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Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 13: Reconstruction (2)

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The craftsmen of the Sternberg domain gathered in my workshop once more.

Pavel the potter.

Tomáš the blacksmith.

Jakub the carpenter.

"You've all come."

I smiled gently at the three men standing before the workbench.

"Our victory in the last battle was owed entirely to you. Without you, this castle would already be ashes."

The simple yet heartfelt praise left the craftsmen at a loss. They lowered their heads.

"No, my lord. We only followed your wisdom."

"Humility is a virtue, but credit must be given fairly."

At my gesture, Konrad, who had been waiting by the door, handed each craftsman a prepared parchment scroll and a heavy leather pouch.

"My lord, what is this...?"

"Don't refuse it. It is a small reward for your service."

The craftsmen accepted my gifts with deep gratitude. The leather pouches in their hands were far heavier than they had expected.

When they cautiously opened them, silver coins clinked inside, catching the light.

Yet the silver was not the true reward.

Pavel unrolled his parchment with trembling hands. His name was clearly written on it, along with the title, "Technical Officer (Meister) directly serving the Lord of Sternberg." Tomáš and Jakub's parchments bore the same words.

"Technical Officer (Meister)...?"

I nodded.

"You are no longer ordinary craftsmen. You are my direct retainers, responsible for this domain's technology. Naturally, you should receive treatment befitting your positions. From now on, every technological development within the domain will pass through your hands, and all the glory that follows will be yours as well."

They had never held such a fortune in their lives, nor been granted positions so far above them. Emotion flushed all three of their faces.

After exchanging looks, they fell to their knees before me as though they had agreed on it beforehand.

"Thank you, my lord!"

"We will never forget this kindness!"

"On my family's honor, I will devote myself to serving you, my lord!"

I grinned and got to the point.

"From now on, there is something you must make."

After receiving rewards like these, refusal was impossible. Now Technical Officers (Meister), the three men bowed together.

"Give us any command, my lord."

I nodded in satisfaction.

"We cannot rely on luck forever. The enemy are not fools, so next time they will return fully prepared. We need an asymmetric force that exceeds their understanding."

"An asymmetric force?"

"Yes. What we are about to make will be the first step."

I spoke in a grave voice.

"We will build a Blast furnace."

The Technical Officers (Meister) looked bewildered.

"...Pardon?"

"A Blast furnace, my lord?"

None of them had heard the term before, so I gave them a brief explanation.

"It is a massive furnace that melts iron like water."

"M-melt iron?!"

Tomáš the blacksmith was the first to be horrified. He had worked with fire and iron all his life, yet he had never heard of melting iron.

In this age, iron was simply heated until red-hot and hammered. It was not something to be melted like water.

Without a word, I spread a new blueprint across the workbench. It depicted a structure far more complex and massive than the previous catapult. Seeing the plans for this strange, towering construction, the Technical Officers (Meister) tilted their heads.

At last, Tomáš spoke. His voice carried the certainty of an expert.

"My lord, no matter how I think about it, it is impossible. With our current methods, we cannot create a fire hot enough to melt iron. Even if we gathered every large bellows in the domain, it would not be enough. Iron can be heated, but it cannot be melted."

Pavel added with a worried expression.

"That is right. Even if we somehow created such heat, the vessel to contain it would be a problem. I take pride in making the finest kilns in Bohemia, but heat strong enough to melt iron would eventually crack, shatter, and melt them. There is no clay in this world that can endure such heat."

Even Jakub, who had been quiet until then, spoke up.

"The timber needed to build such a massive structure is also a problem. How do you intend to provide enough charcoal to operate it? Even if we cut down every tree around the castle, it would not last more than a few days."

Their objections were reasonable. Given the technology and common sense of this era, they were right.

"You are right. It would be impossible with our current methods. But if you follow my instructions, it can be done."

Looking at each Technical Officer (Meister) in turn, I spoke with absolute certainty.

"Pavel. Go to the clay pit. Dig deep into the clay layer, and you will find earth as white as snow. It is called Kaolin. Use it to fire bricks."

"Pardon? Kaolin... Ah, you mean white clay (Kaolin)? That is soft earth used to paint designs on pottery..."

"No. It is more resistant to fire than any clay we know. Trust me."

Leaving Pavel standing there in confusion, I turned to Jakub.

"Jakub. Make Coke."

"Co... Coke? What is that?"

"Put coal, not wood, into a kiln. Seal off the air and bake it for a long time, as though steaming it. Thick, foul smoke will rise, and a hard black mass will remain. That is Coke. It burns far hotter than charcoal."

