The Necro-Industrial Revolution

The rhythmic crunch of wooden wheels against dirt echoed down the southern pass.

One by one, massive, canvas-covered merchant carts rolled into the valley, forming a long, winding snake of commerce. Just like every time, the autumn caravan was a patchwork of different types of merchants. It consisted of wealthy representatives from the major merchant guilds, alongside smaller, independent traders operating solo or with heavily armed mercenary escorts.

The caravan slowly navigated the valley road, eventually grinding to a halt in the dirt clearing just outside the newly constructed village gates in the palisade walls.

Corin stood on a wooden scaffold near the village entrance, securing a heavy iron bracket into the new palisade wall. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, glancing down at the arriving merchants. His eyes locked onto a familiar, very ordinary looking man stepping down from one of the back carriages.

Corin’s expression instantly twisted into one of profound disgust. His knuckles turned white as he gripped his hammer. He stared at the merchant with a deep, burning hatred. Yet, knowing his place as a bonded laborer in this valley, Corin swallowed his anger, forced his eyes away, and violently struck the iron nail into the timber.

Down at the gate, a small crowd had already gathered. Giles, Barnaby, and the Old Miller stood at the front, flanked by a dozen village guards. They watched the merchants disembark, wondering what grand purchases their Lord was going to make this time to prepare for the brutal winter.

“Hey,” Barnaby said, nudging one of the guards beside him. “Run up to the Lord’s castle and inform Lord Jack that the autumn caravan has officially arrived.”

“Right away, sir,” the guard nodded, breaking into a sprint up the hill toward the castle.

He reached the heavy doors of the castle and pounded his fist against the wood.

Knock! Knock!

The door swung open almost immediately. Jack stood in the entryway, already dressed in his finest dark coat, leaning elegantly on his brass headed cane. He knew the caravan was due any day now; he had ordered Karen to have the servants prepare the Great Hall days in advance.

The hall behind Jack was spotless. It lacked the opulent tapestries and gilded statues of the major noble houses, but the floors shone, the massive central table was perfectly set, and the roaring hearth gave the room a commanding, respectable warmth. It looked vastly superior to the desolate hall the merchants had seen during the spring.

The guard caught his breath, raising a hand. “My Lord, the autumn—”

“I presume the caravan has arrived?” Jack interrupted smoothly, his voice calm.

“Yes, My Lord,” the guard nodded.

“Very well. Go back down and escort the merchants up to the Great Hall. You are dismissed.”

As the guard sprinted back down to the village, the atmosphere at the gates was growing thick with tension.

Giles stood with his arms crossed, a smug, highly satisfied smirk plastered across his face. He stared directly at Gary, the sleazy merchant who had tried to exploit them last winter.

“Why are you looking so troubled, Gary?” Giles taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. “Are you angry? Just last year, you stood in the lord’s castle and tried to extort us for our southern woods. Look at where we are now. Just wait a few more years, merchant. The Frost Grip fief will reclaim its former glory.”

Gary’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. “What glory?” he shot back, sneering at the wooden palisades. “No matter how many logs you stack or how successful you think you’ve become, you are nothing more than a tiny, frozen speck in the northern region. What of the world have you actually seen, wood cutter?”

Despite his sharp words, Gary’s internal frustration was boiling over. He looked at the sturdy new cabins, the bustling laborers, and the castle in the distance. Just last year, he was one signature away from buying the valley’s southern woods rights for a few pathetic sacks of grain. Now, it was blatantly obvious that none of his predatory tricks were going to work.

I will just have to wait a few more years, Gary thought inwardly, his eyes narrowing with spite. The Lord is still just a child. He is arrogant and moving too fast. He is doomed to make a fatal mistake eventually. And once he does… that will be my chance to strip this valley bare.

“Watch your mouth before you speak ill of our Lord,” Barnaby growled, his massive blacksmith’s shoulders tensing as he took a heavy step forward.

