Is This Leather or Iron? Armor Like None Before
The two hundred Survival Demons—no, now they deserved to be called the "fragrant old-timers"—were scrubbing away at least a decade's worth of crusted blood, beast secretions, and stench from their bodies, using the soap Jinhyuk had provided and boiled water.
All around, they tore into meat and swigged strong liquor, their rough laughter booming out.
Jinhyuk turned his back on the raucous noise and headed quietly toward the inner fortress, pulling the empty cart alongside Beom Dal once more.
"Beom Dal, that translation earlier was killer. When you hit 'em with that 'warrior's spirit' line, I got chills. Were you a poet in a past life or what? Respect."
At Jinhyuk's sudden praise, Beom Dal grumbled while instinctively rubbing his shin—the one perpetually bruised from joint locks during training.
"Captain, please spare me those bizarre sounds. I heard you're from the Eastern Yi tribes, but why do your words sound like sorcery chants from beyond the Western Rong deserts? That 'issue-back' or whatever incantation—there's no such thing in Eastern Yi tongue."
Jinhyuk chuckled and clapped Beom Dal on the shoulder.
Despite the grumbling, Beom Dal had racked his brain translating Jinhyuk's alien modern terms into the Central Plains' notions of "righteousness" and "honor."
"But... Captain, I've gotta ask something that's been bugging me."
Beom Dal walked beside Jinhyuk, pulling the empty cart in step.
His face was etched with the mercenary's trademark pragmatic worry.
"Soap to wash up, meat and booze to treat 'em? Fine, sure. But how long will that last? These guys are Survival Demons who've rolled in the Black Forest hunting for at least ten years. Once their bellies are full, they'll want more. Don't we need real gear or overwhelming power to hold them together? Take a look at our workshop—it's a joke."
Beom Dal thumped his chest in frustration.
"Ninety ingots of low-grade iron, yeah. Generous amount, let's say. But can that forge even one famous sword or blade? It's scrap-mixed junk, hammered into basic swords or sabers. You think those ghost-like masters will cheer for that? Plus, out of our two hundred artisans, every blacksmith and carpenter is buried making two hundred bows and two hundred crossbows each. When the hell do we outfit these two hundred with separate weapons and armor? We don't have enough hands!"
Jinhyuk just kept chuckling, utterly unfazed by Beom Dal's desperate plea.
He'd already reached the inner fortress's massive granary bolt and nodded toward it with his chin.
"Beom Dal, you sounded like a poet translating earlier, but now you're like a worry doll. Remember the numbers I taught you during training?"
"Oh, those squiggly drawings? The fishhook one's '1,' the duck-like one's '2,' you insisted. Thanks to that, yesterday I nearly popped an eyeball staring at 'em with Inspector No Hwi, tallying iron ingot stocks."
Instead of answering, Jinhyuk picked up a stick from the ground and swiftly scribbled a mix of Chinese characters and Arabic numerals in equations.
This was the payoff of cramming Arabic numerals into Beom Dal—not just for translation ease, but for precise, embezzlement-proof logistics management.
"Look here. Ninety low-grade iron ingots, total 10,800 catties, right? Deduct 30% impurities, leaves pure iron at about 8,500 catties. I've already planned arming 3,200 combat troops with it. 4,300 catties for 1,000 spearmen’s spearheads, 1,400 for 1,000 infantry’s mid-length swords and sabers..."
Beom Dal's jaw slowly dropped as Jinhyuk's briefing clicked into perfect mathematical alignment.
"And that manpower shortage you’re fretting over? While the blacksmiths and carpenters crank out bows, crossbows, and arrows, I've divided labor ruthlessly. Our workshop got only smiths pounding iron? We've got cooks like Biho, stonemasons cracking rocks, beast-skin tanners, and master tanners everywhere."
"Stonemasons and tanners? Tanners handle leather, fine. But how the hell do rock-smashers and rice-cookers help with arms and armor?"
"Less talk, more eyes. Open that warehouse door."
Jinhyuk nodded at the heavy door.
Beom Dal, puzzled but compliant, unlatched the massive bolt and heaved the door open.
Kreeeeak—
As the heavy friction groaned, instead of grain scent, a cool metallic tang mixed with leather wafted out, accompanied by an eerie sheen flooding forth.
Beom Dal's mouth gaped wide enough to unhinge.
The dim granary, bereft of rice sacks, was lined with hundreds of racks like soldiers at attention. Draped over them hung hundreds of fish-scale leather armors, gleaming jet-black, drying in a magnificent display.
"Wh-what the hell is all this? Captain! Where'd you get these black iron armors? Those tight-knit scales—they look like imperial elite gear! Wait... leather!! You made armor this tough from leather?"
