them off meant massive losses. Aila missed their potential value. Not intruders to destroy the factory—these were new talent to perfect it. I saw mountains of gold in them.
"Fire up the front yard pyres. Hang the big iron cauldrons. Fill 'em with cooking oil, crank the heat max."
"......Pardon?"
Soon after, the raging weavers halted before the wide-open main gate—expecting locked steel and shields.
Instead: dozens of massive cauldrons in a row, red woodfires roaring below in a bizarre scene.
"Th-those demon bastards! Gonna boil us alive?"
Barton shrieked, raising his pitchfork—but his agitation shattered in three seconds.
Sizzle-sizzle-sizzle—!
Whoosh—!
"Huh......?"
As something poured into the bubbling oil, a violently ecstatic aroma sliced the night air. Salty-spicy spices, toasty flour batter, meaty juices from frying beast flesh—the ultimate dish that saved countless Earth office drones.
Fried chicken.
Gulp.
Someone's throat bobbed, breaking the silence. Crispy chicken scent carpet-bombed the venomous weavers' noses.
"Welcome, everyone. Tough trek, huh?"
I stood before them in a grease-stained apron, fishing golden-fried chickens with a spider skimmer.
"Empty stomach, short temper. Eat first, talk later."
At my signal, workers wheeled out chicken mountains and chilled oak barrels of fresh draft beer, beaded with frost from the ice storehouse.
"Th-think this cheap trick'll......!"
Crunch.
Barton spat blood-flecked fury, but old Giles beside him was already devouring a drumstick, entranced.
"......Sniff. Delicious! Crispy skin, juicy inside! Beer, gimme beer!"
That sparked it. Hunger trumped pretexts. Torches and pitchforks clattered down; hundreds morphed into picnic revelers gnawing chicken and chugging cold brew in paradise.
"Ahh...... heaven."
"Another beer! One more wing!"
Barton gaped helplessly at the piling bones. His scheme pulverized by greasy temptation.
With bellies full and venom gone, I led rep leaders inside to a makeshift office. Now the real game: not repelling them by force, but forging them into perfect cogs for my system.
I sat across from Giles, the drumstick guy.
"So, sir. Forty years at the loom, right?"
"Aye, ahem. Thanks for the chicken, but your factory still cut my lifelong rice bowl. Eyes too dim for needles, back too bent for other work—what now?"
Giles poured out woe; others nodded.
I smiled, sliding a fresh cotton bolt from my desk drawer.
"Sir, close your eyes and feel this cloth. Spot any issues?"
Puzzled but compliant, his 40-year callused hand swept over it. He flinched, eyes snapping open.
"Th-this......! Twelfth row, weft tension's off! Invisible to eyes, but it'll pill soon!"
"Spot on." I slapped my knee.
Dim-eyed from looms, but his fingertips—honed on thousands of bolts—were sharper than machines. The factory's prime need: QA specialist.
"Sir, no more heavy looms breaking your back. Just sit comfy, touch the machine-woven cloth as it pours out."
"......Just touch?"
"Yes. Feel a defect like that? Ring the red bell beside you to halt the line. That's your new job: Chief Quality Manager. Pay? Exactly double your old loom wages."