Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 375 The Whirlpool (Part Two)

The hall of White Eagle gradually filled with guests.

Most of the attendees were renowned workshop owners from Steel Fortress, and many of the men still had burn scars from molten iron on their hands.

Of course, there were also some fair-skinned, pampered "gentlemen".

Although they differ in age, temperament, and manner of speaking, the guests live in the same society and share the same identity: masters of the forge.

Winters' alumnus—a mysterious middle-aged man missing two fingers—seemed to be highly respected by the forge owners. Wherever he went, people would stop talking, nod, or raise a glass in greeting.

The middle-aged man swaggered across the hall and headed straight for the long table at the other end of the hall, with Winters calmly following behind.

Kaman, who was drinking alone at the long table, inadvertently caught sight of Winters walking towards him with an unfamiliar face. He put down his glass and slowly stood up.

The spellcaster and the priest locked eyes across the crowd, and Kaman asked with his eyes, "Need help?"

Winters subtly tilted his head towards Anna—"Don't worry about me, protect Anna."

Kaman nodded slightly and walked toward the side hall where the ladies were gathered.

The middle-aged man casually picked up a bottle of wine from the long table and turned to walk towards the small group of people talking nearby.

A dozen or so guests were gathered around the long table. They were all quite old, most of them with gray hair and beards, and bald heads. These people were well past the age of fawning over ladies, and unwilling to lower themselves to associate with younger people, so they naturally formed a small circle.

Upon seeing the middle-aged man approach, the burly elderly man at the head of the group nodded and greeted him: "Colonel."

“Mr. Schmidt,” the middle-aged man replied politely.

As they were talking, the middle-aged man stepped into the chat circle.

Winters followed the former, remaining on the outer edge of the invisible circle, maintaining a proper distance.

The other guests naturally assumed Winters was the "Colonel's" adjutant, so they didn't find anything strange about it.

"Want some?" The middle-aged man pulled the cork off the bottle with his bare hands and asked the burly old man with a smile.

The burly old man protected the wine glass: "Distilled spirits? You want to kill me?"

"Distilled? I didn't see a label." The middle-aged man poured himself half a glass of clear liquid, then casually handed the bottle and cork to Winters: "Who cares! As long as it's liquor."

The two spoke in a relaxed and friendly tone, suggesting a close relationship.

Winters silently observed the burly old man—to put it bluntly, when he first saw him, Winters thought someone was playing a prank, stuffing a bear into a human's clothes.

"A bear in a tight-fitting suit"—that's the most accurate description of the burly old man.

His sideburns were as thick as weeds on a riverbank in the height of summer, and his dark skin looked as if he had just crawled out of a charcoal kiln.

Every button from chest to stomach was taut, clearly bearing immense strain. The coat, made of enough material to make two garments for Winters, looked somewhat restrictive on the burly old man.

Even though middle-aged weight gain and muscle atrophy have made the once robust old man no longer strong, one can still imagine the tremendous noise he must have made when he swung his hammer in his youth.

The other elderly men around must have been blacksmiths in their younger days—not the blacksmiths of today who wear the name but are actually merchants and employers; but the real blacksmiths who worked hard and sweated profusely by the forge and anvil.

The dangerous and arduous careers have left their mark on them to varying degrees: swollen knees, deformed joints, ugly scars... these are all considered lucky.

The old man next to the burly old man had only one joint on the four fingers of his left hand, excluding his thumb. Two more people passed by; another short, stocky old man had his right eye covered by an eye patch, suggesting he had likely been in an accident.

Winters observed and remembered everything, silently gathering intelligence.

Winters was not at all surprised that the colonel and the old blacksmiths in front of him got along well.

"Why did you stop talking, gentlemen?" The middle-aged man sniffed his wine glass. "Did I spoil your fun?"

The old blacksmiths exchanged glances, and Schmid—the burly old man at the head—said in a gruff voice, "What's the use of us old guys complaining if the mayor doesn't show up?"

Schmid emphasized the word "Mayor" with particular emphasis, his dissatisfaction evident in his words.