Beom Dal approached in a trance, fingering a scale.
The touch was cool, light like leather, yet hard as metal.
Like a man possessed, he stroked the scales on a rack-hung suit.
Definitely light as leather to the touch, but the surface was cool and sturdy as steel.
The densely woven black scales exuded oppressive menace, as if darkness itself had been carved and fixed in place, filling the warehouse with the aura of top-tier gear fit for central army elites.
Jinhyuk chuckled at Beom Dal's dazed expression.
"Curious? Follow me. I'll show you what those 'useless' rice-cookers and wall-menders you dismissed have been secretly crafting for days."
Jinhyuk grabbed the stunned Beom Dal by the scruff and dragged him to a vast temporary tent area in the warehouse corner.
It was no medieval forge—it resembled a massive conveyor-belt factory.
First to catch the eye: enormous cauldrons belching heat.
Inside, cooks poured in toxic herbs and bitter bark, boiling black tannin solution alongside purified waters in furious bubbles.
"Watch closely. Those cooks you mocked for just making rice are boiling hides in that brew and extracting tannin for the 'tanning process.' Tanners take the boiled leather, tan it, and cut it into scale shapes."
Jinhyuk's finger pointed deeper into the tent, where stonemasons, coated head-to-toe in white powder, bustled about.
With their stone-carving finesse, they ground beast and monster scraps into bone meal, mixed forge-swept iron filings with sticky herbal glue into pliable dough.
Then slathered it thick over boiled leather scraps, polishing smooth with stones.
Through this bizarre chemical fusion, fragile leather bits transformed into monstrous defenses rivaling metal hardness.
"That's the tanning process. It fixes the proteins to prevent rot, tightens fibers to steel-plate toughness. Plus, those toxic herbs double as natural black dye—perfect for night camouflage in the forest."
As Jinhyuk explained, the process flowed seamlessly.
Raw tanners double-dyed leather in black vats during tanning; master tanners cut dried fish-scale pieces, stitched them with tough monster sinew into full armors.
Beside them, stonemasons reapplied bone-meal-iron paste to seams, lightly torching to fully harden surfaces.
"Milord—no, Battalion Commander! You've arrived!"
The lead tanner overseeing spotted Jinhyuk and bowed deeply.
"We've stacked the finished 1,000 suits aside. Today's 100 are drying in that warehouse you saw. The final 100 in finishing will head there once stonemasons apply the last iron filing coat. The bone-meal and filings harden each scale tough as thin iron plates, but weighs less than half full plate. Expect great things in battle."
Beom Dal scratched his head sheepishly, watching stonemasons, tanners, and cooks sweat rivers in perfect sync.
"Captain... I was so arrogant, what a blunder. Scrap iron dust from the forge, monster bone scraps, skills from rice-cookers and rock-breakers—all fused into this impossible treasure. It's alchemy! When did you prepare this massive operation? Not Western sorcery, but stolen imperial pill-refining arts?"
Jinhyuk chuckled at Beom Dal's dramatic awe and scribbled hanja on the ground.
Clear Ice Wolf Skin Remnants
Waste Reuse
"When? After the last Clear Ice Wolf hunt, those monster hides piled up—bribed to So Jinpyeong, back-dealt to Han Noya, still rotting the warehouse. Saved every scrap. Especially the hole-riddled junk from all the spear-thrusts during the kill—hundreds of worthless sheets. Can't make full suits with holes, but cut sound parts into fish scales? Premium gear."
"Ah... those bloody rag-like wastes turned into this? Creating something from nothing. You're incredible, Captain!"
"Hey, this is just scholar's home cooking. Honestly, my first plan was black powder and guns—got the recipes in my head. But tsk, sulfur's key, and those crazy pill-makers hoarded it all for immortality elixirs. Barely a tail's worth to find. Even if I miraculously got it, made powder and guns for our under-5,000 crew? Firing like mad? Central Plains imperial 100,000—no, a million-strong horde would swarm for that 'invincible secret.' No winning that. So, we stick to honest brute force."
Beom Dal caught "sulfur," "pill-makers," and "grand army" from Jinhyuk's irritated ramble, quickly gauging the mood.
"Sulfur... yes, noble-only elixir stuff—we scum can't even glimpse it. No idea why you need it, but... sparing us death and injury... your care runs so deep..."
Jinhyuk just smirked at Beom Dal's polished misunderstanding and gestured to the warehouse.
"Enough flattery. Round up the lads, grab 200 dried suits, haul 'em to the inner parade ground. Hwang-yeonggam and the old-timers arrive tomorrow—you know the drill?"