Aila (2)
Peluah's nights were always dazzling. Especially in the top-tier banquet hall of the First Commercial District, where the continent's wealth converged—the Golden Goblet. Tonight, too, it blazed like a city that never slept, thrumming with crowds.
The patriarchs of the colossal families that dominated Peluah and the heads of major guilds mingled about. Draped in lavish silk gowns and tailcoats embroidered with golden thread, they clinked crystal goblets in clusters of three or five. Most hailed from commoner stock, but having seized vast fortunes, they invariably aped the elegant soirees of the nobility.
As a classical string quartet played, the true delicacy of their favorite pastime took center stage—not on the tables, but in the air. Nothing fostered camaraderie quite like thoroughly chewing over someone behind their back.
And in Peluah, the juiciest target was a foregone conclusion.
"Hahaha! Have you heard the latest? That idiot young master from the old Carnoble Guild."
Muller, head of the Muller Guild—his belly protruding like a mountain—launched in with a sleazy grin. The merchants clustered around him lit up with intrigue.
"Oh, that legendary wastrel Elpanso? Who hasn't?"
"Who could forget the monumental feat of plunging a continental powerhouse into the gutter in just one year? The moment his father died, he handed the guild's mining rights over to the gambling den backers for peanuts, right?"
"And that's not all. Some third-rate street mercenaries buttered him up as 'esteemed deputy,' and the fool, feeling flattered, showered them with a hundred gold coins for one night's booze. Brain's gotta be full of shit."
Mocking laughter erupted here and there.
The Carnoble Guild—once a towering mountain range dominating Peluah. Elpanso's idiocy in toppling his father's ironclad empire in a single stroke had long become legend among the merchants.
"A disgrace to real merchants. 'A pearl necklace on a pig' fits him to a T."
"When he couldn't even spot the hidden clauses in contracts and got fleeced of his prime merchant fleet by con artists, I nearly laughed my guts out. Tsk tsk."
"Exactly. After smearing his father's name like that, shouldn't he have bitten his tongue in shame? Word is, he's crawled under some nobody lately, scraping by on pocket change. Won't even die properly. Cockroach vitality."
The merchants cackled, gulping wine, when one glanced around slyly and raised his voice toward a redheaded woman quietly sipping champagne in a corner of the hall.
"Oh, right—Aila, head of Golden Fleece Guild! Rumor has it you've taken in that cockroach. True?"
All eyes snapped to her.
Aila Winchester, the young powerhouse surging most fearsomely through Peluah lately. She lazily rolled her emerald eyes, swirling her champagne glass.
"Oh, that bastard?"
Aila's red lips curved in an alluring smile as she sighed oh-so-casually. "What could I do? Even trash was my playmate from snot-nosed kid days. Couldn't bear watching him starve on the streets, so I tossed him a job in the warehouse corner—like charity."
"Ooh! As expected of Head Aila!"
"Taking in the world's biggest wastrel—you're a saint to match that beauty!"
"But watch out. His stupidity might infect your guild. Hahaha!"
The merchants praised Aila's mercy while piling fresh scorn on Elpanso. She smiled obligingly, raising her glass to match their mood.
But.
Hidden behind her crystal goblet, Aila's eyes burned colder than ever.
These morons. Mouths flapping like they're experts.
Aila clicked her tongue inwardly. Outwardly playing along, she couldn't stop the hollow laughter inside.
Idiot? Cockroach? Do you fools even know who you're judging?
Recent days in the guild's underground workshop flashed vividly through Aila's mind.
Elpanso had taken her investment and immediately recruited Peluah's finest blacksmiths, holing up in the secret forge. His face smeared black with grease, hammering and machining metal like a madman—gone was the glassy-eyed haze of his debauched past. Only fierce conviction and cold rationality blazed in those eyes.
And just days ago. The bizarre machine he'd summoned her to see.
'Spinning Jenny,' he called it.
[Prototype Textile Machine]
[Revolutionary thread-spinning device]
[Look, Aila. This is the first machine to change the world.]
