Chapter 83
Chapter 83
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Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 83
Chapter Title: A County Ahead of Its Time (1)
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As soon as I returned to Blueport, I met with Frost for a report and set off on horseback.
"Major Frost, first off—have you secured the site for the factory I mentioned and the oxen to power the machinery?"
"We've obtained plenty of land for the factory with the cooperation of the district managers. The oxen were bought from nearby rural areas at fair prices."
"Good. Then, any progress on salting herring? It's about time we nailed down the right knife or brine concentration."
"A fisherman named Billum Jenfeld claims he's found the perfect knife and brine mix. But the reward is so substantial that..."
Five hundred gold coins was an enormous sum even for nobles above baron rank. No matter how much favor he enjoyed, a newly knighted major like Frost couldn't make that call on his own.
And honestly, the knife only sped up gutting the fish—no big issue there. But the brine concentration had to preserve them for at least two months.
"How long does it take to gut herring with that knife?"
"He says he used to manage five hundred a day with other knives, but this one handles a thousand easily. He also claims his brine keeps them good for about five days."
"If that salted herring is still around, store it for three more weeks and feed it to a prisoner convicted of a serious crime. If he's fine after a month, award the five hundred gold."
"Understood, sir."
Frost acknowledged the order, but he looked a bit puzzled.
He probably couldn't wrap his head around a mere fisherman—who hadn't fought for me like he had—receiving such a lavish reward.
If even Frost, the most successful bastard-born ensign-turned-major, reacted this way, word spreading across the territory would stir up plenty of resentment...
I needed to host some promotional event showing that anyone contributing even a little could earn rewards...
With that, I placed a hand on Frost's shoulder and asked,
"You seem dissatisfied. Speak your mind honestly."
Frost waved his hands in denial.
"No, sir—how could I question Your Excellency's will?"
Frost was at least five years my senior, but everyone I'd dealt with so far had been scheming nobles over forty...
His open display of discomfort felt almost endearing.
So I chuckled lightly and said,
"Haha, no need to hide it. It's natural to feel some envy—a lowly fisherman who never shed blood for the territory like you and I getting five hundred gold. But let me ask you this."
"Go ahead, sir."
"Suppose his technique lets me earn enough to equip your entire battalion with half-plate armor. And thanks to that armor, your men survive sword and spear strikes to rack up merits... Could you really say that fisherman contributed nothing?"
Frost's expression cleared as if he'd had a revelation.
"Even without standing on the battlefield, if his armor saved our soldiers... I'd say that's a solid contribution."
"Exactly. And I firmly believe his technique will generate more income than outfitting your battalion. Exaggerating a tad, if it performs as I expect... it'll sustain an entire barony. So tell me—"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"As his lord, don't I have a duty to reward him properly?"
Frost went blank, saying nothing.
"If you agree, curb the jealousy. That peasant—or anyone without battlefield merits—won't get a land grant, war hero or not. He'd be a half-noble at best. Why envy that?"
"You're right, sir. No amount of money buys the greatest noble honor—a fief. I was foolish to envy him."
"Precisely. Oh... and what do you think of Chris Belladora? Worth keeping?"
Frost's face turned serious.
"Overlooking that she's a woman, she's an excellent bureaucrat. But utterly unfit as a soldier."
"I see."
"And she contacts the inspectors under the district managers more than necessary at times."
I'd hired her deliberately to show commoners could rise, but now she was reaching beyond her station...
She hadn't crossed any lines yet, so no direct punishment...
"Dismiss her as my aide. Instead, appoint her Bailiff to handle minor city oversight. She's clever enough for it."
"Understood. And we'll soon arrive at the ironworks you've poured your heart into."
I replied with a grin,
"I'm looking forward to it. If this runs smoothly, I really can outfit all your soldiers in proper iron armor."
Frost laughed.
"Even you couldn't manage that, sir. Iron's far too precious and costly..."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ The bulk of the book I co-authored with my professor during my master's wasn't strategy, tactics, or even law.