Gary’s mercenary guards immediately reached for the hilts of their swords. The village guards raised their spears in response.

Before blood could be shed over bruised egos, Giles threw a hand in front of Barnaby’s chest, holding the blacksmith back. Just as the tension reached its breaking point, the dispatched guard pushed through the crowd, panting heavily.

“Stand down!” the guard yelled. “Lord Jack requests the presence of the caravan masters in the Great Hall immediately!”

The mercenaries slowly released their weapons. After a few hushed, internal discussions, the caravan owners agreed to the terms. They left their massive carts and the bulk of their mercenary escorts stationed safely down inside the village, taking only one or two personal bodyguards each as they hiked up the hill to the castle.

When the heavy doors of the keep opened, the merchants stepped into the Great Hall and collectively paused.

Jack sat silently at the head of the long table. He did not stand to greet them. Flanking him on his left and right were two fully armored figures. Elias and Sylvia stood completely motionless, their faces hidden behind heavy steel visors, radiating an oppressive aura that made the entire room feel heavy.

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The merchants quickly composed themselves and offered polite bows to the young Lord.

Jack gave a single, curt nod and gestured toward the empty wooden chairs. “Take a seat.”

The merchants took their respective places along the table, their personal guards standing stiffly behind them.

Once everyone was seated, Jack signaled Karen. The castle maids and servants filed into the room in perfect unison, carrying large platters. They served plates of delicious food to every merchant.

“We will discuss business after we eat,” Jack announced, picking up his fork.

Following the Lord’s lead, the merchants began to eat, exchanging quiet, personal pleasantries among themselves. As they chewed their food, many of them couldn’t help but look around the hall in quiet awe.

Most of these men had visited this valley during the spring caravan. They had been coming here for years, watching the Frost Grip fief slowly bleed to death. Last winter, when the old Lord had already died and Jack fell ill, they had all secretly bet that the fief would completely collapse by spring.

Instead, they returned to find a territory expanding at a terrifying, explosive rate. It still couldn’t compete with the massive, wealthy fiefs of the region, but to pull a dying fief out from the edge of total destruction and turn it into something like what it was now in less than a year was nothing short of extraordinary.

This boy possesses terrifying commanding skills, one of the guild masters whispered to his neighbor. If he survives the politics of the north, he is going to be a titan.

Jack ate quietly, letting his sharp eyes wander over the faces of the merchants. His gaze eventually landed on Gary, who was aggressively tearing into a piece of bread, clearly furious at the valley’s prosperity.

He must be seething inside, Jack thought, highly amused. He tried to exploit my people when we were starving. What if I leaned across the table right now and told him I’m forging my own steel? What if I told him these two ‘guards’ standing beside me are actually Iron Core mages? The expression his face would be priceless.

Jack let out a quiet breath, dismissing the thought. It was a tempting fantasy, but acting on it would be incredibly childish. He was a Lord playing a dangerous game of survival; he couldn’t afford to show his hand just to satisfy his ego.

As the final plates were cleared, Jack snapped his fingers. The maids, who had been standing quietly at the edges of the room like attendants, swept in and efficiently cleared all the plates, cups, and crumbs from the long table, leaving bare wood ready for ledgers.

“Let the business begin,” Jack declared, resting his hands on the table.

“My Lord, I have brought your specific orders, exactly as intended,” a familiar voice spoke up from the middle of the table.

Jack instantly recognized the man. It was Yarun Gatry, the merchant he Jack had given the custom orders for goods just months ago.

A surge of profound relief and joy hit Jack’s chest. The raw iron and specialized tools for the blast furnace had finally arrived. He kept his face completely stoic, however, offering Yarun a slow, satisfied nod. “Excellent.”

The open trading commenced.

First, Jack secured his food reserves. He purchased fifty massive sacks of grain and twenty-five sacks of dried lentils and peas. The merchants quickly did the math and frowned.

