Wearing a noble's costume, Chris sat cross-legged on the floor, utterly disregarding his dignity. Before him lay scattered iron parts, and with steady hands he began piecing together the world's first manual machine tool.
The blueprint existed vividly in his mind. His movements were brisk, precise—three times faster than even the most skilled veteran craftsman.
Gasps echoed around the workshop as part after part slid into place. While working, Chris explained each step aloud, teaching as he assembled. Before long, a strange contraption of gears, wood, and iron stood complete—a machine unlike anything these people had ever seen.
It looked deceptively simple, operating on the same principle as a sewing machine. But when Chris demonstrated it, the impossible became real.
"Step on this pedal," he instructed, his voice calm, "and you generate a balanced rotation. With that, you can polish wood—ten, even a hundred times faster than by hand."
He pressed the pedal, and the machine whirred to life with a rhythmic clack-clack. A block of wood spun smoothly, and within moments a perfectly cylindrical stick emerged, evenly polished along its length.
The room erupted in cries of disbelief.
"Try it yourself," Chris beckoned. An apprentice stepped forward nervously, set the wood in place, and pressed down. The machine hummed, shavings flew, and in less than a minute, a gourd-shaped spindle appeared.
"This… this is a miracle!" an old craftsman whispered, eyes wide. His gnarled hands reached out to touch the newly carved piece, as if it might vanish like an illusion.
Chris only smiled, tapping his temple. "Not a miracle. Just the will of God."
He continued assembling a second device, tossing aside a flawed gear without hesitation. Handmade parts often carried defects, but to Chris, the fact that most fit together at all was a victory. Soon a second machine tool joined the first, and apprentices were set to work under his supervision.
Stool legs, chair arms, table supports—smooth, identical, and flawless—began to pile up. What once took weeks could now be done in a single afternoon.
Yet not everyone was delighted.
"Such chairs will flood the market," an elderly carpenter muttered, frowning at three identical chairs lined up before him. "They'll soon lose their worth."
"They lack a soul," another agreed. "Craftsmanship is art. Repetition destroys beauty."
Chris chuckled, brushing the sawdust from his hands. He slapped the back of a chair, sturdy and neat. "Nonsense. These aren't for nobles. These are for the people. Tell me, how many peasants can afford your twenty-silver-coin masterpieces? But these—" he gestured at the row of identical chairs—"these I can sell for one silver coin each. Guess who makes more?"
The masters fell silent, shaken.
To Chris, this was not blasphemy—it was opportunity. What mattered was not the soul of the wood, but the weight of the coin it brought. Industry was cruel, efficient, and above all, profitable.
By the time dinner arrived, five identical chairs stood completed. The apprentices' faces glowed with pride.
At the feast, Strider's eyes shone as he calculated aloud: "If one set of chairs and tables sells for five silver coins, we could earn a gold coin a day. That's three hundred in a year!"
Deans, equally excited, added, "If we expand production, double the output, we can pay the increased taxes with ease."
Chris, however, raised a hand, pouring cold water over their excitement. "No. Prices will fall. Flood the market, and chairs worth five silver coins today will sell for three tomorrow. That's the law of trade."
The others quieted, but Chris's eyes gleamed with ambition. "Furniture is not the true fortune. Machines are. A chair might earn us silver, but a machine can earn us gold. Sell these woodworking machines—fifteen gold coins apiece—and soon, every workshop will be forced to buy from us."
Strider and Deans stared in disbelief.
"This… this is magic," Deans whispered.
"No," Chris replied with a grin. "This is business."
The calculation was staggering. Thousands of gold coins in profit each year—a fortune large enough to rival barons and earls.
Excitement rippled across the table. Strider nearly leapt to his feet. "Then Serris will never need to raise tolls again!"
"Exactly. In fact," Chris leaned forward, raising his cup, "we'll lower them. We'll build roads, invite merchants, flood the markets with our goods. Serris will become the center of trade."
Wagron straightened at once. "I will deploy five hundred guards for road repairs tomorrow."
Chris nodded in approval, then raised his wine. "Gentlemen, wealth is coming. Think not only of how to earn it, but how to spend it. For money poorly guarded is as good as money stolen."
The three men laughed, but Chris's eyes turned cold. He leaned in, his tone sharper: "Don't be fooled. This is only the prelude to war. Riches invite envy. Once Serris prospers, other lords will come for us. And when they do, we must be ready."
The table fell silent. Strider swallowed. Wagron's knuckles whitened around his cup.
Chris finished his wine, his voice resolute. "So while the craftsmen expand the workshops, we prepare the army. Roads, factories, artillery—everything must be ready. The age of industry begins here, but survival… survival still depends on strength."