Berg Steel (6): Coal and the Crucible Forge
The prototype coal from the mines arrived much faster than expected. The north had more mines than I'd imagined, and among them, several coal seams had been found as open-pit operations alongside iron deposits. Since I'd prioritized coal mining above all, the prospectors naturally hauled back a cart full as their prototype.
Now it was time for the skilled assistant instructor, Estiang Berg, to step in.
"Bituminous coal."
I touched the coal the prospectors had brought. It left quite a bit of black powder on my hands, and to confirm for sure, I lit some—immediately, a pungent tar smell rose with thick black smoke billowing up. Burning it was still the surest way to distinguish bituminous from anthracite. Anthracite lived up to its name with almost no smoke when burned. That meant most of the north's coal was probably bituminous.
Bituminous isn't rare—it's actually the norm.
From what I'd heard, anthracite was far rarer in nature than bituminous. My specialty wasn't geology, so I couldn't say for sure, but I remembered reading that my home country back on Earth was unusual for its massive anthracite deposits. Plus, bituminous was better for me since turning anthracite into coke required extra steps.
With coal secured, nothing stood in our way. I grabbed that cart and marched straight to the forge.
Once we had bituminous coal, everything else fell into place. Coke-making was ultimately the desperate invention of England—where they'd clear-cut so much forest that every mountain ended up bald as my old thesis advisor's head—and the Song Dynasty, who twisted themselves into knots to develop it. The principles and methods were incredibly simple.
"I'm about to solve your fuel problems. First, crush this and form it into lumps."
"This... isn't this coal, my lord? Using coal as fuel will scatter powder everywhere and ruin the iron. Are you sure?"
"That's what this process fixes. Crush the coal, form it into lumps, heat it—that's all it takes."
The blacksmith looked dubious but obediently crushed and molded the coal as instructed. The coking process was dead simple.
"Now put those coal lumps into the kilns the glass artisans made and heat them steadily for a full day."
"Like charcoaling wood?"
"Similar. But the coal must never touch an open flame. More precisely, think of it as steaming the coal. Understand?"
"I get the gist, but..."
The blacksmith scratched his head.
"Like with a crucible—we separate it from the combustion chamber and fire it up. What happens then?"
"Heat it steadily for over a day, and it hardens. The sulfur and other impurities inside volatilize and burn off, leaving coke."
"Sulfur? Coke? What's that?"
"The capital's smiths call it coke. It burns hotter than charcoal, so you'll need vigorous bellows work to get it started at first. But it reaches much higher temperatures and holds them steady."
The blacksmith's jaw dropped. No wonder—his current methods were 14th-15th century level, while crucibles and coke were three centuries ahead, overtechnology by early modern standards. If you pegged modernity to the Industrial Revolution, this was glimpsing its precursors before the Renaissance even dawned. No surprise he looked shocked, like half his blacksmithing career had been a waste.
"Is that really possible, my lord?"
"That's what I heard. Didn't you say charcoal usage was getting too high to sustain with the crucible method?"
"Y-yes, that's right."
"When making steel with crucibles, use the finished coke. Quality might dip a bit compared to your hand-refined hammering, but production will skyrocket."
During the Industrial Revolution, Britain produced 80,000 tons of crucible steel annually. We were a fraction of their scale, so we couldn't match that, but once coke and crucibles took hold, Berg Grand Duchy could produce more than enough steel for prosperity.
The blacksmith blinked at me, still incredulous.
"Your Grace, is the capital really using this method?"
"Of course."
I nodded confidently. London was the capital of the British Empire, after all. Same empire, technically—and it wasn't a lie to say the capital used it.
"Anyway, once coking's done, make steel with the coke. I'll check back when the prototype's ready."
"Yes, Your Grace. I'll prepare as instructed."
As I left the forge, I reflected: England might have starved the Irish on potatoes, waged opium wars for drugs, but no denying they advanced human civilization. Copy their methods, and steel multiplies. I had a dream. Someday, charging across these snowfields—not the Manchurian plains—with 20,000 armored heavy cavalry, lancing every monster in a grand charge. A pipe dream, sadly, but 2,000 cavalry? Maybe. For now, one step closer would do.
Everything continued smoothly after that. Oto, practically dancing with glee, showed no sign of returning to the capital and energetically oversaw mine development. Open-pit sites kicked into full gear, and silver mines prepped for exploitation.
The blacksmith I'd first taught spread the crucible and coking methods to others. New to them, there were hiccups, but both processes took root steadily.
The clockmaker obsessed over erecting a grand clock in the citadel's center; glass artisans, reassigned to kilns and crucibles, seemed content enough. Among the laborers I'd assigned, they eagerly scooped up the handy ones as apprentices.
Mine coal to the forge → forge cokes it → steel pours out in a virtuous cycle.
"Satisfying. Once you set the template, it runs on autopilot."
The privilege of high position. Lay the framework upfront, and skilled artisans handled the rest. I just tossed out ideas for tweaking existing methods—they had the expertise.
If I'd ordered gunpowder and cannons, I'd be sweating in the forge squeezing out every scrap of knowledge. But steel? Perfect.
Gazing at the snowcapped peaks beyond the terrace as news of ramped-up steel production rolled in, I felt that vast, majestic range—like Himalayas in a Nepal doc. Arm every soldier with gleaming steel armor and weapons, then march on those mountains... A memory surfaced, a talk with my sister.
'I'm so exhausted. So much happened.'
'How much did you drink for the booze smell to hit here? Ugh, quit grabbing my pants—you're spilling! Go sleep it off in your room!'
One night, my sister—who rarely drank—stumbled in wasted and clung to me. I freaked, tried prying her off, but she was extra whiny.
'Writing's killing me. Comfort me. You a T?'
'Am I writing or just churning it out? It's all templated for volumes 3 to 5.'
'Then write something besides rofan. Aren't they short? Or expand the world beyond romance.'
'Won't sell.'
She'd straightened up fast.
'Yeah, exactly.'
'Male readers skip TS if the protag's female from the start.'
'Ah!'
'People read rofan for romance fantasy, not female protag fantasy. Told you.'
'Expanding drifts the story. Drift's a death sentence.'
'Lately meetings everywhere, red ocean market, stress piling up—'
She'd ranted on; I'd sat quietly, allowance held hostage.
That memory hit as I stared at the steadfast peaks. What a weird world. In her novel, it ended fluffy: heroine and hero marry, live happily ever after. Side stories with kids, standard fare.
"Malice..."
Unlike that soft glow, something like malice emanated from those mountains. As if bent on exterminating humanity, monsters poured out like our steel from the forges—endless.
Did orcs flock because food was there? Spawn via breeding? Unclear. Thousands periodically, questioning the logic.
Tch, some hidden lore I don't know?
Illogical. Not Zerg hatcheries. What spawns thousands cyclically to hammer the Great Wall?
We handled 1,000-2,000 orc raids fine, no casualties. But tens of thousands? Ogres by the thousand? Anomalies already happened—why not worse?
"..."
The sudden thought snowballed into seriousness. We'd focused on minimizing damage, safe defense. But for offense someday... it clicked.
"Time to form ranger units."
We couldn't just wait forever.