“That Paul Wupper kid needs a straight answer today!” The short, stocky, one-eyed old blacksmith’s temper flared up instantly: “Even a nail can leave a dent in wood. If he dares to keep hiding anything, he can forget about getting this job from me, [angry Monta swears]!”

"And what is your opinion on the trade ban?" another old blacksmith asked politely, his voice hoarse. "Colonel Bern?"

Winters blinked; he finally learned the name of his senior.

Colonel Bern took a sip of distilled spirits and waved his hands repeatedly: "Please don't get me into trouble. The trade embargo is a matter between your Solingen state government and the Grand Council, it has nothing to do with the military, why should I express my opinion?"

"Back when the emperor was alive, the legions were still under the jurisdiction of the prefectures. Your troops are stationed in Solingen, and you are also a part of Solingen, so of course you can express your opinion."

Colonel Bern shook his head with a wry smile, refusing to say anything more.

The short, stocky, one-eyed blacksmith couldn't contain his anger any longer. He shouted, "Colonel, you know best yourself. Your soldiers' food, drink, shelter, and even their salaries—all of it comes from Steel Fortress! Over the years, we haven't shortchanged you a single grain of wheat or a single coin, have we? Now that Steel Fortress is being targeted, you have to speak up for us!" "Enough!" the burly old man Schmid roared. "Isn't it shameful enough already?"

The one-eyed old blacksmith snorted angrily, but said nothing more.

“I’m sorry, Colonel.” Old man Schmid bowed slightly. “We are not blaming you.”

Colonel Bern waved his hand, indicating it was alright. After taking a few sips of his drink, he changed the subject: "I missed some training last winter, and I'd like to make it up before spring."

Winters perked up his ears upon hearing this—he had heard back in military school that the Monta people would organize military training during the winter off-season, and that the mountain people's disciplined fighting style was the ancestor of today's Allied infantry tactics.

However, the above memories mainly come from the boasts of classmates from Montreal; the war history textbook only briefly mentions the relevant content and does not discuss it in detail.

Therefore, Winters immediately became extremely attentive when Colonel Bern mentioned winter training.

Old man Schmid touched his forehead, as if a brown bear were scratching itself, and thought back, "Last winter... after the lakes and rivers froze over last year, everyone was busy with work and really couldn't take care of winter training. If we make up for it now... Colonel, the ice will be thawing soon."

"I know."

“People in the city are fine, since everyone’s idle anyway.” Old man Schmid’s voice was rough and deep, yet very kind. “What about people outside the city? As soon as the weather warms up, they’ll have to start farming, and they’ll be very busy.”

Colonel Bern was prepared: "For this supplementary training, I will not call up 'outsiders'. To be honest, I don't want to call up 'city dwellers' either."

Old man Schmid frowned and asked, "If you don't conscript people from the city, and you don't conscript people from outside the city, then who else can you conscript?"

"Whom to conscript?" Colonel Bern paused, then smiled and said, "Whoever is hungry."

After saying that, the colonel finished the rest of the distilled liquor in his glass in one gulp. Although Winters felt that drinking like this was bad for his health, he still reluctantly handed over the bottle.

Before the other old blacksmiths could react, the old man who had been pressing the colonel about his attitude had figured it out. He asked in a hoarse voice, "You want to recruit... mule drivers?"

Upon hearing this, the other old blacksmiths couldn't help but frown.

Mule pullers were the poorest of the poor in Steelburg. The vast majority of them were not from Steelburg, but had migrated from other towns or even out of state. They could not apprentice and could only do manual labor, working like mules in the mines, hence the contemptuous name "mule pullers."

Winters also realized that the mule drivers the blacksmiths were talking about were the men on the street shivering in the cold wind, waiting for their employers.

"The mule drivers aren't from Steelburg, many aren't even from Solingen." The one-eyed blacksmith glared. "Winter training includes food and drink, why are they being given bread for free?"