Jakub tilted his head at the unfamiliar method and word. Even the idea of baking coal rather than burning it was strange to him.

Still, there was no uncertainty in my voice.

"Tomáš. Gather every piece of iron in the domain. Rusted farm tools, broken armor, even a single discarded nail. Once the Blast furnace is complete, we will melt them down and remake them into steel harder than any iron in this world."

Kaolin, Coke, and steel.

My explanations made no sense to them, but the Technical Officers (Meister) did not argue further. They understood one thing clearly: the vision their young lord intended to create lay beyond their imagination.

My words carried an irresistible weight and certainty because I was a lord who had already worked a miracle.

The three men bowed at once.

"We will obey your command, my lord."

* * *

Taborites, the heart of the Hussites and the impregnable fortress of southern Bohemia.

In a cold stone chamber at its center, Jan Žižka sat at the head of the room, studying a map.

Even after his overwhelming victory at Vyšehrad, his one remaining eye had never relaxed its vigilance for even a moment.

The room reeked of leather, steel, and the lingering blood of battle.

Then Žižka received an unbelievable report, and his brow twitched.

"...Mikuláš of Hus is dead?"

Žižka's voice was low and dangerous, like boiling lava.

Before him stood Hynek Krušina of Lichtenburg, his body stained with soot and blood, head lowered.

"...I have no excuse, General Žižka."

"You failed to take a single castle defended by fewer than a hundred heathens, and lost hundreds of our brave brothers along with our Commander-in-Chief. What exactly are you saying, Krušina?"

Žižka's one eye glared sharply at him.

Unable to meet that gaze, Krušina forced out an excuse in a trembling voice.

"Our mistakes were grave, but the enemy's resistance was beyond anything we imagined. It was... it was not the power of men! They wield fire bestowed by the devil!"

"The devil's fire?"

Žižka's brow twitched. Remembering that day's nightmare, Krušina hurriedly explained.

"Yes! They threw jars, and flames that would not go out swallowed soldiers and wagons. Then... then when we poured water on them, the flames exploded wildly!"

Fire that exploded when water was poured over it. That single phrase stirred a memory in the mind of the old veteran who had crossed countless battlefields.

"Was that liquid sticky, with a foul smell?"

"Y-yes! That is right!"

A gleam flashed through Žižka's one eye.

"Fool! I saw something similar when I fought the Turks at Nicopolis. That is not the devil's fire. It is Greek fire!"

"Greek... fire?"

"It is an old method once used by the Eastern Roman Empire. They make it by mixing quicklime, sulfur, and other things into oil lighter than water. It uses the fact that it generates heat and explodes when it comes into contact with water."

Žižka fell silent in thought. After roaming across Europe as a mercenary for decades, he could already think of several ways to counter Greek fire.

They could smother the flames with sand and earth, neutralize the chemical reaction by pouring vinegar in great quantities, or simply destroy the enemy with artillery from beyond its range.

Žižka clicked his tongue.

"Tch. That fool Mikuláš of Hus grew careless because he was drunk on victory. There were any number of countermeasures, and he fell to such an outdated trick."

He looked down at the map again. Then a new question rose in his mind.

'Still... the method for making Greek fire was lost in the Eastern Roman Empire long ago, and even altered methods are closely guarded secrets in every nation. How did that brat from Sternberg obtain it...?'

Krušina cautiously spoke.

"...General. In truth... that was not all."

"What else was there?"

At Žižka's short question, Krušina swallowed and continued.

"At the end... their lord threw something. A small piece of pottery. But the instant it hit the ground... there was a flash, followed by a roar as though the world itself had collapsed. Our Siege tower... vanished without a trace."

Žižka's expression hardened.

'A flash and a roar...'

Gunpowder? That could not be. No one knew its power and handling better than he did. Gunpowder had been the secret weapon that allowed him to crush Sigismund's crusaders.

Yet Gunpowder was as temperamental and unstable as it was powerful. One slight mistake in the mixture could make it explode, and with bad luck, send the shooter to the next world as well.

But he had made a bomb powerful enough to blow away an entire Siege tower? That brat? That was not human knowledge. Unless he had truly made a pact with the devil...

"...What a foolish thought."

Whatever the reason, they could not retreat like this. The army of God could not bear the disgrace of being defeated by the tricks of a heathen noble.

"Sternberg... I thought he was just a brat, but it seems he had hidden some sharp teeth."

As Žižka murmured, his one eye glowed eerily in the dark stone chamber.

"Good. I will pull out those claws myself."

It was the gaze of a lion stalking its prey.

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