When the Saint comes, she does not collect food

Chapter 1103 Apartment Building

On his way back, Horn did not take a carriage but chose to ride a horse.

Sitting upright in the saddle, the horse's hooves clattered crisply across the thin layer of ice on the road.

He unbuttoned the third button from the bottom of his clothes, held the reins in one hand, and reached the other hand inside his clothes to his abdomen.

This wasn't Uncle Horn visiting, nor was it a stomachache like Napoleon's; it was someone stroking a spiderweb-covered undergarment.

His thoughts were still wandering, still preoccupied with Schlinmann's spiderweb.

The more he savored the spider silk cloth, the more flavorful it seemed, and the flavor grew stronger with each touch.

According to data provided by Schlinmann, a child who takes care of two wind-up looms can weave three and a half bolts of spider cloth.

In the same amount of time, a skilled worker can only weave one bolt of cloth using a flying shuttle.

Such a comparison of efficiency is truly captivating.

Beyond the loom, the dyeing properties of spider silk are even more important.

The dyeing properties of this spider silk are not only excellent, but Schlinman even said that he is breeding a silver gland spider that can directly produce colored silk.

We've already made some progress in identifying this colorful gland spider.

Thinking of the ruined wool fabrics in the warehouse, and then of the brightly colored cobweb fabrics, Horn rubbed his stomach even more frequently.

That's why they say the Industrial Revolution had three treasures: cotton, coal, and stocks.

Coal represents energy, stocks represent finance, and cotton represents industry.

Wool needs to be combed and strongly degreased, and its texture is relatively soft, while spider silk is more resilient, not easily broken, and suitable for mechanical processing.

Horn currently possesses both shuttle and spool spinning machines in its textile machinery.

Now, by combining the spinning jenny with the spool spinning machine, we have the mechanized mass production marvel of the textile industry – the mule machine.

To put it simply, a spool spinning machine has 500-800 spindles, while a mule spinning machine has 2000.

Back then, this mule machine provided 800,000 jobs for the British people over 30 years, reducing labor costs by 90%.

The output of one textile worker is equivalent to that of a hundred-man workshop decades ago; productivity has increased a hundredfold in less than a hundred years!
In 1780, the export value of cotton cloth from England was only £36, but by 1800 it had reached a staggering £780 million, an increase of more than twenty times.

In Horn's hometown of Dalmatian, cotton exports grew from £36 to £780 million. It's no problem for my Holy Alliance to grow from £10 to £200 million.

As Horn was happily pondering this, he suddenly felt a fleeting shadow pass by the corner of his eye, as if a piece of pebble had bounced up.

The next second, he heard his horse neigh and then suddenly rear up on its hind legs.

"Ciel, be quiet! Be quiet!"

Horn quickly pulled on the reins, squeezed his knees against the horse's belly, and with his other hand he gently stroked the horse's neck, whispering a few words of comfort.

The horses' restlessness gradually subsided, though their nostrils were still twitching rapidly.

"Your Majesty, are you alright?"

The accompanying officers and monks beside him were both shocked and furious.

"It's nothing, don't make a fuss." Horn gestured for quiet and looked ahead.

He traveled this road several times last year without any problems. What happened?
But when Horn looked, he found that the wasteland had changed drastically.

The withered grass on the wasteland was cleared away, and a wooden fence enclosed a large area where hundreds of people were moving around.

The angry shouts, the clanging of hammers, and the clicking of machines all mingled together, bubbling like boiling water in my ears.

The most eye-catching feature is the clockwork crane in the center of the venue.

The iron support frame, reinforced with steel, stood very high, and the pulley at the top creaked as the clockwork turned.

A basket of bricks was suspended by a cable under the boom, swaying as it rose into the air, with only a little over half of it landing on the scaffolding.

Horn couldn't help but break out in a cold sweat watching this.

The scaffolding was made of thick timber, with densely packed horizontal and vertical bars woven into a large net.

The workers climbed up like monkeys, the wooden planks beneath their feet groaning under the weight.

Horn's face was somewhat gloomy. Ignoring everyone's advice, he spurred his horse and said, "Let's get closer and take a look."

