The Factory Manager Wants Talent (3)
According to Article 12 of the Imperial Law on Territory Management Amendments, lands north of the northern baseline are effectively treated as abandoned territory. The royals offer no subsidies here, just tax exemptions. Or more precisely, it's cynical neglect—who knows when it'll be monster chow and wiped out anyway, so there's no point collecting taxes. Rather than waste administrative effort taxing it, the empire's calculation is to let someone else march in and act as a shield until they die. That's why, even after getting booted to this place, Eisengrad, I never worried about starving to death. No meddlers, no thieves.
But there's something stronger than laws in this world: the scent of money. And where there's money, the hyenas come sniffing.
"You want me to make sixty of these? Are you insane?"
Grody stuck out his tongue in disbelief, hollering.
"Yeah. And this is just the beginning. Sixty muskets. Four hundred cartridge cases. Plus spare parts."
"You heartless lord! How am I supposed to do all this alone? You trying to grind my wrists to dust?"
"Who said you're doing it alone? We'll help."
I pointed at the metal ingots on the workbench.
"You handle the most important part—the barrel. Just machine the components. I'll take care of the rest. And Ella."
"Y-yes? Me?"
Ella jolted awake from her dozing in the corner.
"You roll the paper cartridges. Stuff 'em with the exact measure of gunpowder, fit the bullet, and seal with paste. You're great at sewing, right? Good with your hands—you'll pick it up fast."
"I'm a maid.... A refined Airhart family maid! So why do I always end up covered in soot and smelling like gunpowder?"
"Because you're my maid, so you help with my business. And I'll pay hazard pay. One dong per cartridge."
Her eyes wavered at the mention of money. The power of capitalism is truly great.
We were deep in planning the continent's first armory when—
"M-Milord! Big trouble!"
Old man Thomas came barreling into the forge, gasping for breath, his face pale as a ghost.
"What? Orc horde again?"
"No, sir! P-people have come!"
"People?"
"It's the banner of the neighboring Volf Count's family! Tax collectors with a knight detachment—right at the castle gates!"
Volf Count. The greedy pig of a neighbor lording over the territory sharing Eisengrad's southern border. He'd fattened his belly monopolizing northern trade and usury.
"Why are tax collectors here? This is an imperial tax-exempt zone."
"Well... rumors spread that we've been buying charcoal in bulk and stockpiling fertilizer... They think the abandoned mines have reopened...."
"They smelled money."
I smirked, picking up the musket from the workbench. Its barrel still radiated heat—my first masterpiece.
"Perfect timing."
"Pardon? Perfect for what?"
"I was bummed we only had stationary dummies for performance testing."
I slung the musket over my shoulder and strode out. Grody cackled, grabbing his hammer and following.
"This'll be fun. Watching humans scrap? I'll munch some snacks."
The courtyard before the lord's castle. Uninvited guests had already set up camp. A flag with a red wolf emblem. A fat man in flashy silk robes, flanked by five armed mounted knights. The lead knight especially gleamed in plate armor etched with magic runes—not ordinary steel.
"Ah, there you are, Sir Kyle von Airhart."
The fat silk-clad tax collector, Baron Io, greeted arrogantly without dismounting.
"I'm Baron Io, financial officer for Count Volf. Word is you're running some interesting mining operation in this barren dirt?"
"What nonsense is this, barging onto my land without permission? This is an autonomous imperial territory."
"Tch, such manners. Still think you're a count's son after getting exiled?"
Baron snorted, unfurling a parchment scroll.
"Know Article 7, Clause 3 of the Imperial Law? Special provisions on shared mineral resources. When veins connect adjacent territories, the superior lord manages extraction rights."
"And?"
"Investigations confirm the sulfur vein you're mining extends into our Volf County. Surrender 70% of extracted resources as tax."
Bald-faced lie. Death Valley's sulfur is far north of here—opposite direction from southwest Volf lands. Just banditry using the law as cover.
"At least make your lies convincing."
"W-what?"
"Sulfur comes from the north. Can't read a map? Maybe get some eyes."
My mockery turned Baron's face purple. Then the knight beside him wheeled forward, armor clanking intimidatingly.
"Watch your mouth, pup. No one in your family would complain if I took your head."
The knight flipped up his visor, glaring down. Classic mercenary knight—long scar across his face. Spotting the musket on my shoulder, he sneered.
"What's that? Iron club? Heard you can't use mana, cripple—carrying a stick for protection?"
