Chapter 112
Chapter 112
"...I didn't expect it to turn out like this."
"I'll entrust the training to Kai. We'll also dispatch instructors from Logan's mercenary band to oversee training in each fortress."
"Good."
"...Are you perhaps in shock?"
"No, no. This is excellent. I've learned something new today, Dwain. Haha."
An incredulous laugh escaped me at the absurd yet enlightening report.
- Human desire sometimes takes precedence over all else.
Logan carved this newly realized truth vividly into his heart.
The training of the newly recruited soldiers was entirely entrusted to instructors from the mercenary band, led by Kai.
Though they had already accumulated considerable expertise, handling twice the number of trainees at once was still overwhelming.
But their hardships didn't end there.
[Organize militia units in all nine fortresses and every village. Volunteers will receive modest compensation and receive basic military training, focusing primarily on crossbow drills, under skilled instructors during evening hours.]
"My lord! Just how many soldiers are you planning to raise?!"
"Ten thousand is the initial goal."
Kai could only stare blankly for a moment.
"Ten thousand?"
"Yes."
"Ten thousand militiamen—excluding regular soldiers?"
"That's right."
"Why?!"
It was a question Logan had heard many times before.
"...Are you turning into Dwain now? Why? Because we need them."
"But you said we wouldn't be going to war anymore?!"
"Well... the future is unpredictable."
War.
This man was already preparing for another war.
"Ten thousand crossbowmen. Fine. But we don't even have enough crossbows right now, and who knows how many bolts we'll need to keep supplying them. Have you considered the sheer volume of resources required?"
"Fascinating."
"Huh?"
"You sound exactly like Dwain. Are you two brothers?"
"..."
Kai felt his energy drain at Logan's nonsensical remark.
"Ah. Ahem, just kidding. Don't worry about that. I've already thought of a solution."
"...So you're saying you'll manage somehow."
"Yes. I'll assign veteran soldiers as assistant instructors. Ask for as many as you need."
"Even so..."
"This isn't a joke. There might be a war we can't avoid, whether we want it or not. When that happens, they could be our lifeline."
"What kind of situation are you even imagining...?"
Kai shook his head in disbelief, but Logan didn't laugh.
It was still the early stages of the civil war.
Neither Kai nor most others could imagine that the conflict would drag on for three years—or what horrors would unfold by the end of those three years.
A war initially fought by elite soldiers would eventually devolve into a mercenary-fueled bloodbath, draining every last coin from noble coffers. And once even that ran dry, they'd arm their peasants and send them charging into battle—a total war.
The sheer brutality of it was nothing short of hell on earth.
Logan was preparing for that.
Even if that hell were to return—
'Ten thousand crossbowmen will only come from our territory.'
No matter how widely the designs for rapid-fire crossbows spread, other rulers would never distribute such weapons to their commoners.
Of that, Logan was certain.
'No matter how desperate the situation...'
Other lords would never allow commoners to wield weapons capable of killing knights.
'The kingdom is a society built on rigid class hierarchy—they'd see it as poison undermining its very foundation.'
An absurd, selfish delusion.
If you treated your people well, they wouldn't rebel, whether armed with crossbows or worse.
'The fundamental mindset itself is flawed.'
Exploiting that blind spot, Logan would raise an army beyond anyone's imagination.
This was one of his plans to overturn the civil war.
And the first step toward it had already been taken.
Clatter clatter clatter.
"T-This the place?"
"Damn, there's a lot of 'em. These humans breed like rats."
"Shh. Watch your mouth. Who knows what kind of bastard owns this place."
"Tch, what's it matter? If I die, I die... Huh? Wait, you're not seriously suggesting we grovel to a human, are you? Have you lost all dignity as a dwarf?"
"Pfft, as if. I'd rather die."
"Losing an arm didn't make you lose your pride, did it? Huh?"
BANG!
"Hey, you runts shut the hell up!"
The dwarves, who had been bickering noisily inside the iron cage, fell silent at the sharp reprimand.
Tamel, reading the mood, smirked inwardly.
Though his left hand was replaced by an iron hook, at least his mind was intact—unlike theirs.
'So you think keeping your pride means just avoiding honorifics? Idiots. Don't you realize it only makes your situation more pathetic?'
Before losing his hand, he too had clung to such hollow pride.
Only after losing it—and with it, his ability to work as a proper smith—did he finally discard that useless arrogance.
That was why he, a dwarf who could no longer practice proper craftsmanship, had survived this long.
But every time he looked at his iron hook, the same thought surfaced:
'Why... why didn't our ancestors leave during the Great Migration...?'
Had they not foreseen the plight of those who stayed behind?
Or was there another reason?
Doubts about his own existence and the fundamental absurdity of his people's current state.
These spirals of self-reflection always led to the same suffocating, unanswered questions.
And in the end—
'Maybe... I should just die?'
It always concluded with thoughts he'd never act on.
As Tamel sank into another cycle of despair, the cart transporting them came to a halt.
Creak.
"Whoa, easy. This is the place."
"Ah. Welcome. Here's the remaining payment."
"One, two, three... Correct. Pleasure doing business."
"No, the pleasure's ours. Hey, inform Master Hamar! The brethren he spoke of have arrived!"
Tamel's ears perked up at the mention.
'Master... Hamar?'
They'd definitely used an honorific.
The man who'd paid a fortune to purchase them had attached a title of respect to what sounded like a dwarf's name.
A rare occurrence that piqued his curiosity.
The other dwarves, now being herded into a line, also wore expressions of intrigue.
"Hey, human. Did you just say 'Master Hamar'?"
"Oh, dwarf. Do you know Master Hamar?"
