Chapter 38 38: a strange day

------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. ------------------------------- Jahrdrung-31th,2488 IC Being a military officer, a governor, and a chemist can easily burn out even the most mentally stable person, especially when your entire day is consumed by training soldiers, inspecting construction, supervising labor, and, at the end of it all, producing pigment. But finally, everything was blooming as it should. Otto had temporarily hired three hundred peasants for construction work—mostly foreigners, as they seemed far more motivated, knowing they'd eventually be building their own homes rather than living in tents exposed to the elements. And the progress was already visible. The first sewer tunnels had been dug, and the first houses were starting to rise. Much of what had been mined in the quarry shifted to stone that had to be chiseled before being transported back, but that would now serve as a foundation along with extra bricks and timber supplied by the loggers. Naturally, Otto didn't forget to send me the bill for the houses: about fifty crowns each, since all the materials were provided by my own workers. As for my armed forces, we had already begun the most basic training now that the camp was fully established. Dozens of trees had been cut down, every long and stubborn root pulled from the earth, and each stone that might hinder carts, soldiers, or tents had been removed, leaving a perfectly flat field where threats could be seen from kilometers away. We quickly used the timber, ropes, hammers, nails, and planks to erect palisades and build watchtowers, manned by my most veteran guards to keep the recruits from being distracted by common camp duties and allow us to focus entirely on training. Because, as it stood, they were nothing more than numbers—numbers that would break in a real battle,especially with the letter sent to the margrave We started with long-distance runs through nearby hills, the goal being to maintain a steady pace for extended stretches, building endurance. The poor physical condition of most men was obvious. While they had the strength for hard labor over long hours, sustained cardio was something else entirely. Only I could keep pace the first few days, jogging ahead while the others fell behind, and I stayed back to encourage the exhausted. After that came the real burn: leg-focused training. Squats with lunges—key to building thigh endurance, essential for holding a pike with knees bent most of the time. Then abdominal work, followed by push-ups, ending with a simple lift: a metal bar connected to buckets filled with water, hoisted to the groin. This daily routine nearly broke them. The day after that first full session, I found every one of them sore to the point of immobility. But I still made them run, relying more on provocation than orders—mocking them with my age, pointing out that a boy could do it and they couldn't. It stung their pride, especially because I wore a chainmail shirt twenty kilos heavier. Most started running just to prove me wrong; the rest followed to avoid punishment. Each day, I alternated physical training with drills. Though pikemen rely far more on discipline and coordination to keep their formation tight under any charge, they also needed hand-to-hand training in case the formation collapsed under a brutal assault or constant pressure. So I paired them up and made them spar with heavy wooden swords. The goal was simple: get them used to holding weight in their arms—for the pike, and in the worst case, for swinging a blade like something more than a child with a stick. To finish each day, we held formation drills. This wasn't about strength but about obeying instantly. We implemented a series of clear audio signals that had to be recognized without hesitation. There was no room for doubt or thinking. If the signal meant turn, they turned. If it meant march, they marched. If it meant lower pikes, they lowered them. And if it meant form a defensive line... they damn well better know how to do it. We practiced marching with pikes raised. Shifting instantly to combat stance. Turning in unison ninety degrees. Reorganizing into squads. And the hardest maneuver: forming a circle, back to back, pikes leveled outward in all directions. That maneuver exposed every flaw. Many couldn't move in sync. Some stepped back instead of forward. Others turned the wrong way. More than a few got disoriented, lost their footing, or got trapped between comrades. Some even dropped their pikes from strain. I made note of every one. After two weeks of hard training, I gave them a day off. They'd shown noticeable improvement, learning to work together. They weren't soldiers yet, but they were beginning to move like a unit. I used that free day to check on a problem that was becoming increasingly apparent, especially now that the harvest heavy work was approaching. The lack of hands in the fields. With most of the able-bodied men either in my army or working for me directly, the total absentee rate had already reached around forty percent of the male labor force. That left the fields in the hands of children and their mothers, doing what they could with tools of questionable quality—many of them worn or makeshift. As I rode past the half-empty fields the families were trying to maintain, it became painfully clear: the harvest would be poor even before the seeds were planted. And the worst part? There wasn't much I could do about it. Immigrants arriving each week were welcomed with promises of land ownership, which meant that, once settled, they preferred to work their own plots rather than lend a hand in someone else's. Expropriating the land and