"It's so beautiful…"
Inside the grand hall of Mayne City's Lord's Mansion, City Lord Ensel rubbed his hands greedily as his eyes lingered on the ten identical chairs before him.
"You're certain these were crafted by that boy from the Ailan Hill family in Serris?" he asked, stroking the glossy paint surface with the tenderness of a man caressing treasure. His voice dripped with desire.
"Yes, my lord," the merchant replied with a deep bow. "I paid twenty silver coins for each chair. They are indeed from Serris—I confirmed it many times."
The mention of Serris made Ensel's eyes gleam. The woodworking techniques of that small city far surpassed anything in Mayne. If he could seize such craftsmanship for himself, his wealth and power would soar.
"And these fabrics…" Ensel's gaze shifted, falling upon the piles of cloth laid out like rainbows. He reached out, letting his fingers slide across the silk-smooth surface. For a moment, his face slackened in bliss, as if he were caressing a lover's bare skin. The sensation was intoxicating.
When he finally pulled himself out of his fantasy, the greedy lord straightened his posture, putting on the airs of superiority.
"Very good… very good," Ensel muttered, his eyes narrowing as he turned to his generals. "Tell me, if we march on Serris… what are our chances of victory?"
The room grew still. Everyone understood what their lord was hinting at. The leading general thought for a moment before replying carefully:
"My lord, I'd say we have a seventy percent chance of winning. Serris's soldiers are indeed elite, and their weapons and armor—made from their famed black iron—are of high quality. But their forces must defend four directions, while we only guard two. Their strength will be divided… that is our advantage."
He leaned forward, voice gaining confidence. "If we gather our troops quickly and launch a sudden assault, Serris will be caught unprepared and suffer heavy losses. Once they retreat to Serris Castle, the lords on other fronts will surely seize the opportunity to strike as well."
Ensel's eyes brightened. Yes—if he shared the spoils with neighboring lords, the Arante Empire would likely turn a blind eye. And with enough tribute, not only would the empire suffer no loss, but his own standing might even rise.
A thousand gold coins from Serris, plus a little extra in bribes, and his position would be secure. The thought alone made his blood rush.
"Gather the soldiers!" Ensel declared, his voice sharp. "Arm the peasants if you must! I will lead the army to bring Serris to its knees!"
"My lord is wise!" one of his confidants chimed in with a sinister grin. "Such craftsmanship should belong to Mayne!"
Ensel smirked, already plotting. "Send word to Lord Greer of Ferry City. Tell him to lend us five hundred soldiers. If Serris falls, he shall have half the spoils."
The room filled with murmurs of agreement. Greed bound them all.
---
Meanwhile, in Serris…
Chris stood upon a high platform overlooking a line of gleaming artillery. His heart swelled with pride.
After days of relentless work, he had finally perfected his design. The crude prototypes were gone. In their place stood twenty advanced howitzers—90mm caliber, with a range of seven kilometers, capable of rapid reloads.
Forged with a revolutionary steel alloy mixed with spangle iron, rifled barrels, and even hydraulic recoil systems, these weapons were decades ahead of their time. In this world, they were nothing short of monstrous.
Each cannon was manned by a crew of ten, with additional reserves learning the craft. Around them, hundreds of recruits drilled tirelessly, sweat pouring as they practiced loading and aiming.
Chris smiled faintly. Compared to the 1880s cannons he remembered, these were already close to World War I standards. Yet he knew the truth—Serris still lacked the industrial base to sustain a prolonged war. For now, every cannonball was precious, every barrel irreplaceable.
Still, he had something no one else in this world possessed—knowledge. That alone was enough to tip the balance.
"Range forty! Load complete!" a commander's shout carried from the field as a gun crew slammed another shell into place.
Chris's trusted aide, Wagron, hurried up the platform. "My lord, the transport carriages are ready. Each cannon can now move at cavalry speed. The army has wheels."
Chris nodded. With one hundred carriages prepared, his forces could strike swiftly in any direction. A mobile army—something unheard of in this era.
"Good. No matter where trouble arises, we can move five hundred cavalry and five hundred infantry immediately," Chris said with satisfaction. After twenty days of sleepless work, he finally felt prepared.
But Wagron's next words darkened his expression. "There's troubling news from the north. The barbarians in Tubao seem to be watching us."
Chris's brows furrowed. Wealth always attracted wolves. Serris's prosperity was already too bright a flame in the dark.
"Increase the northern garrison to three hundred. We must not show weakness," Chris ordered firmly.
"Yes, my lord!" Wagron saluted.
He hesitated before adding, "The empire's tax envoy also came today. Desaier paid our tribute as promised, but…" His expression soured. "They demanded the most expensive purple cloth. A whole wagon's worth."
Chris only laughed. "It's a cheap price for peace. As long as the empire doesn't pressure us, it's worth it."
What he lacked was not money, but time—time to grow, time to prepare.
Finally, Wagron remembered something else. "The blacksmiths have completed the parts you requested. The steam engine can now be assembled."
Chris's eyes lit up. "Excellent! Keep the artillery drilling—we must not waste a single day! Time is our greatest enemy."
With that, he leapt from the platform and strode toward the workshop, excitement burning in his chest. For every greedy lord plotting against him, he had an answer waiting in steel and fire.
The storm was coming—and Serris would be ready.