"N-No, not exactly. Is... is that person a dwarf?"
"Indeed. The finest craftsman in our territory."
The eyes of all ten dwarves gleamed simultaneously.
A dwarf hailed as the greatest craftsman in a human territory?
He's not being forced to work?
Or even if he is, his skill must be extraordinary...
As their minds raced with possibilities—
"He's incredible. His creations are transforming this land. So expectations are high for all of you too."
The words of the burly human guiding them further stoked their excitement.
A human territory where dwarves are treated with respect?
Then maybe we too...
There must be a master dwarf here.
A paradise where they'd be valued not as assembly-line tools, but as artisans.
Similar hopes blossomed in each dwarf's mind.
Then, a voice with distinctly dwarven inflection seized their attention.
"Oho... At last, my brethren have arrived."
Tamel and the others turned as one.
Approaching them was a dwarf who appeared middle-aged even by their long-lived standards, clad in rugged work attire.
His efficient outfit, laden with pockets for tools to carve wood and metal, suited a life of constant labor.
And the sharp glint in his eyes was unmistakably that of a dwarf who worked not as a slave, but by choice.
'Could we really...?'
As their eyes shone with hope—
"Welcome, slaves."
...Huh?
"Comply without resistance, and no blood need be shed."
The grinning dwarf's gaze sent an inexplicable chill down their spines.
Within days, Hamar's workshop in MacLaine Town had expanded several times over.
The original five human craftsmen and their apprentices.
And now, ten newly arrived dwarves—bringing the total workforce to nearly thirty.
Fortunately, the workshop had been built with expansion in mind on the town's outskirts, making the physical growth manageable.
Moreover—
- Work diligently for twenty years, and I'll grant you freedom.
The same offer Hamar had received was extended to the new arrivals, ensuring their morale stayed high.
Yet the first words these dwarves heard upon entering the workshop shattered their expectations.
"From today, you are no longer craftsmen. You are Lines."
Lines?
The unfamiliar term left the dwarves bewildered.
Hamar paid no heed.
"Each of you will be assigned a single component to produce. You'll focus solely on crafting that one part. I call this the Division of Labor system."
"What kind of...?"
"Its efficiency is proven. No objections."
They needed to produce nearly 20,000 rapid-fire crossbows and triple that in magazines—all as quickly as possible.
That was all that occupied Hamar's thoughts.
'We have three months at most. Fail, and...'
Shudder.
- Succeed, and you get an extended break. Fail... well, imagine the consequences.
The demonic grin of his master left no room for complacency.
But his long-lost brethren proved less cooperative.
"Making the same part over and over? What nonsense is this?!"
"Any fool could do such work. Why must we?!"
"We have our pride as craftsmen! Even if you're a master artisan, we can't accept this!"
"Tch..."
Hamar's grip tightened involuntarily.
"So you refuse?"
"We refuse! We'd rather produce complete works ourselves than mindlessly churn out parts!"
"Exactly! Give us a chance! We'll pour our hearts into crafting proper—"
"We need 200 crossbows and 600 magazines per day. Even with human craftsmen handling auxiliary tasks, can any of you produce 20 crossbows and 60 magazines daily? Alone? I couldn't."
His eyes gleamed with near-manic intensity.
Faced with that gaze, the protesting dwarves averted their eyes one by one.
But—
"Craftsman's pride? Fine, I'll indulge it. But fail to meet quotas, and you'll regret it."
None could bring themselves to refuse outright when their pride was challenged.
All except one.
"I'll follow Master Hamar's instructions!"
"Hm?"
All eyes turned to the dwarf raising his hand—and the iron hook where his left hand should be.
Understanding nods followed.
Hamar was no exception.
"Tamel, was it? With that hand, you'd struggle to—"
"The Division of Labor system seems like it could maximize efficiency."
"Oh?"
"Focusing on a single task would naturally improve both quality and speed."
"...Correct."
"Why make things difficult when they can be easy? I'll be a Line, not a craftsman."
Rather than making excuses for his disability, Tamel praised the system itself.
Hamar nodded repeatedly, impressed.
The other dwarves promptly turned away, distancing themselves from Tamel.
'A dwarf bootlicking humans.'
'He's no kin of ours.'
'Lost more than his hand—lost his dignity. Tsk.'
As these thoughts circulated, Tamel added:
"But to truly appreciate this system's efficiency, we should first experience crafting complete products. Give us that opportunity."
"Hm?"
All dwarves focused on him again.
"Once everyone understands the difference between traditional and new methods, productivity will improve further."
"So this isn't just stubborn pride, but part of adapting to a new system?"
"Yes."
Hamar studied Tamel with newfound interest.
"...Commendable concern for your peers. Very well. One week."
"Thank you."
"Three days to learn the process. Four to attempt independent production. After that, anyone insisting on working alone must meet my original quotas."
"What happens if we fail?"
Again, it was Tamel who asked—likely voicing what others dared not.
Hamar mentally noted this unusually considerate and straightforward dwarf.
"...No meals or sleep until daily quotas are met. Continued failure means being 'returned.'"
Returned.
The inhuman choice of words made every dwarf swallow hard.
They shot grateful looks at Tamel, who'd instantly become their de facto leader.
Hamar too nodded approvingly at this unexpected find.
But Tamel's subsequent private request shattered that satisfaction.
"Master Hamar. As you can see, with this hand, I'd be better suited as a supervisor than a Line worker..."
Swallowing his disappointment, Hamar answered sharply:
"Abso-lutely not."
"M-My apologies. I overstepped—"
Hamar's icy glare cut him off.
"Supervising is my job. Know your place."
"..."
This little...
'Sly bastard.'
The same thought flashed through both dwarves' minds.