While soldiers drilled endlessly on the parade grounds—marching, running, and firing rifles—another part of Gavin Ward's grand design quietly came to life.
The newly built state-owned garment factory in Lowes City had begun to recruit workers. Gavin himself had overseen its planning, even sketching the first designs for the uniforms.
His requirement was simple: the uniforms must look good.
For Gavin, appearance was not vanity—it was strategy. He knew from his past life that the reason German armies in the Second World War inspired such awe, even decades later, was not only their ferocity, but their uniforms. Sleek, sharp, intimidating—the image of discipline and power.
"Strength can be fleeting," Gavin had once said. "But dignity, pride, and appearance—they inspire forever."
And so he had designed his army's dress: a deep black uniform, dark red moiré patterns embroidered along the cuffs and collar, tall leather boots, and an armed belt for ammunition.
But that was not all. Gavin understood this world was not like the one he remembered. In his soldiers' hands were rifles—far beyond anything their enemies could imagine. But those enemies still fought with swords, spears, bows, and arrows. Against such weapons, armor could still save lives.
So Gavin commissioned a new type of breastplate. Not the heavy, clumsy suits of iron from centuries past, but light semi-breastplates—easy to wear, protective, and mobile. These plates shielded the vital organs without weighing soldiers down.
On their heads, the soldiers wore the M42 steel helmet Gavin remembered, paired with iron face masks to guard against arrows.
Thus the new image of the Rossian army was born:
Black uniform lined with red trim.
Long black boots polished to a gleam.
A semi-breastplate stamped with the red sigil of Ross.
A steel helmet, iron mask, and the Mauser 98k rifle resting on their shoulders.
They looked both handsome and terrifying. When the people of Ross first saw this sight, they whispered in awe: Our King has forged demons in black steel.
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Old York's Struggles
Far away from the parade grounds, in a cramped rented room in Ross City, an old tailor sat hunched over torn clothing.
His name was York, once a master tailor from the town of Kex. His hands had sewn fine garments, and his shop had been prosperous. But when the Nord Kingdom's armies invaded, Kex had fallen. His shop was looted, his home destroyed. Like countless others, he had fled with only the clothes on his back.
Now in Ross, York scraped by repairing clothing. Every coin he earned vanished into food and the landlord's pocket. Sometimes he and his companions went to bed hungry.
Life had brightened a little when Gavin Ward abolished taxes for one year. York had wept when he heard the decree. For the poor, it was like being lifted from the bottom of a pit. But even without taxes, his life was meager. He mended shirts for a copper here, patched trousers for a copper there. There was no shop, no steady work, no future.
"Perhaps we should return to Kex," one of his friends sighed as they huddled in the small rented room. "I heard it was reclaimed."
"Return to Kex?" York shook his head bitterly. "What is there left to return to? The Nord army destroyed it once. Who says they won't return? At least here we have walls around us."
The room fell into silence.
Just then, the door burst open. A neighbor, a middle-aged man, ran in, breathless and grinning. "Good news!"
York frowned. "Better than tax exemption? I doubt it."
The man beamed. "His Majesty has opened a textile factory! They're hiring workers—lots of them! Three silver coins a month, and food and housing are included!"
The room exploded in noise.
"Three silver coins? That's more than we've seen in months!"
"And food as well?"
"Is it true?"
"Of course it's true," the man insisted. "Half the city is running there already!"
York's heart thudded. At last, a chance. "Then what are we waiting for? Let's go!"
---
The Textile Factory
The crowd surged toward the new factory. Its tall brick walls loomed over the street, smoke already rising from the chimneys. Workers streamed in and out, their chatter alive with excitement.
York pushed his way inside with his companions. He expected trials, tests, demonstrations of skill. Surely they would demand proof of his tailoring expertise.
But to his shock, the recruiter merely wrote down his name, handed him a badge, and said, "You're hired. Take this to collect your daily necessities."
York blinked. "That's it? Don't you want to see my sewing skills?"
The man barely looked up. "Not necessary. Hands and feet are enough."
York's jaw fell open. He had spent forty years perfecting his craft, and now they told him any man with hands could do this job? His pride bristled. Weaving and sewing are arts! A trade! They cannot be learned in a day.
He swore silently: he would prove his worth once he saw the machines.
But first came the necessities. York followed a line of workers to a storeroom, where he received a bundle: a toothbrush, toothpaste, a steel water cup, a stainless-steel bowl, bedding, and soap.
His companions gaped. "This bowl alone is worth a silver coin!"
"And this toothbrush—only nobles owned such things!"
"The King demands cleanliness," the clerk explained briskly. "Workers must bathe every three days. Hygiene is mandatory."
York nearly dropped the soap in disbelief. Bathing every three days? In his entire life, he had bathed maybe once a year. Now such things were expected, enforced, and free.
"His Majesty…" he murmured. "What kind of man is he, to grant peasants the life of nobles?"
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The Looms of the Future
Finally, York and the others were led into the heart of the factory.
"This," the foreman said proudly, "is the textile machine."
York leaned forward, skeptical. He expected crude looms, the kind he had worked all his life. But before his eyes stood a gleaming contraption of gears, pulleys, and wheels.
The foreman fed thread into the machine. Within moments, a bolt of cloth slid out, perfectly woven.
York's jaw fell open. "So fast… impossible…"
He had spent days weaving a single sheet of fine cloth. This machine produced it in minutes. To him, it was as if the gods themselves had forged it.
"His Majesty gave us this gift," the foreman said. His voice trembled with reverence. "Only under King Gavin Ward can we use such wonders. You'll learn to operate it in an afternoon. Tomorrow, you begin work."
York's pride, which had swelled moments earlier, deflated. He could not deny it—the machine was superior to his hands. But awe soon replaced his bitterness. Our King has given us tools of the future.
The workers around him whispered, their voices full of admiration.
"His Majesty is amazing."
"We are so lucky to live under such a king."
York nodded slowly, his eyes wet. For the first time in years, he felt not despair, but hope. His family would eat. He would live with dignity again.
And in his heart, he thought what every worker was beginning to believe: How fortunate we are to have His Majesty the King at the helm.
---
⚔️ Important Events in This Chapter ⚔️
Gavin Ward designs new army uniforms: black with red trim, helmets, masks, and breastplates—both handsome and intimidating.
State-owned garment factory opens, hiring commoners with high wages and free food/housing.
Old York the tailor and his companions find work, shocked by the benefits and modern necessities (toothbrushes, baths, steel bowls).
Recruits discover advanced looms, far beyond anything they've known, gifts from the King.
Workers develop deep admiration for Gavin Ward, believing him almost divine in wisdom.
The "personality cult" spreads further, from army to citizens.
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