Strategy and tactics only yield a few great victories. Laws shift with society's state and production capacity.
That's why my professor and I focused on era-changing inventions.
One was 'sugar.' Another was the 'herring gutting knife and brine' I'd proposed.
The most crucial, the fruit of our blood and sweat...
Was this ironworks, tucked away in a remote spot over three hours' ride from Blueport—the one I was gazing at now.
At the top of the sloped ground sat the blast furnace mouth for loading coal and crushed iron ore. The furnace bottom connected six meters below.
Near the base, channels guided molten iron.
Waterwheels drove bellows nonstop through small holes along those channels.
At the five-meter channel's end, facilities cooled measured batches of iron in separate molds.
Frost stared in shock.
"Sir... this is the ironworks you mentioned? I got the map suddenly before meeting you and this is my first visit... Why is it so massive? Does iron really pour out endlessly from this behemoth?"
"Precisely. Crushed ore from the Windheim mine upriver floats down with fuel. Light it up, and iron will pour as you say."
According to Kroitel's loyal craftsmen and skilled Hamburg slaves burdened by debt...
We could produce dozens of tons of usable iron daily—close to pig iron, but wrought enough.
Supply the smithing guilds, and equipping every soldier in half-plate becomes reality.
"Then sir, what about tech leaks? Enemies could copy it."
"Spoken like a true soldier. No need to worry. Let's take a closer look. Oh, and... mind lending me your armor?"
At my odd request, Frost hesitated but soon helped me don his armor.
We approached the back gate.
A shout rang from the watchtower above.
"Halt! Who goes there? Hands up and drop! By order of Siel von Kroitel, all intruders will be killed!"
"I am Siel von Kroitel himself!!"
One guard descended, crossbow aimed.
"Then prove it, Count Siel von Kroitel! Show your token—or no passage, even for you!"
Pretending I hadn't brought it, I bellowed,
"Do I have to carry that everywhere?! I'm a noble—you should salute!"
A massive bell tolled, audible to every tower. Guards descended at blinding speed, grabbing armor, crossbows, and swords.
They aimed and loosed bolts at my feet.
Frost, horrified, stepped forward, flashing his sword crest.
"I am Major Myle Frost! This is the real Siel von Kroitel! Shooting anyway—are you mad?"
The shooter knelt in apology.
"Forgive us, sir! But His Excellency's orders were absolute..."
I patted his shoulder, helping him up.
"Your name?"
"Max, sir! From Hamburg."
"Well done, Max. Shooting without my direct order would be trouble, but this follows my instructions perfectly. Expect a reward—meat and ale the day after tomorrow. Feast."
Max's eyes lit up.
"Thank you, Your Excellency!"
Leaning to Frost, I whispered,
"Today's pre-operation, so this much. Once it starts... anyone trying to enter gets shot. No leak worries."
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇ I led Frost and the overseer to the observation tower overlooking the ironworks.
Soon, trumpets signaled all preparations complete.
"Overseer, commence operations."
He rang the bell twice and bellowed below,
"Work begins! Everyone, move as trained!!"
Workers sprang into orderly motion.
Soon, heat rose from the furnace base—even at our distance, the swelter hit.
Piercing heat from afar felt murderous.
I asked the overseer beside me,
"How long until it's heated?"
"Iron melts in... We've been preheating for months, so about three hours."
"Got it..."
Frost, the overseer, and I waited three hours.
Finally, the air tuyere opened. Moments later, glowing wrought iron—near pig—flowed out.
Glaringly red even from afar. The overseer grinned.
"Success! Restarting mid-process takes time, but furnace slag remelts easily, and new channels are quick. A resounding triumph, sir!"
"Once we ramp up production: ten gold each to upper managers, five to lower, three to workers. Give it your all."
I barely stifled my laughter in their view, then spurred my horse away.
Once clear, I whooped at the top of my lungs.
"Taste the bedrock of an industrial revolution centuries ahead! You wicked Romanian scum!! When I storm your lands, even the lowliest privates charge in half-plate!!"