The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing - Chapter 79

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 79: The Paper Revolution (3)

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Before long, the sun began to sink below the horizon, and deep twilight settled over the grounds.

By then, the pressure inside the iron cauldron had reached its limit.

Clank, clank, clank!

The entire vessel shook and shrieked as if a starving beast had been trapped inside.

Each time the massive iron vessel heaved, the faces of those watching changed by the second.

János Hunyadi cautiously backed away.

"My lord, shouldn't we start putting out the fire? That cauldron looks like it's about to burst."

"Hmm..."

I looked up at the sky for a moment, then nodded.

"It's time. Put out the fire and release the steam."

"Yes! Everyone, stand back!"

Using a long pole, Tomáš threw open the exhaust valve.

Pshhhhhhh-!!!

With an ear-splitting roar, a colossal column of steam erupted straight into the air.

The yard instantly filled with hot vapor like a bathhouse, while a sharp, revolting stench mingled with the steam and spread in every direction.

"Urgh! What is that smell?"

"Rotten eggs? No, it smells like a rotting corpse..."

"Argh! My nose!"

Not only Bartoš and the craftsmen, but even Hanuš and Josef, who had been watching from a distance with their arms folded, covered their noses and dry-heaved.

It was the distinctive stench of sulfur compounds released as lignin broke down.

A chemical byproduct no one could ever grow used to.

I pulled the charcoal mask I had prepared over the bridge of my nose and frowned.

"Stop making such a fuss. The stronger the smell, the better the wood has dissolved."

Once the commotion died down and the steam subsided, I gestured to the workers.

"Open the lid."

Screeech, bang!

The workers gathered around, loosened the heated bolts, and lifted the heavy iron lid. Thick contents poured from the cauldron.

Splaash-

A black, porridge-like liquid spilled over a sieve.

It was waste liquor containing dissolved lignin.

Once the liquid drained away, everyone's eyes fixed on what remained.

"W-What is that?"

Covering his nose with a handkerchief, Bartoš carefully approached and poked the brown mass.

There was no trace of the hard oak chips. Only a soft clump of unraveled fibers remained.

It looked like bread soaked through with water, or perhaps animal droppings.

The craftsmen stared in disbelief.

"The wood turned into mush?"

"How could that hard oak become like this? It looks as if it's been crushed in a mortar."

It had not been physically crushed. The chemical process of high temperature and pressure had broken the bonds between its cells.

Still, Bartoš remained skeptical.

"But, Your Majesty, the color is far too dull. Even if we turn this into paper, it will be hard to make out any writing on it."

It was an accurate observation.

Freshly cooked wood pulp was dark brown, the color of kraft paper or a shipping box.

"You're right. Paper ought to be white."

"Then..."

"Which is why we're going to make it white now."

I signaled for the workers to wash the brown pulp.

Splaash!

As the black liquor washed away beneath the water, the pulp began to take on a pale ocher color. Yet it was still far from the color of paper I knew.

In the end, bleaching was the issue. In the modern age, a bottle of chlorine bleach would have solved it, but no such convenient chemical could exist in this era.

So I had to settle for the next best thing.

"Move the pulp to the fumigation chamber."

The workers carried the wet pulp into a sealed brick room. They hung it in rows, then placed braziers filled with sulfur powder on the floor.

"Light them and come out immediately. Don't breathe it in!"

The moment the workers lit the braziers and stepped out, I shut the fumigation chamber door and sealed every gap with mud.

János Hunyadi tilted his head.

"Are we waiting another long while?"

"No. This won't take that long."

Sulfur would now burn inside the chamber, releasing sulfur dioxide.

That poisonous gas would trigger a powerful reduction reaction, destroying the remaining pigments in the wood and bleaching away every trace of yellow.

It was not as powerful as modern chlorine bleach, but by medieval standards, it would be magical enough.

A short while later, I opened the fumigation chamber door, thoroughly aired out the poisonous gas, and brought out the wood pulp.

Only then did the craftsmen let out cries of amazement.

"Oh..."

The dull brown mass had turned a soft ivory color.

It was not perfectly pure white, but compared to ordinary rag paper, it was an astonishingly clean and even cream color.

Its uniformity was more remarkable still.

Unlike blotchy rag paper, white in some places and yellow in others, it had an even, clean color throughout.

With trembling hands, Bartoš touched the whitened pulp.

"T-This really is... the wood from earlier?"

"Yes. What do you think?"

"It feels like... freshly shorn wool. No, even finer than that."

I gave a small laugh and shook my head.

"It's too early to be impressed."

The workers dissolved the white pulp in a vat of water. The fibers spread through it like drifting snowflakes.

Now came the most important process.

"What was the greatest inconvenience when you made rag paper?"

Bartoš answered without hesitation.

"Bleeding. Fresh paper absorbs ink and smudges the letters, so we must soak it in gelatin broth to coat it. That is no easy task. When the weather is damp, the paper grows soggy, and the smell of rotting gelatin is foul..."

"What if you no longer had to go through all that trouble?"

Bartoš stared blankly at me.

"Pardon? What do you mean? Without coating, paper would soak up ink and make every letter bleed..."

"I don't mean we'll skip the coating. Rather than doing it after the paper is finished, we'll coat it while it is still pulp."

"I-Is that possible?"

Of course it was.

Cellulose fibers were naturally hydrophilic.

If ink was dropped on them without treatment, capillary action would make it spread in every direction.

That was why medieval papermakers had to finish the paper first, then perform the extra task of dipping each sheet into a gelatin solution made by boiling animal hides or bones.

So-called surface sizing.

It smelled awful, left the paper damp in humid weather, and made it ideal food for rats and insects. It was the height of inefficiency.