“Traditionally, out-of-state workers are not recruited for winter training,” the hoarse old man slowly added. “By law, winter training is a state affair, and out-of-state workers cannot be recruited.”

“I know, I know everything.” Colonel Bern said calmly, unmoved by the objections. “But I also know one thing—people need to eat. If they don’t have food, they have to find a way to get it, or they will starve. All the laborers in Steel Castle are currently unemployed, and if left unattended, something terrible will happen sooner or later. Since you refuse to provide relief, then I will have to do it. Gentlemen, listen carefully, I am helping you… you just haven’t realized it yet.”

The colonel glanced around at the crowd with a hint of threat, and none of the blacksmiths dared to meet his gaze.

Besides Schmid, the burly old blacksmith laughed heartily, easing the tense atmosphere: "The executive committee has discussed your proposal, Colonel. However, with the election approaching, the executive committee has lost its authority. In the end, you still have to find a way to persuade the next executive committee members, and... the next mayor."

"Yes," Colonel Bern shrugged and sighed, "Otherwise, why would I be here to join in the fun?"

Old man Schmid patted the colonel on the shoulder forcefully, but the colonel shook his head and said nothing more.

"How did it come to this?" The old man with a hoarse voice sighed deeply. "When we were young, those were such good times! As soon as the lakes and rivers froze, we would work like crazy, working all winter long. When it warmed up and the lakes and rivers thawed, boats of all sizes would carry our goods to Palatine, to the United Provinces, to Veneta. Alas, how did it come to this?"

As he spoke, the old man's eyes welled up with tears, and he couldn't help but sigh again.

The one-eyed old blacksmith muttered a complaint: "Back when the emperor was still alive, although soldiers were conscripted every year, at least the legions were under the jurisdiction of the respective states. With military power, no one dared to mistreat us. Now? The legions have all been taken over by the Federation, and they've turned their backs on us. We're left with nothing! Anyone can take advantage of us! [Violent mountain folk swearing]!"

Winters listened silently. If memory were a notebook, then he had just furiously scribbled down two lines:
"Old blacksmith Schmid is a member of the executive committee";
"The conflict between Solingen and the Monta Federation is more acute than expected, and there may be hostility not only in Solingen."

Winters sensed an opportunity, but for some reason, he felt almost no joy, but rather a bit frustrated.

Witnessing the "great legacy" decay into something that displeases more and more people, and being unable to change anything, any idealist will probably eventually become like Colonel Bern, drinking alcohol like water.

"What will my legacy be? What will it become?" Winters couldn't help but ask himself.

Winters even began to wonder: "Does an ideal state really exist? Does a perfect system really exist? Or is the pursuit of a perfect system itself a mistake?"

Several crisp sounds interrupted Winters' thoughts, and the others' attention was also drawn to the knocking.

After drawing everyone's attention to himself, White Eagle put down his wine glass and spoon and walked gracefully to the center of the hall.

"Gentlemen and ladies," White Eagle said with a dashing yet exaggerated bow, announcing in his distinctive magnetic voice, "please allow me to introduce our most distinguished guest today, the respectable public servant of Steel Fortress, the loyal husband and honest blacksmith, my dearest friend—Mayor Paul Wooper."

Scattered applause suddenly broke out from somewhere. The applause quickly grew louder, and the atmosphere reached its peak.

Winters didn't see the "mayor," but only a well-dressed, stiff-faced, bloated middle-aged man who forced a smile as he walked into the hall.

[Here we go!]
[Many words, such as "Executive Committee," sound rather awkward—I felt the same way when I wrote it myself.]
[Because catchy words are actually quite common (facepalm), they can easily be mistaken for something else. So in this story, we'll use less common terms like "resolution committee," "executive committee," and "deliberation council" instead of the usual names of governing bodies. Please forgive us.]
[Some Chinese words originally had the same foreign equivalent, such as the Senate and the House of Representatives...]
[Thank you to all the readers for your collections, reading, subscriptions, recommendations, monthly tickets, rewards, and comments. Thank you everyone!]
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(End of this chapter)