Powered by waterwheel, it roared to life with grating friction. Dozens of spindles whirled furiously, extruding fine thread. Shuttles flew left and right like lightning, weaving dense fabric—all automated.
Aila still shivered at the memory. What took dozens of skilled weavers a full day, this prototype churned out in one hour.
Cost calculations, process optimization—his head's packed with monstrous knowledge.
He wasn't an idiot. No—he towered light-years above her, above every swaggering merchant in this hall, surveying the board from on high. A genius.
"Hey, Head Muller. Heard you bulk-bought premium cotton from the south? Could you spare some for our guild...?"
"Aigoo, can't do it. Our workshops are stretched thin as is."
Watching them bicker over slim margins, Aila smirked inwardly.
Pitiful fools. Once Elpanso's Spinning Jenny and Power Loom ramp up in factories?
Their vaunted handcraft workshops and pricey fabrics would be worthless scraps.
Cotton prices would crash. Vast wealth would flood straight to Elpanso and Golden Fleece Guild. To her feet.
Yeah, laugh it up now.
Aila downed her champagne. These idiots will be crawling the streets, begging that cockroach for mercy soon enough.
In the underground secret workshop owned by Golden Fleece Guild, deafening machinery filled the sealed space.
Clank! Hiss! Clank! Hiss!
I stood arms crossed, glaring intently at the Power Loom prototype furiously shuttling back and forth, weaving cloth.
Problem.
Not that it wasn't working. If anything, performance was too good. Far beyond expectations.
"This blows past my calculations."
Designed with every scrap of Kang Woojin's knowledge, it should've matched thirty weavers. But this beast was spitting out fifty men's worth.
Why? I propped my chin, scrutinizing the drive gears and machined steel shaft friction points.
Earth's physics don't perfectly match here. No other explanation.
This was a fantasy world of slashing sword auras and magic. Ambient mana—fine magical energy—had to be interfering with metal hardness and friction coefficients.
Energy loss in transmission was freakishly low; rotational inertia stayed unnaturally smooth.
Seemed great at first glance, but for an engineer? Nightmare.
Screeech—! Thunk!
"Damn it!"
Sure enough, a core gear snapped under overload, ricocheting into the wall. The Power Loom shrieked to a halt.
Speed and torque had exceeded the frame's durability.
Clinging to 100% efficiency? Factory'd be scrap in a day—workers shredded by shrapnel.
"Gotta throttle the speed. Deliberately cut efficiency."
I rolled up sleeves, grabbed a spanner. Unsafe machines were weapons.
To max safety, I tweaked gear ratios, added drag resistors to the drive shaft, slashing RPMs. Forced efficiency to Earth baseline.
Only then did it quiet to a smooth, stable rhythm, weaving steadily.
"Whew, finally decent."
Wiping grease from my face with a sigh of relief—just as the sealed door creaked open. Aila entered.
"Elpanso. How's the machine running... Oh my god."
She trailed off, mouth agape.
In the hours I'd tweaked, premium cotton fabric piled under the loom—tall as a man's height.
"You're here? Perfect timing."
I set down the spanner, grinning at her.
"This in just hours? And this weave density... Finer than any master artisan!"
Aila stroked the cloth with trembling hands, awe-struck.
I clapped her shoulder, cutting to brass tacks. "Save the gushing. Stability test's done. Time to scale up."
"Scale up?"
"Obviously. You think I built this for a few prototypes? Pump more investment."
"What?!"
Her eyes widened at my bold demand.
Why the fake surprise? You knew.
One or two machines couldn't swallow the continent. Absurd.
"I'll run hundreds of Spinning Jennys and Power Looms each. Buy a massive factory site outside Peluah. Hire workers to fill it. No skilled labor needed—machines do the work. Cheap unskilled hires suffice. First product: plain cotton even commoners can afford."
I rattled off the next steps without pause.
Strike while the iron's hot. Not trickle in machines—overwhelm with capital and output. Carpet-bomb the cotton market.
"Need land, masses of workers, bulk raw materials. Cough up the cash."
Just pay up. Money. Keep the money flowing.