The technological path of the Kingdom of Cinders was anything but ordinary. Rather than fumbling forward step by step, it followed blueprints directly—for instance, they had immediately built piston-driven steam engines to keep their trains running smoothly.
Before departing, the players from the Machine Cult had left behind a vast trove of schematics and technical data from another world.
In return, once they returned to Elezerg, they would receive founding shares in the railway conglomerate and a cut of the revenue generated by steam locomotive transport.
All the kingdom's native researchers needed to do was follow the plans, combining the ingenious diagrams with Elezerg's magical reactions. It was, in essence, a magical Industrial Revolution—one that bypassed countless detours and dead ends, landing on the optimal choice every single time.
The successful test of the steam train was merely an insignificant fraction of Northwind Keep's achievements over the past few years. The transformation here was visible to all.
Chimneys sprouted one after another, casting a heavy pall of smog over the city.
With the steady rise of industry, Northwind Keep now boasted nearly fifty factories producing arms, food, and other goods, manned by nearly twenty thousand workers. Backed by vigorous state support, bizarre new inventions cropped up endlessly, and a few fortunate souls had even been elevated to the nobility on the merit of their creations.
No longer were beggars found starved to death in the gutters. The tiefling city garrison rounded them up without hesitation, dispatching them to whichever factories were short on hands. There, they were reduced to the lowest tier of sweatshop laborers, earning barely enough to keep themselves fed and warm.
For now, most of these factories had been established by the Kingdom of Cinders itself. Yet as profits surged, an increasing number of wealthy merchants and dragonblood nobles grew restless, eager to lap up some of the spoils and pour their wealth into this thriving enterprise. The kingdom, however, had not yet provided an official avenue for private investment.
Still, as this trend gathered momentum and the demands of industrial expansion grew, privatization was virtually inevitable. A few dragonblood nobles had already pulled strings to secure so-called "shares," and certain quick-witted merchants, thinking themselves clever, had even built private factories of their own.
Yet, utterly unable to compete with state-run operations, they had gone bankrupt.
Moreover, the goods turned out by these factories not only met domestic demand, but also reached the various nations of the Northlands through Hart's royal caravans. Daily necessities bearing the "Flame and Dragon Claw" crest—such as scarves and padded cotton coats—had already made their way across Anzeta. They had grown increasingly common in the daily lives of the Scanians, and had even become indispensable.
The Principality of Bosque went so far as to roll out propaganda slogans like "Resist the Evil Dragon's Temptations" and "Don't Let the Monster Steal Your Gold," imposing all manner of trade restrictions against the kingdom's goods.
Even so, they could not stem the common people's eagerness to buy, nor could they halt the Kingdom of Cinders' relentless wave of dumping. Bosque could exhaust every measure at its disposal, yet it could never wipe out the relentless swarm of smugglers. In commercial competition, after all, high quality and low prices were the sharpest blade of all.
If even the Principality of Bosque—with its powerful central authority and ironclad control over its domain—could not withstand the sugarcoated artillery of the Kingdom of Cinders, the remaining scattered principalities stood no chance at all. Combined, they were not even worth a single round of battle against the kingdom.
Across the foreign cities, historic workshops and small family-run manufactories collapsed into bankruptcy one after another. Urban residents lost their livelihoods in droves, many forced into the streets as beggars. Even the gold coins of the northern nobility were siphoned by the trunkload into the kingdom's pockets.
The dukes were utterly powerless to halt the outflow of gold and the collapse of their economies. Incapable of understanding the underlying forces at play, they simply allowed things to run their course.
A few families had even stepped forward to act as the kingdom's compradors, eagerly raising the sickle against their own countrymen to feast on the scraps of the market dumping.
***
"Lord George... Lord George?"
An anxious voice called out from behind.
George had been hailed several times without reacting. Only when the stranger called "Lord George" a third time did he suddenly realize that this "Lord" was meant for him.
"Ah, were you calling me?"
"What is it?"
He turned around with an honest, guileless smile, sheepishly scratching his head.
Going from a beast-like serf to a first-class citizen was a leap he still wasn't quite used to, even months after the investiture. Even so, the title filled him with quiet delight. He had never experienced such respect before, and the deep satisfaction it brought was something others could scarcely imagine.
The man was panting for breath, yet did not forget to bow respectfully. The man before him was, after all, a "first-class citizen," second only to the dragonblood nobility, while he was nothing more than an ordinary laborer—a gulf in status as wide as a chasm.
"Phew... phew..."
"Pardon the intrusion, my lord. I'm Jack, a worker from the plant."
"Viscount Datou has given orders. A batch of rush orders came down from above, and everyone is required to return to work... including you, my lord."
After finishing, Jack stole a cautious look at George's face. Finding no trace of anger on the gentleman's countenance, he finally let out a long breath of relief and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
"Understood. You may head back."
George gave a casual wave of his hand.
Seeing timid, deferential workers like Jack always reminded George of who he used to be.
He had not ended up fulfilling his old fantasy of opening a flower shop and finding a woman to marry. After mingling with figures of higher standing and having his horizons broadened, he had come to see that the factories held immense promise. They had the full backing of the kingdom's crown—provided, of course, that one was not an ordinary sweatshop laborer.
And so, utilizing the privileges of a first-class citizen, George had become a proud factory supervisor. His post was at the very plant where he had once worked, and he had even been assigned several dozen workers under his command.
"There's certainly been no shortage of work lately."
Unhurriedly returning to his spacious home, George donned a kingdom-issue grey suit, wrapped a brown scarf from Kenyaza City around his neck, took up a black gentleman's cane, and put on a neat hat.
Only then did he step out onto the street, radiant with dignity, and casually hail a carriage.
Envious glances drifted over from nearby. In the eyes of the ordinary townsfolk, he cut a thoroughly respectable figure.
George stepped into the carriage and gave a casual instruction:
"To Food Processing Plant No. 4."
"Right away, my lord. Hold on tight!"
The driver tipped his hat, then set the horses galloping down the street.
Thanks to careful urban planning, the streets of Northwind Keep were broad enough to accommodate four carriages abreast. Dedicated tracks were even laid for four-wheeled carriages used by the wealthy—though rumor had it these would one day be converted into public tracks for steam locomotives, no one could say for sure.
Accompanied by the grinding screech of iron rims on rails, the carriage soon arrived at its destination: Food Processing Plant No. 4.
Assisted by the driver, George stepped down deliberately, taking in once more the factory that felt both familiar and alien.
Once, he had been nothing more than a laborer trampled into the dust. Now, his status and standing were entirely transformed. He was a proud first-class citizen, with one foot firmly planted in the upper crust of society.
Chapter 279