Berg Steel (4)
Karl's proposal was adopted on the spot. The pouch of mana stones that Oto had shared, complaining about how the Mage Tower's demand had driven up their prices. The savings from buying grain cheaper than usual thanks to Duke Iliad's influence. In my opinion, the surplus from that difference was perfect for mass-producing wagons.
The carts and carriages used to haul goods in this era were like modern pickup trucks—a 1-ton workhorse. Essential everywhere, but surprisingly expensive. So more wagons meant they could handle routine transport in peacetime, and in battle beyond the Great Wall, they could be repurposed like Jan Žižka's Wagenburg tactics.
'More wagons are always better, right? They can carry more stuff.'
With logistics ramping up across the North, there was no downside. Plus, Geltner was paving roads, so once those were done, wagons would be even easier to use. They could produce them with internal funds and rent them cheaply to farmers. Come to think of it, building wagons had nothing but upsides.
I looked at Karl with genuine appreciation. He flashed a knowing smile and bowed his head.
He hadn't just invented the battle wagon concept on the fly, but suggesting surplus funds go to mass-producing supply wagons for everyday use—and converting them to combat roles in the field? That kind of creativity and quick thinking earned full marks.
'Too bad he's a noble.' It was a shame Karl was already noble-born with a family name. His given name was perfect as-is. If he'd been common-born, I could've granted him "von" as a middle name and Clausewitz as a surname. Karl von Clausewitz. A name straight out of a one-volume On War.
Swallowing my regret, I said, "The idea of producing supply wagons for regular use, then leveraging our troops' familiarity with defensive battles to convert them into battle wagons, is most impressive."
"You honor me too much, Your Grace."
"Had you been thinking along these lines already?"
"I merely fulfilled my duty as operations staff officer. As Your Grace has taught, the role assists the commander across all aspects of military operations. A true staff officer must prepare for any contingency, mustn't he?"
Karl's words flowed as smoothly as butter. And they were spot-on. Hardly the work of a first-generation General Staff graduate with hasty training.
"Then what are your thoughts on commissioning supply wagons for the military, then renting the excess cheaply to farmers?"
"An excellent judgment, Your Grace. Wartime demand exceeds peacetime, so rent them cheaply in peace and reclaim them only in crisis to meet needs."
"I see two potential drawbacks. Do you know what they are?"
"Damage to rented wagons and potential friction in reclaiming them during emergencies. Both require further safeguards."
He'd pinpointed the exact issues I'd just considered. I'd known he was promising, but a sharp tool always finds its way out of the pouch.
I stepped closer and patted his shoulder. "As operations staff, you understand the importance of supply, yes?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then you grasp how critical this task is for smooth logistics."
"Of course."
Karl nodded firmly. Supply was paramount. Armies without proper logistics ended up like the Liberation Army's "famed" general Mo Jeon-gu-ryeom-ya in the jungle—starved and sabotaged against the vile imperial forces.
With supply's importance beyond debate, I entrusted the idea's originator. "This falls to you. Calculate projected demand, draft an implementation plan, and submit a report."
"I swear to repay Your Grace's trust with the world's most flawless report."
His eyes burned with resolve. Later, a chat on modern organizational structures might be in order. With talents like him, no wonder Berg held firm against monsters even when the original duke was away.
I patted his shoulder again in encouragement. Karl's face lit with emotion. Nail this, and he'd earn a promotion.
* * *
Days passed amid such matters, the North's clock ticking relentlessly.
First, placing the talents who'd followed me from the capital was nearly done. Administrative elites returned to bureaucracy; artisans and engineers got startup capital and guidance. In modern terms, the admins were elite civil servants who'd aced exams like the Korean civil service test; the craftsmen held at least technician certifications—STEM elites. In a world where basic literacy earned respect, they were treasures.
Back home, countless history majors like my old self scraped by as alternate-history protagonists, grad students, or stay-at-home guards. If only I could hire them all here.
Other changes abounded. Aisha, staying at my mansion, was overcoming her reluctance to speak up.
Surprisingly, Roena was taking her under her wing.
"Milady, it's fine to demand more assertively. Asking the maid to handle your favorite dress with extra care isn't wrong."
"R-Really...?"
"Yes, milady. Something like, 'It's precious, so please wash it separately and with extra care.' That's enough."
Aisha's voice shrank outside spirit chats. Roena marked her gently, both noble ladies conversing in soft tones—a picturesque scene.
"His Grace sleeps more in the mornings than you'd think. On rest days, he rises later, so mornings off are tricky."
"...I see. His Grace is a heavy sleeper in the mornings."
"He batches work intensely and thinks of the duchy asleep or awake—keep that in mind. He talks more about the military."
"The military... I don't know much about that..."
Oof, spilling even my quirks is embarrassing. Their quiet chat reached my Sword Master ears. Roena knew my habits inside out—my adjutant since before I became duke. Years already?
Reminded to treat her better, I wondered about Billaine from the capital. He'd asked when to hunt monsters, then bolted for wild boar meat.
'Whatever.' As long as he fought well against invasions. Like a countryside hound off-leash—grow strong.
Oto surveyed for roads with surveyors; prospectors scoured veins with guides. All smooth.
If only they'd find a gold mine—modestly, like a placer or Nevada lode.
Wishing on stars and moon for an easy life, modest gold eluded us, but good news came: crucible steel prototype success.
I rushed to the forge. The smith proudly presented an ingot.
"This is the steel by Your Grace's method. Pure, no impurities."
"Certain?"
"Yes, sir. See here."
He pointed to the crucible I'd sketched: rectangular, not square like British ones, with a separate combustion chamber. Made of glass-firing refractory clay in a massive chimney for heat control. The long flue created negative pressure, drawing air via chimney effect for easy charcoal temps.
"Success, then. How'd you seal it?"
"Pondered long, but no clever fix—smeared clay over and covered like a lid for now."
The glass artisan replied sheepishly. "Apologies, but for now, just clay on top, on and off like a lid..."
"Value the success first. Better sealing will come. Good work."
"Nothing much—Your Grace sketched it, we built."
He scratched his head. "Took failures to hold heat. Charcoal use? Incalculable. Needs pouring like water to sustain—costly long-term."
"I see."
Crucible without coke was like steamed buns sans filling. Coke was irreplaceable, even by 21st-century tech—essential.
With crucible viable after trials, next: find coal. Coking it enables mass, uniform steel production.
Still, verify. Gravely, I asked, "Assuming fuel resolved, your thoughts on this method?"
"I've forged steel my life—never this way, so yes. Less labor, steel pops out. No reason not to use Your Grace's."
The smith matched my seriousness. Done. A lifetime smith endorsed it. Now, prospectors need only find the coal veins I'd tasked amid the North's riches.
"Your Grace. A report."
"What is it, Roena?"
She arrived breathless.
"We've found the coal mine you mentioned. Also, two more irons—sizes pending."
"Coal? Perfect timing."
The North brimmed with quality ores—coal made sense. Bituminous or anthracite TBD, but cokeable coal means steel revolution.
"But, Your Grace."
"Yes?"
Roena paused, then beamed. "Scale unclear, but news you'll love."
"What, gold?"
"Not gold—but silver."
"...Silver?"
I froze. Silver mine? Déjà vu hit like a brick. When? Past life, surely—not as Estiang.
Ah, right. When sis got her end-of-year bonus and gifted a computer. My lips curled unwittingly.