industrial lord

Chapter 825 A Letter Arrives from Afar
James put down his pen and let out a long sigh of relief.

The entire speech was transcribed into a business report, which James wrote on special telegraphic pricing paper. The report appeared to be about the growing popularity of knitting in the Duchy of Wessen, with everyone from Mrs. Wessen to farm women knitting whenever they had free time, and the yarn market was poised for a major boom.

The telegraph office was open 24 hours a day, and James went to send a telegram, paying a considerable sum of money.

On his way home, he thought to himself, "Maybe I should really put some effort into the yarn business."
The main purpose is to earn some money for myself. I can't do the job of a secret agent for long; I need to have some money to live comfortably in my old age.

The excuse for this is simple: now Lady Weisen knits sweaters for the Grand Duke Weisen herself, and if one has fine wool yarn, one might be able to use this to gain access to the knitting salons of the noble ladies of the Duchy of Weisen.

James returned home, sat down by the fireplace and started a fire, the flames reflecting on his expressionless face.

The task is completed; only then can the thinking begin.

Perhaps it's time to start thinking about my future.

The next day, in the Kingdom of Anglo-Saxon, Prince Edward put down his speech, lightly pinched his brow, and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the winter fog was gray and hazy, emitting a soothing smell of coal smoke.

"Is it really word for word?" he asked.

In the shadows of the study, the intelligence officer bowed and replied, "Yes, Your Highness."

“We have several telegrams to compare.”

Edward picked up the report again, turned to the key paragraphs, and carefully read the original text and translation once more.

"Reduce dependence on foreign countries and take the initiative in development..."

"Even when faced with shocks, such as droughts, conflicts, or economic crises..."

He laughed, a cold laugh, colder than the weather at that moment.

“Grand Duke Wessen has begun preparing for the impending crisis,” Edward said to the Chancellor of the Exchequer in the chair behind him. “He speaks publicly about food security, defines the crisis, and calls on the public to conserve—things that shouldn’t be done when food is plentiful.”

Duval frowned and said, "Your Highness means..."

"Just as we previously suspected, the Duchy of Wessen is short of food," Edward asserted. "Frederick is a man who is accustomed to thinking several steps ahead, even a dozen steps ahead, and must have foreseen the impending food shortage."

"But he probably doesn't know which snowflake will cause an avalanche, maybe this year's harvest will be poor again, maybe there will be an unexpected shortage in some storage warehouse, or..."

His eyes flashed, and he continued, "A heavy rain disrupted traffic, causing a temporary increase in bread prices in a certain area."

He walked up to the huge map, pointed to the location of the Duchy of Wessen, and said seriously, "The weaker the Duchy of Wessen is, the more it will bluff."

"Do you remember the pair of peacocks your relative gave you? You used them to scare your opponents by spreading their brightly colored tails and then find an opening to escape."

Duval smiled and nodded, then asked, "Your Highness, what do you intend to do?"

Edward sat back in his chair and pondered for a moment before finally saying, "Wesson Army is always a huge variable."

"The Duchy of Wesen hasn't lost enough blood yet. Let's give them a hand and make them put their bluster into practice and spend more money."

After thinking for a moment, Duval nodded slightly, indicating that he had no objections in principle.

At the same time, in the Kingdom of Gaul.

Prince Louis the Younger tossed the report onto the table, the light from the crystal chandelier dancing on the paper.

“He’s panicking,” the crown prince said, his young face full of disdain. “He’s using flowery language to cover up his crisis.”

"Four pillars?"

"Ha, if the pillars are all solid, why bother with public discussion?"

The advisor beside him asked cautiously, "Your Highness, should we respond?" "Respond?" Little Louis laughed. "Of course."

"But it's not aid. There's also a poor harvest in the country, and the war in the Kingdom of Taragoza is still going on, with huge expenses."

"Notify our agent in Venice to purchase the remaining grain in the Guangdong Inland Sea."

"If the Duchy of Wessen is short of food and Frederick wants to buy it, it all depends on how much sincerity he shows."

He walked to the window, where the garden outside was covered in snow.

“My father always said Frederick was a genius,” Louis the Younger whispered. “Even geniuses make mistakes.”

"Making mistakes in food is the most fatal."

The advisor beside him wanted to remind the Crown Prince that Grand Duke Wessen's influence had already extended into the Inner Sea.

But seeing the Crown Prince's self-absorbed expression, he chose to remain silent for the time being.

Louis the Younger pondered for a moment and decided to write a letter to his ally.

The letter, like a series of intermittent signals, drifted towards the distant East.

On the desolate plains of the eastern border of the Ghazi Empire, yellow sand and fine snow filled the sky and earth.

While Western countries were focused on Hongshuiche Village, in the East, an even more brutal war was entering a lull.

The remnants of that decisive battle still lie scattered across this barren land.

Broken spears jut out from the sand like a deformed thicket of thorns; rusty armor fragments lie half-buried among the withered grass, the same color as the earth; bones are dug out of the ground by hungry beasts and scattered across the wilderness, their empty eye sockets eternally gazing up at the leaden sky.

The border fortress "Iron Gate Fortress" is like the fangs of a giant beast, firmly gripping the pass between the treacherous mountains.

The stone walls are fifteen meters high, covered with dents from arrow strikes, cracks from stone hurling, and indelible charred marks left by magical burning.

On the battlements, the banners of the Ghazi Empire fluttered in the biting winter wind, like restless spirits.

On that day, Fatih's newly formed personal guard made its first public appearance.

They were dressed in full-body white scale armor and carried various firearms when they suddenly appeared on the flank of the Great Stone Empire's army.

When the three hundred heavy cavalrymen of the Great Stone Empire, who were in reserve, launched their charge, their hooves shook the earth, their scimitars flew like a forest, and their arrows fell like rain.

The royal guard's muskets and nine-barreled cannons unleashed an enchanted volley from fifty paces away. Magic shields shattered before the 14.3 times divine energy, lead bullets tore through steel plate armor, and shrapnel blasted into the dense formation, ripping the opposing men and horses to shreds.

It was a massacre, a declaration of a new era written with gunpowder and steel.

The Gazi Empire captured Iron Gate Fortress, a key logistical stronghold of the Great Stone Empire, strategically encircling the main force of the Great Stone Empire. This forced them to abandon their equipment and supplies and retreat back to their homeland via mountain trails, ultimately resulting in the loss of three out of ten of them.

Fatih was not satisfied; the fertile river valley lay before him.

The war has never ended, it has only taken a short break.

On the top floor of Iron Gate Fortress, the former fortress commander's study has been completely renovated.

The study was not large; the walls by the door and opposite the fireplace were almost floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelves, crammed with enemy intelligence, parchment map scrolls, and reports from all over the empire.

On the table in the middle was a complete map of the eastern border battle, with colorful thumbtacks marking the troop deployments of both sides, and red and blue arrows intertwined with the defensive lines, like pulsating blood vessels and nerves.

Fatih sat in front of the fireplace, sunlight streaming in through the window, carefully reading a letter from his Western allies.

(End of this chapter)