Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 266 Guild
Twenty-nine years ago, in spring.

A weary young man walked into an unnamed settlement in the newly reclaimed land.

The young man was very tall, pale and thin, and wore very old clothes made from burlap sacks.

He had no shoes, but that didn't matter. The soles of his feet were covered in thick calluses, so even stepping on sharp pebbles didn't hurt.

Two pairs of pliers and a hammer were all his possessions, which were now slung across his shoulder in a satchel.

Along the way, the young man relied on these few tools to repair things for others in exchange for food and lodging.

Although he could twist steel and shape metal with his arms, he was not a blacksmith, because he had not yet completed his apprenticeship.

Moreover, because he disagreed with extending his apprenticeship, he had fallen out with his master and is afraid he will never be able to graduate.

A blacksmith who hasn't completed his apprenticeship isn't a certified blacksmith; a blacksmith who isn't a certified blacksmith can't work in the industry; if he can't work in the industry, even if his skills surpass those of his master, he'll starve.

The young man's master had him figured out. The master was waiting for him to grovel and apologize, and then serve as an apprentice for another four years without pay.

Young people chose to leave their homes and travel across the entire Palatine to seek opportunities in the unknown new lands—where there was supposedly no blacksmith guild yet.

For this reason, the young people traveled long distances, endured wind and rain, and suffered countless hardships along the way, finally arriving at the newly reclaimed land.

Unfortunately, he arrived a little late, and every settlement he went to already had blacksmiths at work.

The young man walked and walked, further and further away, into more and more remote places. Finally, in this remote and desolate settlement, he found no one else among his companions.

The young man spent his first night under the eaves, clutching his satchel. The next day, he traded one of his pliers for a hot meal and a plank of wood.

After finishing the last drop of soup on his plate, he solemnly carved the following on the wooden board:
[Blacksmith_Poltan Mejri_Repair, Forging and Smelting]
……

Twenty-seven years ago, in the summer.

Portin and his two assistants were busy in the backyard of the blacksmith's shop.

Each of the three men, armed with their own tools, worked together to dismantle a mud-brick smelting furnace that was about half a person's height.

This is [Poltan Mejri]’s third year in the newly reclaimed land.

The once nameless settlement now has a resounding name – Zhevodan.

The young blacksmith apprentice, who once had only a plank, a pair of pliers, and a hammer, now owns a small shop, and the residents of Gevadan respectfully call him "Blacksmith Portan".

After breaking the furnace, Portan carefully picked out an irregularly shaped piece of sponge iron from the furnace chamber, as if he were holding a precious piece of porcelain.

"It's done!" Paul Vinicius—Portin's assistant—was overjoyed, laughing and wildly punching the air. "We did it!"

The other assistant, the silent Peter Goncharov, did not utter a word, but his eyes also revealed his delight.

"It's not done yet!" Boltan said, a smile already spreading across his face.

The three men immediately transferred the sponge iron to the anvil. Poltan held the tongs, while the other two swung the hammers and began forging the sponge iron.

With rhythmic hammering, the loose and porous sponge iron gradually becomes dense and compact, slowly revealing the shape of "iron".

Working from noon until night, the three of them repeatedly reheated the iron billet in the furnace, and finally forged this small piece of sponge iron into a wrought iron ingot.

"It's done." Poltan wiped the sweat from his brow and announced to his two partners with a smile.

Paul Vinicius was overjoyed. He grabbed his friends' shoulders and laughed, "With iron, we can go all out!"

Without iron, the blacksmiths could not use their skills; without smelting iron, the three men of Boltan could only repair and make a living by recycling scrap iron.

“We’re still using too much charcoal.” Peter Goncharov pursed his lips, his joy fading somewhat. “The smelter also needs to be moved; it’s too far from the Iron Peak Mine.”

"Hey! Why are you always such a spoilsport? Let's celebrate properly!" Paul Vinicius exclaimed, beaming. "Come on! Let's go for drinks! My treat!"

The three of them didn't close the door, and walked out of the blacksmith shop with their arms around each other, making lewd jokes.

They bought beer from Ellen, the young widow across the street, and sat comfortably under the eaves, drinking and dreaming about the future.

At the same time, three cavalrymen carrying green flags galloped past, kicking up a trail of dust.

Paul Vinicius was caught off guard and got a mouthful of ash. He was so angry that he cursed, "You son of a bitch! You want to add some spice to my life?"

Pyotr Goncharov stared at the cavalrymen's retreating figures, remaining silent for a long time.