That was why I would coat it at the pulp stage rather than after the paper was complete.

I brought two bowls I had prepared beforehand onto the worktable.

One contained a thick, dark brown liquid, while the other held a fine white powder.

Pine resin soap made by dissolving Pine resin in lye.

And alum powder, purified from finely ground alumstone.

"Watch carefully."

I poured the pine resin soap solution into the vat of dissolved pulp. The brown liquid bloomed through the water in soft clouds.

Then I scattered a generous amount of alum powder over it, picked up a large wooden paddle, and vigorously stirred the vat.

Splash, splash-

The water churned, mixing the ingredients together.

It could not be seen, but a fierce chemical reaction was taking place inside that vat.

So-called internal sizing.

It was like coating every individual fiber with an invisible, microscopic waterproof film.

If this process succeeded, the paper would no longer greedily absorb ink. Instead, it would become premium writing paper, allowing letters to flow smoothly along the path of the pen nib.

Once the contents had mixed sufficiently, I set down the paddle.

"All right. From here on, it's your turn."

"Us?"

"Making paper isn't my specialty. I made the materials, but now I need the hands of craftsmen who have worked with paper for decades."

I pointed at the mould propped against the side of the vat.

"Try making a sheet. See how it differs from the rag scraps you've handled your whole life."

"..."

Bartoš swallowed dryly.

His gaze fixed on the pale pulp suspended in the vat.

He was a veteran who had grown old making paper. The mould should have been an extension of his own hand, yet his hands trembled faintly like those of an apprentice.

Splash-

At last, the mould slipped smoothly into the water.

With a skilled flick of his wrist, he stirred the water, leveled it, and lifted it out.

Swish-

With the crisp sound of water draining, the mould rose above the surface.

An even layer of pale fibers rested upon it like tofu.

Bartoš's eyes widened.

"T-This is...?"

"What do you think?"

He muttered in a daze.

"It's light. And... there isn't a single impurity."

Rag pulp had long fibers tangled in every direction, creating heavy resistance each time it was scooped. Papermakers had to strain their eyes picking out poorly ground scraps.

Perfectly chemically broken-down wood pulp was different. It was smooth and uniform, like skimming the film from milk.

As if possessed, Bartoš began making sheets.

One, two, ten...

His speed grew faster and faster, until the other craftsmen watching could only gape.

"Look at how fast he's making paper."

"Isn't that at least twice as fast as usual?"

Bartoš's work resembled a dance more than labor. With such excellent material, the worker hardly had to exert any strength.

Tomáš dried the wet sheets on the copper hot-plate dryer he had preheated.

Steam rose with a hiss, and soon the finished paper revealed itself.

I picked up a warm sheet.

A smooth surface.

A subtle sheen.

Above all, an even texture without a single blemish.

I took out a quill and handed it to Bartoš.

"Try writing on it."

He accepted the pen with trembling hands. Dipping it generously in ink, he carefully drew a line across the paper.

Scratch, scratch-

The nib glided without resistance.

The ink did not seep between the fibers and spread. It left a crisp, clean black line.

"It doesn't bleed... and the nib doesn't catch."

Bartoš pressed his nose to the paper and sniffed.

There was none of the terrible stench of rotting rags, nor the sickening odor of gelatin.

Only a faint scent of wood, strangely mingled with the sharp lingering scent of sulfur.

Bartoš slowly raised his head.

"This... is really made from wood? Without mixing in a single scrap of old clothing, only with those bits of firewood scattered through the forest...?"

His fingertips trembled.

His instincts as a craftsman, and his experience as a guild master, told him that this was a revolution.

No longer would they have to scour rubbish heaps for rags, suffer through washing foul-smelling cloth, or stay up all night boiling gelatin.

Wood was everywhere, so the cost of raw materials would be rock bottom, yet the quality far surpassed the finest paper he had made in his entire life.

There was no comparison.

"There is one reason I called you here."

I looked over the craftsmen.

"Once we begin producing paper with this new method, Prague's old workshops will have to close their doors at once. The age of gathering rags and crushing them to pulp ends today."

"...!"

The craftsmen went pale.

It was not a threat.

Only notice of a future that had already been decided.

I softened my voice as though consoling them.

"Do not be afraid. You are the people of Bohemia, and I am your king. That is why I intend to open a new path before you today."

"A new path?"

"I do not know how to make paper. Setting the water temperature, controlling the fiber concentration, making a flat sheet with a flick of the wrist, those are things only human skill can accomplish."

I could make white pulp chemically, but making paper was ultimately the work of skilled craftsmen.

"I have technology, materials, and capital. You have skills honed over a lifetime."

Smiling, I held out my hand.

"What do you say? Will you cover the world in this white paper with me? I promise you far better treatment than you received in Prague's cramped underground workshops."

The silence did not last long.

It had been an offer with no real alternative from the start.

Thud-

Bartoš was the first to kneel.

Holding the white paper to his chest like a sacred relic, he bowed deeply.

"Your Majesty, if the skills of this humble old man can be of any help to you... then please allow me to devote the rest of my life to making Your Majesty's paper."

As Bartoš knelt, the craftsmen behind him also prostrated themselves on the ground.

"We are overwhelmed by Your Majesty's grace!"

"We pledge our loyalty, Your Majesty!"

"My king, please take us in!"

Dozens of craftsmen bowed their heads before their king.

The factory yard had become a place where papermaking craftsmen swore their loyalty.

Watching the scene with satisfaction while wiping at their noses were Hanuš and Josef.

"Heh heh, I knew this would happen."

"It'll be perfect when we share a drink later."

The two craftsmen wore welcoming smiles, as though greeting the king's new production slaves... no, loyal workers.

* * *

After the seasons passed, summer arrived.