The Factory Manager Wants Talent (2)
"Garbage."
Grody's assessment of the revolver he'd snatched from me and inspected on his own was short and to the point.
"The alloy mix is fucked from the start. With all these impurities, it's a miracle it didn't shatter."
My prototype revolver clattered onto the workbench as he tossed it aside.
"Keep firing that thing, and your wrist would've blown off before an orc's skull. You little shit."
The dwarf craftsman's eyes were sharp. He grumbled as he scanned the blueprint's key elements. His thick fingers trembled faintly as they traced the barrel, warped beyond wrought iron's limits.
"But this revolving cylinder concept... not bad. Continuous fire. We've thought of it in dwarf circles, but no idiot's ever tried building it. And you carved this by hand?"
"Yeah. That's why it's busted. No matter how many hundreds of times you file and refine, human hands always introduce error."
I grinned sheepishly and plopped down on the floor. Catching that orc in battle had been luck. What if it'd charged before I reloaded? What if the flint hadn't sparked? Cold sweat prickled my spine just thinking about it.
"Grody, I'm not here to fix this revolver. Hell, it's not even right for our level yet. What we need now aren't masterpieces—they're real weapons."
"Ho? A noble with some self-awareness. So? You giving up?"
"Nah. No more hammering. Help me make one perfect tool instead—the standard for every gun. That's the start."
I grabbed a charcoal stub and sketched on paper beside the workbench—not a rifle blueprint, but a strange rod with a half-moon tip.
"This is a D-bit. A blade that drills straight into a solid steel rod's core."
"What the hell? Just a rod with the tip half-ground away? You expect this to pierce steel?"
"Looks simple, but it's the truth of straight lines, Grody. That flat edge eats into the metal while the rounded back hugs the hole wall, guiding it. Even if the blade wants to wander, the curve presses against the wall, forcing it straight."
Grody's eyes narrowed. His dwarven engineering instincts seemed to grasp it. But he still shook his head.
"Theory's solid. But human, to drill steel with steel, this blade needs to be harder than glass. Make it that way, and one hammer blow shatters it. Even our dwarf tech can't..."
"Hold on. Humor me—try it this way."
I taught him modern metalworking basics: tempering. Quench at high heat for max hardness, then temper at lower heat to relieve stress. But theory didn't become reality overnight.
We scrapped dozens of steel scraps.
"Damn it! Shattered again!"
Grody hurled the first prototype to the floor; it exploded like glass. Too hard—no toughness left.
The next was too soft. Overtempered, the tip mushed before it could cut.
"Human, this tempering shit's too finicky. Too hot, it bends; too cold, it snaps. Needs a god's scale, not a craftsman's hammer."
Grody griped, sweat-soaked, but his eyes burned brighter than ever. Each failure honed his sense for the theory taking shape: cherry-red steel screaming into cold water, then furnace-straw yellow, tamed.
"A bit more... now!"
With Grody's shout, the final blade plunged into cold oil. Trial and error fused my theory with his experience, birthing a super-hard alloy blade impossible in a medieval forge.
But we weren't stopping.
"Now mount this first blade on the hydraulic lathe. We'll use this crude hand-tool to cut the next one."
"What? Ain't it done?"
"No. Human hands tremble, no matter how skilled. But the machine spins true. Drill with the first, make a finer second."
"You saying do it again, human?"
"Precision's a staircase, Grody. Can't skip steps."
Grody grumbled but rubbed his arms like chills ran through him, utterly hooked on the machine's evolution into precision incarnate.
At last, Eisengrad's first hydraulic lathe was complete, final bit chucked to the spindle. Raging river waters hammered the waterwheel, sending majestic vibrations through the ground.
Weeeeng—!
Without a mage's incantation, the massive metal spun on its own. Serfs recoiled in terror, as if beholding a demon's toy.
"Grody—let's go!"
I fixed the bit and pressed it into a heavy steel rod. Ella, nonchalant now, poured oil. The blade bored into steel's heart.
Kiiiiiiik—!
Eerie metal shrieks and acrid smoke filled the smithy. A man's arm would take half a month; the waterwheel crushed it in minutes.
The machine halted. Grody peered into the rifled barrel, hand quivering faintly.
"Did a human really make this? Inside... it's mirror-shiny."
I got his reaction. No master could groove so uniformly in a lifetime.
I stared at lantern light reflecting off the bore walls.
"No twists mean straight flight. Machines outdo artisan experience with consistency."
I wiped oil from my hands.
"Why muskets lose to magic? Simple—hand-drilled holes warp."
A meter-long barrel. A hair's deviation spins the bullet like a dragonfly. Better magic than unreliable pipes.
"That's why everyone chases decades of magic or aura training."
I caressed the lathe's scale.
"But we've machined precision. Power's equal now."
Grody swallowed dryly instead of answering. I heard artisan pride crumbling before engineering reality.
We didn't stop—churned out barrels and lock parts for three rifles. The wheel never tired; the machine never griped.
I dumped fresh parts on the bench, shuffling them into chaos.
"H-Hey! Mixing 'em? Each part has its pair!"
Grody shrieked, but I grabbed random pieces.
Click, clack.
First rifle assembled. Then second, third.
Click, clack. Click, clack.
Zero error. Dozens of parts meshed perfectly, like they'd always belonged.
"Impossible... how do random parts fit like this?"
"That's standardization, Grody. Miracles won't come from your fingertips anymore—from this factory. No rushing to the smithy for busted guns. Swap field-damaged parts, done."
Dawn next day. Eisengrad plains. Fog-shrouded 100 meters out: a scarecrow topped with a battered knight's plate helm.
"Milord, even bows struggle at that range. And steel helm? A graze bounces off."
Butler Thomas eyed it dubiously. I loaded the fresh-machined musket instead.
Bit paper cartridge, poured powder, rammed lead ball.
Click.
Shouldered it. Solid weight settled. Breath held, sights on the helm.
'This shot proves it. Technology's power.'
BOOM—!!
Sharp crack shattered the plain's silence. White smoke blinded me, but the sound told all.
Clang!
Clear ring. 100 meters off, the glancing helm spun airborne.
"Uh...?"
Ella gaped blankly.
The helm was wrecked: hole punched through, rear shredded.
"Y-Young master! Hole in the helm! Back's torn off!"
Grody stared, dumbfounded.
"This crude pipe... punched a knight's helm without mana? Head-on?"
"Gunpowder and machines, Grody."
I inhaled the acrid sulfur from the muzzle.
"Knights train a decade for aura. Our soldiers learn this in a month—no, a week."
A new era dawned through Eisengrad's mists on thunderous boom.
"No need to raise a hundred knights to stop a hundred. Just a hundred machined rifles—and a hundred brave commoners to hold them."
Listening to the lathe's creak under water's lash, I murmured:
"Lincoln freed the people, but Colt made them equal..."