The officer at the head of the three cavalrymen walked straight into the town hall, rang the bell to gather the residents, and read a proclamation to them:

"According to the resolution passed by the Grand Council of Plato... the newly reclaimed province is officially placed under military control... In accordance with the Told Agreement, all forests, rivers, land, and mineral resources in the newly reclaimed province belong to the military government... the old land reclamation policy is hereby nullified..."

The three blacksmiths arrived a little late. Paul Vinicius, being short, couldn't see anything from the back of the crowd. He anxiously asked his friends, "Hey? What's that? I can't hear you!"

"Who cares?" Portan said, arms crossed. "No matter how much the birds sing, we still have to earn our living with our skills."

Pyotr Goncharov remained silent. “Things are about to change,” he thought.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Zhuwangbao.

Six serious-looking negotiators from the Republic of Monta calmly entered the first conference room of the Grand Council, where six Paratu negotiators and observers from the United Provinces, Veneta, and Vane were waiting.

The representatives in the first conference room were about to discuss a momentous matter that would change the fate of many people:
To unify the commercial laws, currencies, and weights and measures of the republics, abolish customs, transit taxes, and excise taxes, realize the free flow of goods within the union, and achieve the ultimate goal—the establishment of the [Great Senas Customs Union].

……

Twenty-one years ago, in autumn.

In Widow Ellen's tavern, Portan, Paul Vinicius, and Peter Goncharov were drinking alone in silence.

“Mejri, you have a solution!” Paul Vinicius broke the silence, slamming his fist on the table and shouting, “We’ll listen to you!”

Portan shook his head.

Peter Goncharov sipped his beer silently.

This is the ninth year that Boltan Mejri has been in the newly reclaimed land.

Young widow Ellen has become widow Ellen, and a few white hairs have sprouted at the temples of hers.

Six years ago, Portan moved his forge to a new site at the foot of Iron Peak Mountain and on the banks of the St. George River, and since then his business has been booming.

Paul Vinicius and Peter Goncharov were no longer Portan's assistants; they had their own forges, assistants, and apprentices, but the three friends still did business together.

The three men from Boltan specialized in iron smelting, and sold the iron they produced directly to other blacksmiths to avoid any trouble for themselves.

Initially, blacksmiths from nearby villages and towns would travel long distances to buy iron. Later, some blacksmiths, in order to save on transportation costs, simply moved their forges next to the workshops of the three men from Boltan.

The area around the Portan workshop gradually became denser with people. Because of the numerous forges, the local farmers called this blacksmith village "Forge Village".

Portin liked the name, but he didn't know how long it would last.

He finished his drink and said with a stern face, "The iron ingots from Forging Village can no longer be sold in the neighboring counties. The iron ore smelted last month is still sitting in the warehouse today. The steel bars from Steel Fortress are about to crush us. If this continues, we'll just be waiting to die."

"Is that even a question?" Paul Vinicius retorted impatiently, "It's all because of that damn treaty!"

Because the republics refused to compromise, the attempt to establish a "Greater Cenas Customs Union" ultimately failed. However, the aborted customs union plan still left some legacies.

For example, at the strong suggestion of General Antoine Laurent, the republics agreed to unify weights and measures at the official level—of course, unifying the currency was out of the question.

And: The republics agreed in principle to reduce tariffs and unanimously agreed to use "bilateral treaties" as an alternative to the "grand customs union" for the time being.

After Palatine and Monta signed a tariff treaty a year ago, steel bars and ironware from Steelburg flooded into Palatine like a burst dam.

For the Parat people, being able to buy ironware at a lower price was a good thing. But for the blacksmiths like Portan, the situation couldn't be worse.

We've only had six years of good times, is it really over already?

“If I have a way,” Portan gritted his teeth and asked his two companions in a deep voice, “would you be willing to support me?”

Peter Goncharov blinked but didn't say anything.

Paul Vinicius eagerly agreed, "Go ahead and tell me!"

"Guild! We want to create our own Iron Peak County Blacksmith Guild!"

...At this moment, it is winter.

"Sir, please allow me to keep you in suspense for a moment." Facing the Montagne tribunal who had come to visit late at night, the old blacksmith Portin forced himself to sit up: "Do you know what the core of the guild is?"

Winters gave a half-smile: "Monopoly."

“That’s right.” Old blacksmith Portan sat in the recliner Winters had made for him, speaking calmly and slowly: “The core of the guild is internal democracy and external monopoly. Do you know why I pulled the blacksmiths of Ironpeak County together to form a guild twenty years ago?”