making myself sole owner of every parcel could be a solution—centralize production under my command, impose order, and pay a fixed wage to every peasant while applying some modern techniques and tools I could provide. It might work. But it would be extremely expensive. And the most dangerous part: the risk of revolt would skyrocket. No one likes having their land taken away. No one. People can forgive the murder of a father... sooner than the theft of their property. "In a way, their land is also part of my income... and if they starve, I'll have to spend my own money feeding them. Taxes would drop, I'd lose the mill's revenue, and even if crop income is a minor percentage—not even double digits of my total earnings—it still affects food stability." So I decided to reach into my pocket before hunger hit, instead of digging much deeper later, when merchants would try to sell everything to me at outrageous prices. I have more horses than any other noble in the region. Perhaps only the Emperor surpasses me, as I'm the only Reikland noble raising horses on a large scale—aside from the royal stables in Altdorf. But not all horses are fit for sale: some are too skittish, or simply refuse to be ridden. Many end up sold as mere draft animals. Still, I had enough to loan to the peasants, so they could replace some of the lost labor by using horses with plows... though I'd also need the plows. And probably provide a few tools. As my merchant from Marienburg wisely said, hoes always sell well, because peasants can save up for weeks or months just to get a better one that makes the brutal work in the fields a bit more bearable. With the plan in mind, I decided to visit the Temple of Shallya. This kind of altruism, at the very least, deserved some political recognition. Riding through the half-empty fields, I soon reached the temple. Upon entering, I saw the usual scene: priests cleaning and bandaging wounds, tending to those too injured to move, performing their duties with their trademark compassion. Upon seeing me, many approached to thank me for everything I was doing for the people. "Ugh... why is there a metallic smell in the air? Tin? That could be toxic," I said, uncomfortable with the strong metallic scent I was picking up. "I'm not sure what you mean, young lord... the temple has been cleaned and purified," one of the priests replied. "Right... must be my imagination..." I muttered, though the metallic smell still clung to the air. The high priestess of the local cult came to greet me, and we went to speak in her office. "Welcome, good sir. How may a humble servant of the White Lady assist a young man so devoted to the care of his people?" she said with a broad smile. "I come once more to seek your cult's help. Obviously, by prioritizing my duties to Deus Sigmar, I've taken many of the laborers from the fields... and clearly I worry this could cause a famine. That's why I've come to ask if the Temple of Shallya could serve as my intermediary in temporarily distributing horses, plows, and agricultural tools. I know I should ask the temple of Taal and Rhya, but there's only one priest, and I don't want to overwhelm him," I said with a smile, ignoring the heavy metallic scent in the room. Her face lit up even more than usual. "Of course, my good lord... we'd be delighted to take on this task. I'm always heartened that you find compassion in your heart and time to think of your people. If only half the nobles were like you... we'd live in a much better world," said the priestess, genuinely pleased. "It is my duty to protect the lands that the Emperor—" I began, but suddenly felt a strong metallic taste in my mouth, as if I had a coin there, yet couldn't find it with my tongue. "What's wrong, my lord? Is something the matter?" asked the priestess, concerned. "For some reason I'm tasting metal... could I have a wound in my mouth?" I asked, moving my tongue, searching for that coin-like presence stuck to my palate. She asked me to open my mouth and examined it closely. "I see nothing strange, my lord... no visible wounds, and your teeth are perfect. Did you eat something odd? A root or a mushroom, perhaps?" she asked, worried. "No... nothing like that... I suppose it must be the food. Maybe some prankster dropped a coin into the soup and I'm just now tasting the aftertaste," I said, trying to reassure myself... though the sensation didn't fade. "Let's put the matter aside... I'll have some horses brought and order some plows from the smiths. I also have some tools ready, since I was handing them out to the migrants, but I trust you'll deliver them to those most in need," I added with a forced smile, hiding my discomfort. "Of course," the priestess said, giving a polite nod. The conversation concluded, I rose and took my leave. Unfortunately, even after leaving the temple, that damned metallic smell still clung to everything. And slowly, I began to realize where the scent was really coming from. I returned to my castle, overwhelmed by the sensation... but it probably wasn't the best idea. The overwhelming metallic stench of weapons, armor, locks, buckles, hinges—every piece of ironwork—smothered my senses. It was as if the very air carried a strange metallic resonance. When I finally reached my chambers, I took off my gloves, intending to rest a bit. But just as I reached for the door, the metal lock began to melt and mold around my hand. "What the hell is happening...?" I muttered, watching the bronze deform beneath my touch. ------------------------- If there are spelling mistakes, please let me know. Leave a comment; support is always appreciated. I remind you to leave your ideas or what you would like to see. -------------------------------