“My Lord, forgive my intrusion,” one merchant noted, checking his ledger. “But your population has clearly grown since spring. With the hard labor your people are doing, this volume of grain will not last you through the peak of winter.”

“I am aware,” Jack replied coolly. “But we will supplement our grain with meat. My guards will be actively hunting the winter beasts this season.”

The merchants exchanged skeptical glances, but they gladly took Jack’s coin. Next, Jack purchased a large quantity of specialized vegetable seeds.

“Ah, the seeds,” another merchant smiled, leaning forward. “My Lord, if you don’t mind my asking… what exactly is that strange glass building out in your courtyard? We saw it as we walked up the hill.”

Jack willingly explained the concept of the greenhouse in brief detail. He didn’t hide the invention; he wanted these merchants to spread the rumor. Let the entire northern region know that Lord Frost Grip was an agricultural innovator, even though it was exactly not his own invention. It was perfect for spreading his name.

Following the greenhouse seeds, Jack asked about the specific fiber crop seeds grown in Alaric’s fief.

Just as the village elder had warned, the merchants shook their heads. They didn’t carry them in bulk. “We have a very small, custom supply meant for another Lord,” a merchant offered with a greedy smile. “But we are willing to part with it… for five times the standard market price.”

“No,” Jack rejected the offer instantly. He refused to be extorted. The winter was going to be busy enough with steel production and beast hunting. He would simply place a bulk custom order now, have them deliver it during the spring caravan, and plant the crop few months late.

The next item on Jack’s list was medical supplies.

Since Old Martha had died few months prior, the valley had no one who even remotely resembled a doctor or a healer. If an epidemic broke out or an accident happened in the mines or during the hunting, it would be disastrous.

To Jack’s relief, several of the merchants dealt heavily in alchemy and herbal-ism. Jack meticulously bought out their stocks: poultices for severe cuts, salves for burn wounds, splints and bone-knitting herbs for fractures, and massive bundles of dried roots for treating fevers, coughs, and the common cold. He bought enough to stock a small hospital. He was forcing his people to fight monsters and forge steel in the dead of winter; if someone died because Jack was too cheap to buy bandages, the blood would be on his hands.

The medical supplies alone cost Jack over one thousand gold.

Seeing Jack throw around such massive amounts of wealth, the merchants’ eyes gleamed with greed. They immediately began pushing luxury goods.

“My Lord, surely your castle requires proper tapestries?” One of the merchants chimed in, holding up a swatch of crimson velvet. “I have the finest silks from the capital. Spices, perfumes, silver goblets—”

“Put it away,” Jack commanded, his voice slicing through the sales pitches. “I have no desire for such pleasantries while my people toil in the cold.”

The merchants blinked, slightly embarrassed, and quickly packed away their velvet samples.

“Now, for my final request,” Jack said, his eyes scanning the table. “I am looking to purchase Spirit Stones. Do any of you have a supply?”

The room went completely silent.

“Spirit Stones?” Gary asked, his eyes wide with shock. “My Lord… are you a mage? Or do you harbor guild mages in your keep?”

“Neither,” Jack replied truthfully, seeing no reason to hide this specific detail. He needed them to know he was buying magic, not practicing it. “I need the stones to operate the magical artifacts I purchased a few months ago.”

Furious whispers broke out among the merchants. Magical artifacts? they muttered to one another. Those cost absolute fortunes! Is he really that wealthy already? Jack was openly using his spatial ring, in the mines and the Ever-ember heat runes in the greenhouse; hiding the fact that he owned artifacts was pointless.

“I am willing to pay few percent above market rate for Spirit Stones,” Jack repeated, silencing the whispers.

From the far end of the long table, a voice spoke up.

“Oh, I have plenty of stones, My Lord. How many do you need?”

Jack slowly turned his head to look at the man who had spoken. It was a very ordinary looking merchant, who looked just like any other merchant, sitting near the shadows of the hearth, wearing a heavy, dark traveling cloak.

As Jack’s eyes locked onto the man’s face.

Jack’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.