“I guess,” Winters chuckled, “you want to monopolize the iron ore supply in Iron Peak County and keep the steel bars from Steel Castle.”

"Yes," the old blacksmith Portan didn't deny it either: "It's despicable, isn't it?"

“No, it’s normal.” Winters shook his head with a smile. “That’s what guilds do. It would be strange if they didn’t. I’m more curious about why you failed.”

The old blacksmith, Portan, remained silent.

“A fortress is most easily breached from within.” Winters stroked the hilt of his sword. “There must be a traitor.”

“One of my business partners chose to stand on the other side.” Old blacksmith Portan forced a smile. “It’s a guild, after all, with internal democracy. I only realized this when it came to the vote.”

"Mr. Goncharov?"

"Yes."

Winters smiled.

Old blacksmith Portan lay back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, and said, “The problem you’re facing now has only two solutions: one fast and one slow. I don’t need to explain the fast one. But I can assure you that no blacksmith in Forge Village would dare to openly oppose you. However, the guild is the foundation of the city. If you touch the blacksmith guild, everyone in the other guilds will be in danger.”

“If I wanted to get things done quickly, I wouldn’t have come to ask you for advice. Please tell me your suggestions.” Winters smiled. If the old blacksmith intended to use him to take revenge on the blacksmiths’ guild, he wouldn’t mind being the one to do it.

"Let me ask you one more question," the old blacksmith Boltan changed the subject, "Do you know why Pyotr Goncharov opposed me twenty years ago?"

"I don't know," Winters replied, playing along with the old blacksmith.

The old blacksmith, Portan, sighed deeply: "He believes that our iron cannot compete with the steel bars of Steelburg for one simple reason—their iron is indeed better and cheaper. Monopoly cannot bridge the gap in quality and price. Relying on monopoly to delay defeat will only lead to a more devastating loss in the end; it is better to honestly admit defeat."

"Actually, I'm not angry that the iron smelting business has been squeezed out; at worst, I can just go back to blacksmithing," the old blacksmith said with emotion. "What I really can't accept is the betrayal of my friends. But do you know what's even more painful than the betrayal of friends? Old Goncharov's betrayal was the right thing to do."

The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with old Goncharov. Steelburg won because their bar iron was truly superior. To use the blacksmiths' guild to drive Steelburg out of the bar iron, they'd have to bribe the New Reclamation Legion with huge sums of tribute. In the end, the blacksmiths would only earn less money, and their ironware would sell for higher prices. With all the money flowing into the New Reclamation Legion's pockets, it would be better to just surrender.”

Winters was somewhat surprised, and he listened quietly, because the old blacksmith clearly hadn't finished speaking.

“But over the past decade, I’ve had another thought. Old Goncharov was right, but also wrong! What if our iron ore could be both cheap and good? What if one day we could produce steel like Steelburg? If we surrender, then there will be no hope at all.”

Old blacksmith Portan concluded emphatically: "This is what I've been thinking about for the past ten years. Monopoly isn't impossible, but it must be a monopoly aimed at defeating Steel Castle honorably! We need to find more labor-saving mining methods, better furnaces, cheaper fuel... We should learn from Steel Castle's methods! And finally, we'll defeat Steel Castle!"

The old blacksmith, Boltan, became more and more excited as he spoke, and by the end he was almost out of breath.

Winters thought for a moment and asked, "Is this the idea that led you to study how to use coal to smelt iron?"

"Yes, but we failed." The old blacksmith slumped into his recliner, a bleak smile on his face. "The Blacksmiths' Guild isn't qualified to challenge Steel Fortress. Monopolizing the forges has already satisfied the blacksmiths. The Blacksmiths' Guild exists not for more production, but for less production. That's the fundamental difference between them and Steel Fortress."

The blacksmiths' guild had neither the will nor the ability to improve, while Steel Fortress grew stronger every day. Sooner or later, the blacksmiths' guild in Ironpeak County would be completely crushed by Steel Fortress. Therefore, I gave up hope long ago.

He stared intently at Winters, his eyes gleaming: "And now, what I don't know is—compared to the Blacksmiths' Guild, do you possess a stronger will and ability to contend with Steel Fortress?"

“Why don’t I have?” Winters laughed.

“You certainly don’t,” the old blacksmith Portan said firmly. “You don’t even realize you don’t.”