The group of close advisors around him exchanged glances, and each of them drew a "屮" character on their foreheads, guessing that someone else was about to be in trouble.

They dared not delay and quickly gave chase.

"Hey, young man," Horn dismounted and called out to the short worker who was resting on the grass.

The short worker turned around, but it wasn't the young man; it was a boy who looked to be under 15 years old.

Horn's expression darkened further.

The young man glanced at Horn's simple attire and stood up cautiously: "Your Excellency, what are your orders?"

"Sir?" "Bishop?" Aren't these terms obsolete?
It's been seven or eight years, why are you still talking about it?
Horn knew that local customs were hard to change overnight, so he didn't pursue the matter further. Instead, he asked in a gentle tone, "Who built this house?"

“The Holy Mechanism Civil Engineering Monastery…” the boy stammered. “For whom was it built?”

"New immigrants."

Seeing the boy's nervous look, Horn reached out and patted his head, tossing him a dinar: "Go, call your leader here."

"My boss is very busy and probably doesn't have time to talk to you."

"Just call him over and tell him that my horse was injured by his gravel."

The boy ran off wrapped in a rough woolen jacket, while Horn stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the building in front of him.

A wall taller than a person has been built on the foundation nearby, with gray bricks stacked neatly.

The gaps were filled with grayish-white concrete, which gleamed coldly in the sunlight.

Several steel components stood at the corners of the walls, seemingly used to reinforce the roof beams.

Through the half-finished window on the second floor, you can see several workers swinging wooden mallets to hammer the bolts on the steel parts.

Only then did Horn manage to make out the outline of the construction site.

This is an apartment building under construction; the framework of three floors has already been erected.

Exposed steel bars extend from the foundation, supporting the wall like ribs.

The bricks and stones were laid between the steel bars, fitting together perfectly.

Square windows were left on each floor, and several workers were squatting on the edge of the windows, burying copper pipes into the walls.

Those were brass pipes for the water supply system of the clockwork machine, one end connected to a wooden water tank on the roof, and the other end leading to each household.

The building has a very regular shape, square and upright, but with rounded edges.

However, the sight of the construction site made Horn frown.

Most of the workers wore thin clothes, took no safety precautions, and ran around barefoot on the scaffolding in straw sandals.

Some carried brick baskets across narrow planks, while others stood on top of the wall, bending over on one leg, laying bricks.

There was only a wooden sign at the edge of the area with the words "Detour" written in charcoal.

Forget about safety nets, you can't even see a single safety helmet.

No, Horn saw it.

The contractor who swaggered over had a safety helmet firmly pinned to his head.

He was a big, burly man, and his tall, strong appearance, along with the gear pendant on his chest, suggested that he was a retired veteran.

He muttered under his breath, "Who's blind? Didn't they see the sign? Startled the horse..."

He cursed as he looked up and walked towards them, but when he saw the person in front of him clearly, the rest of his sentence got stuck in his throat.

The foreman's fierce face instantly crumbled, his legs went weak, and he knelt on the ground with a thud.

Horn frowned even more: "Stand up, don't kneel."

But the foreman trembled for a long time before he could barely stand up.

"Is this the apartment building you contracted?"

"..."

"answer me!"

"Yes."

"Are you literate?"

"Literacy."

"Can you understand the 'Saint Union Building Safety Guarantee Regulations'?"

The tall, strong man nearly knelt down again, unable to utter a single word.

Which warband are you from?

It looked like someone was choking him; his face turned red, and he couldn't utter a single word.

"If you won't tell me, I'll call over several battle group commanders and make them admit it one by one!"

"I am, I am a retired sergeant from the Wild Wolf Legion, Pilot." The foreman wished he could disappear into a crack in the ground. "Your Majesty, I was wrong. I was blinded by greed. I'm a bastard. Please don't send anyone from the Wild Wolf Legion."

"You actually know how to save face for the warband. Why didn't you know that before?"

The contractor fell silent.

Horn sighed and said to Petit in disappointment, "It's recorded. The project is halted. We'll inspect all the construction sites in the Holy Mechanism Court tomorrow."

(End of this chapter)