The soldiers behind chuckled. Grody bristled to step forward, but I held up a hand.
"It's not a club."
"Then what?"
"A wand. One that calls thunder."
"Puhahaha!"
The knight doubled over laughing.
"Thunder? What drivel! Cosplaying a mage? Fine, zap me with lightning from that wand!"
He drew his sword with a clear shing, steel blade glinting in the sun.
"Choose: Hand over the sulfur mine rights and your hoarded funds peacefully, or get your limbs broken here with that club?"
The situation was clear. They weren't here to negotiate. Plunder. Weak lords make prime prey. That's the northern rule: survival of the fittest.
But they overlooked one thing. I wasn't a weak lord anymore.
"Fine. Let's set the rules."
I slowly lowered the musket from my shoulder, leveling it horizontally. Cocked the flintlock halfway—pre-loaded.
"I'll stand right here, unmoving. You attack me. Touch a hair on me, and the mine's yours."
"Ho? Suicidal, eh."
"But."
I raised the musket, aiming dead at him, finishing:
"If you drop before touching me, leave your horses and armor behind. We're short on scrap."
The knight's face twisted viciously. Knightly pride stung.
"You crazy bastard... Insulting a knight? Fine. I'll rip that arrogant mouth off!"
He kicked his horse's flank.
"Hyah!"
The massive warhorse snorted, charging. Fifty meters. Full gallop—it'd close in seconds.
"Die!"
The knight raised his sword high. A faint blue aura shimmered around him. Aura. Mana extruded beyond the body into a supernatural shield. Arrows or blades bounced off harmlessly—symbol of absolute power.
"Young master! Dodge!"
Ella screamed. But I didn't move. No need.
Calmly pressed the walnut stock to my shoulder, cheek to the cold wood. Through the sights: the knight charging. Shaking horse head. His smug grin behind.
Aura? Impressive. Blocks swords and arrows, sure.
But this is different kinetic energy. Dense lead ball at over 300 meters per second. No tin can armor handles that.
Thirty meters. Hoofbeats thundered like quakes.
Aim... fire.
Time slowed. Finger overcame the trigger, flint struck steel.
Bang!
Muzzle spat crimson flame and white smoke. In that instant, the charging knight's body snapped back.
"Gahk!"
Like a giant's invisible fist smashed his shoulder. He flew off the saddle's rear, crashing into the dirt.
Thud crash!
Horse reared whinnying, front hooves pawing air.
Silence. Baron Io, the soldiers, even Ella and Thomas behind me—everyone held their breath. World frozen.
Dust settled, revealing the knight sprawled. His prized rune-etched plate. Dead center chest: finger-sized hole punched clean through.
Blue aura shattered. Steel around the hole crumpled inward. Dark blood bubbled from the gap.
"Ah... uwaa...."
The knight trembled, staring at his chest in disbelief.
Aura? Steel armor? Useless. Lead ball shredded the aura like paper, pierced plate, shattered sternum, lodged in his back.
"W-what...?"
Baron stared at me, jaw chattering.
My musket still smoked. No magic chant. No flashy swordplay. Just a finger twitch, and a formal knight lay dying.
"Want a matching hole in your skull? As your tax receipt."
"H-heeek!"
Baron's face drained white. Quick on the uptake. Not magic. Unexplainable death.
"R-retreat! Go! He's mad—pacted with devils!"
Baron wheeled and fled madly. No thought to the fallen knight. Soldiers panicked after him.
Dust trailed their fleeing backs. Courtyard fell silent again. Just the groaning knight and my stunned retainers.
"Hoh...."
Grody prodded the hole in the knight's armor with a finger.
"Clean work. Straight through steel plate. Nearly punched out the backplate. Humans' 'aura' is pathetic."
Grody grinned at me.
"Admit it, partner. This is the real deal."
I lowered the musket, exhaling long. Shoulder throbbed from recoil. But I felt good. No—thrilled.
Proven. The power ruling this world had shifted. From mages and knights... to engineers.
Tension eased; I looked skyward. Beam pierced thunderheads.
"Grody."
"Yeah."
Rumors will spread. The mad northern lord with a monster weapon that drops knights in one shot.
More enemies, stronger armies, will come.
"Fire up the forges. Overtime starts tonight."
"Damn you, heartless lord!"
Grody's cursing wail followed as I smiled in satisfaction. Time for black smoke from Eisengrad's chimneys.