"Where do you begin?" Winters asked, puzzled.

The old blacksmith asked coldly, "Who mines for you?"

"They are temporarily hired farmers, but later they should be prisoners of war... that is, slaves."

"Does the ore cost money?"

"No."

"Where's the charcoal?"

"Don't either."

"Iron from outside can't get in." The old blacksmith squinted and asked, "Are there any other people in Iron Peak County who can smelt iron?"

"there is none left……"

“The raw materials are free, the labor is done by slaves, and you have a monopoly on iron in Iron Peak County,” the old blacksmith, Boltan, said coldly. “I really don’t know why you want to change the status quo!”

“It’s simple,” Winters laughed. “Because I don’t plan to stay in Iron Peak County forever. I want to fight! I want to arm an army! I want to crush the New Reclamation Legion! So I need lots and lots of iron, the more the better!”

……

Winters returned to his lodgings just as dawn was breaking.

He barely rested for a day and a night. He spent the morning at the smelter, the afternoon visiting the forging furnace township and the military village. He was woken up shortly after falling asleep at night and then rushed back to Zhevodan to visit Mr. Portan.

At this moment, all he wanted was to get some sleep.

An unexpected person was waiting for him outside the door—the little lion.

"Didn't you go hunting with Senior Juan?" Winters' head was still spinning. "You're back so early."

The little lion smiled, revealing his teeth: "Something came up, so I came back first."

"What is it?" Winters yawned. "Whatever it is, let's talk about it tomorrow—no, it's already today."

The little lion's smile grew even more playful: "I don't mind. But if I tell you tomorrow, I'm afraid you might regret it—someone is waiting for you."

Winters snapped to attention as if he'd touched a hot iron, his tension almost suffocating: "Could it be...that person...is here?"

"Who is it?" the little lion asked with a smile, deliberately countering the question.

"you……"

"Stop talking nonsense." The little lion couldn't help but laugh, opened the door and came inside: "Come on in, I've been waiting for you."

Winters felt a tightness in his chest and a splitting headache, and a strong urge to escape surged within him.

After standing there for a while, he gritted his teeth, braced himself, and walked nervously into his residence.

A man was sitting in the reception room waiting for him.

Winters felt as if he had been granted a pardon; he seemed to have all his strength drained away in an instant, and his body went limp uncontrollably.

But the next moment, his mind and body suddenly tensed up again.

Although the man sitting in the drawing room had changed—becoming thinner, more haggard, and missing his left arm—Winters would never mistake his face.

It was Colonel Bode.

Before anyone else could even speak, Winters had already rushed to Colonel Bode's side.

He grasped the colonel's empty sleeve and abruptly turned to look at the little lion.

“It’s alright, Winters,” Colonel Bode said with a smile. His voice was a little hoarse, but he was as easygoing as ever. “If they hadn’t amputated my arm, I probably wouldn’t be sitting here.”

"Why are you glaring at me?" The little lion glared back at Winters. "Mr. Bode is right."

Overwhelmed with emotion, Winters hugged Colonel Bode, and even though he tried to hold back his tears, they still streamed down his face.

Colonel Bode patted Winters on the back with his only remaining right hand: "Hey, why are you crying? It's alright..."

As Colonel Bode spoke, two lines of tears streamed down his cheeks.

Colonel Bode is the White Lion's "gift".

The white lion also brought another gift, which was a sentence.

"The fire-maker is coming," said the little lion.

[Thank you to all the readers for your collections, reading, subscriptions, recommendations, monthly tickets, donations, and comments. Thank you everyone!]
[The recent plot has indeed been somewhat disjointed; I apologize for that and will try to improve it in the future.]
[Thank you for your valuable feedback, everyone.]
[I'd like to talk about the blacksmith Boltan. A key characteristic of his is that he's "old," and his days are numbered. As Qian Zhongshu said, "An old man falling in love is like an old house on fire—it's beyond saving." The same applies to other aspects of his life; because he's "about to die," his obsessions become all the more intense.]
[There's another problem between Portan and Winters: Portan doesn't know Winters' true intentions either. He doesn't know where Winters is going—to become a local tyrant in Iron Peak County? To make a quick buck and leave? He's a figure who exists on the fringes of Winters' faction.]
[It's also worth mentioning that, having given up hope early on, Bolton's previous wish was to write a book...]
[I apologize for rambling on. I quite like this character, but I won't elaborate on him much later on. I want to keep the later plot more concise...]
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(End of this chapter)