Chapter 430: The Blueprint
Richard stood still near the back wall, ignoring the discussions happening around the map table.
Domnall the Scot, Eadberht, and Wulfhere were already planning the marching routes to bury Lothair’s vanguard by the river.
But Richard’s scholarly brain wasn’t focused on the Frankish army anymore.
How does he know?
Richard crossed his arms over his ruined coat, his sharp eyes fixed on Ragnar’s broad back.
He was an educated tactician.
A single man couldn’t just wake up one morning and suddenly invent a steam boiler out of thin air. It defied all natural laws of progress.
Richard stared at the floor, thinking of every possibility.
It’s possible, he reasoned silently, that Ragnar just found a blueprint.
Maybe the Iron King had stumbled upon a lost, ancient scroll from the minds of the old Roman Empire, or a Greek text buried in a forgotten cave. If Ragnar had found a blueprint of the steam engine, and possessed the stubborn genius to actually build it... then maybe that single spark of mechanical knowledge gave him the ideas for everything else.
After all, understanding how to contain pressure inside an iron tube was the exact same basic principle as forging a rifle barrel, wasn’t it? From the steam engine, he built the trains to haul the iron. From the trains, he armored the fleet. All the miraculous things connected back to one single leap in knowledge.
It’s possible, clearly.
However, Richard’s logic instantly hit an unbreakable wall.
Whose blueprint could possibly contain this? The Romans didn’t have steam engines that could haul tons of steel across the dirt. The Greeks didn’t shoot lead balls at a thousand paces. The great scholars in Paris and Cordoba were still struggling to cast reliable bronze cannons.
A fairy blueprint? A magical gift from the old Norse gods themselves dropped straight from the heavens?
"Damn..." Richard whispered under his breath, rubbing his tired temples.
He hated the idea of magic. Magic was just a cheap excuse for peasants and drunken sailors who couldn’t explain the weather... there had to be a real, tangible, human answer to this madness.
After hearing such words from the foreign marshals finalizing the river attack, the meeting finally began to break apart.
King Erik roared for his personal guards, preparing to head down to the port to gather the unfortunate settlers.
Richard stepped forward before Ragnar could leave the map table.
"King Ragnar..." Richard bowed his head deeply, offering a respectful apology. "Forgive my arrogant outburst earlier. I am a scholar... when I see a locked door, my mind simply cannot rest until I find the key. I shouldn’t have questioned your vision in front of the new marshals."
Ragnar paused, pulling his leather blacksmith apron off and tossing it casually onto a wooden chair. He looked at the southern tactician and let out a soft, tired sigh.
"Don’t apologize for having a working brain, Richard," Ragnar muttered, picking up an iron cup of cold water. "I actually need men who question things. If I am surrounded by men who just nod and swing their axes blindly, we will all end up dead in the mud. Just... keep your loud questions about the end of the world to a minimum when we have a Frankish army sitting on our doorstep, alright?"
"Of course, my King," Richard nodded quickly, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.
"Go get some rest," Ragnar ordered, waving a calloused hand at him. "Tomorrow is going to be bloody."
Though the Iron King had given him a direct command, Richard’s restless mind refused to shut down.
Hours passed. The dark Norwegian night wrapped around the busy port city, bringing a biting sea wind with it.
Richard found himself standing outside on the wooden battlements, pulling his tailored coat tightly against his shivering body. He looked down at the torch-lit docks below.
It was a scene of heartbreaking chaos...
King Erik’s men were actively rounding up the four thousand settlers Ragnar had demanded.
They were pulling local Norwegian clansmen from their warm longhouses and gathering the Icelandic reserves who had just arrived with the fleet.
"I am not leaving my home!" a burly, scarred fisherman screamed, shoving a royal guard away.
"My grandfather built that longhouse!
You want to send my pregnant wife to a rock to dig yellow dirt while the Franks burn our lands?!"
"Get on the fucking boat!" the guard roared back, raising the wooden butt of his repeating rifle. "It is the direct order of the Iron King! You want to argue with the man who brought the steel fleet?!"
Thus, the unromantic reality of Ragnar’s grand empire was laid bare before Richard’s eyes.
The Iron Kingdom was powerful, yes. It was miraculous. But the cost of that rapid progress was paid in forced human labor and misery.
These common people didn’t understand the explosive power of raw sulfur.
They didn’t understand that their labor in the dark mines of Iceland would create the black powder needed to save the continent from Emperor Louis.
They just knew they were being dragged from their warm hearths, packed onto ships, and sent away to the edge of the world.
Richard leaned over the wooden railing, watching families torn apart by the harsh, uncompromising demands of industrial logistics.
The settlers arguing about leaving the land broke his heart, but his tactical mind knew Ragnar was right.
Without that sulfur, the entire Iron Kingdom would collapse...
Is this what it takes to reach the new world? Richard thought, a sadness settling over his chest.
Do you have to break your own people first?
The screaming from the docks eventually faded into a continuous hum of quiet misery.
Richard pushed himself away from the wooden railing.
The cold was finally sinking into his bones, but his mind was still burning with that one, single, consuming question.
He ignored his own assigned sleeping quarters. Instead, he walked slowly back toward the grand longhouse, navigating the quiet, torch-lit corridors until he reached the oak door that belonged to the Iron King’s private room.
Two northern guards stood outside the door, their repeating rifles resting comfortably in their hands.
They recognized the southern scholar who had designed the valley trap and simply stepped aside without a word.
Richard took a breath, raising his hand, and knocked gently on the wood.
"Come in," Ragnar’s tired voice called out from inside.
Richard slowly pushed the door open. The room was surprisingly small, lacking the shiny gold and luxury furs one would expect for an emperor.
It was just a simple wooden bed, a roaring hearth fire, and a desk covered in parchments.
Ragnar was sitting behind the desk, holding a sharp quill.
He just wore a simple, loose white tunic. In the dim, flickering candlelight, the deep, dark bags under his eyes looked prominent.
Richard’s eyes darted to the parchments on the desk.
They were covered in alien, complex geometric shapes, strange mathematical formulas, and detailed sketches of smoking metal machines that Richard couldn’t even begin to comprehend.
"I told you to get some sleep, Richard," Ragnar grunted, not even looking up from the detailed blueprint he was scribbling on.
"I couldn’t sleep, my King," Richard answered quietly, stepping fully into the warm room and gently closing the door behind him.
Ragnar finally stopped writing. He set the wet quill down and slowly looked up, his eyes locking onto the scholar’s nervous face.
"What is it?" Ragnar asked, his voice flat and exhausted.
Richard swallowed the thick lump in his throat.
He threw away his fear of execution... he didn’t care if the Iron King threw him in a dungeon or hung him from the battlements.
He had to know.
He couldn’t go out to the muddy battlefield tomorrow morning without knowing exactly who he was truly following into the fire.
He took a slow step closer to the desk, staring directly into the Iron King’s eyes.
"King Ragnar..." Richard whispered. "How do you actually know all of this?"