The Necro-Industrial Revolution

“Very good,” Jack praised, nodding his approval at the newly forged items. “Well then, Roland, do you mind walking me through the yard and explaining how we are going to utilize all these weapons and traps during the beast tide?”

“Right away, My Lord,” Roland said, his eyes lighting up with passion of an engineer showing off his life’s work. He quickly grabbed a coarse rag, wiping the thick soot and grease from his hands, and stripped off his leather blacksmith’s apron. Snatching a thick wool coat from a nearby peg, he threw it over his shoulders to brave the freezing air outside.

Leaving Barnaby and the others hammering away at the forge, Jack and Roland stepped out into the biting cold. Barnaby didn’t need to accompany them; Roland was the mastermind who had designed—or completely overhauled—every single piece of defensive artillery in the valley.

Roland led Jack along the rear of the smithy, pointing toward a line of heavy, intimidating siege weapons covered by canvas tarps to keep the snow off their oiled gears.

“We currently have ten fully operational ballistas, My Lord,” Roland reported, pulling a tarp back to reveal a gleaming, lethal machine of wood and steel. “We need two more to complete the perimeter defense—meaning we will have two ballista stationed at each of the six corners of the hexagonal palisade. The last two are currently in production.”

Roland patted the thick, reinforced limbs of the ballista and then looked at Jack, shaking his head with a sigh. “I must say, My Lord… whoever designed the older ballistas we had in storage had absolutely no idea what they were doing.”

Jack’s eye twitched slightly.

“The older design was fundamentally flawed in over ten different ways,” Roland continued, completely unaware he was aggressively insulting Jack’s handiwork. “The tension arms were improperly angled, meaning the wood warped after few shots. The firing groove was too shallow, causing the bolts to jam constantly if not operated correctly. And there was no winch system! It required four men just to manually pull the bowstring back..”

Jack kept his face completely blank, staring at the new machine.

Hey, Jack thought inwardly, fighting the urge to defend himself. I was a corporate office worker in my past life, not a medieval siege engineer! I built those things last year using scrap wood, rusted nails, and panic while monsters were actively trying to eat us. The fact that the damn things fired at all was a miracle determination.

“But these,” Roland beamed, gesturing to his new creations. “I redesigned them entirely from the ground up. I installed a series of steel gears, interlocking levers, and a dual-pulley system. Now, instead of four men breaking their backs, just two men can easily crank the winch and lock the tension spring. It fires faster, shoots farther, and won’t jam.”

“I am highly impressed,” Jack said, offering a nod of respect despite his bruised ego. “If this new design proves to be as lethal and efficient in combat as you claim, you will be handsomely rewarded for your ingenuity.”

“Thank you, My Lord!”

They continued their walk to the backside of the forge, which had been transformed into what looked like a war-prep zone. Rows upon rows of lethal deterrents were laid out on the ground.

Roland pointed to a massive wooden crate spilling over with jagged, four-pronged spikes. “Over a hundred caltrops, My Lord. Forged from the rusted, unusable scrap iron.”

Jack nodded; he was familiar with these, having used them last year.

“We aren’t scattering them randomly, though,” Roland explained. “We will lay these in a dense perimeter outside the deep palisade trench. When the first wave of beasts charges blindly in the dark, they will trample the caltrops, crippling their legs and slowing their momentum right before they hit the trench spikes. Furthermore, keeping them grouped outside the trench means we can easily recover and reuse them after the tide.”

“Excellent tactic,” Jack agreed.

Next, Roland showed off the array of ‘normal’ traps. There were heavy, spring-loaded snare nets designed to hoist a struggling beast into the air, and thick tripwires hooked to heavy, swinging spiked logs meant to crush anything running through the designated choke points.

Then, Roland stopped in front of five massive contraptions. They looked remarkably similar to the heavy bear traps Jack had seen on television back on Earth, but these were monstrously large, equipped with complex, interlocking steel jaws and thick, high-tension springs.

Just looking at the serrated steel teeth made Jack instinctively take a half-step back. If that thing accidentally went off and caught his leg, it would sever the bone clean through in a fraction of a second.

Roland, however, handled it like a child’s toy. He casually tapped the pressure plate with a stick, explaining the hair-trigger mechanism. “I forged these heavy biters specifically for the larger, mutated beasts. Since those massive creatures don’t usually come in the tides, or at least it’s what I heard, I only forged five, just in case.”

As they reached the end of the staging area, Jack’s eyes landed on a strange contraption. It looked like a miniature cannon, but instead of cast iron, the barrel was made of thick, curved wood held together by steel bands, hinges, and heavy springs. A large, wooden bowl sat at the firing end.

Jack’s eyes lit up with curiosity. “What is that?”

“Oh, that,” Roland sighed, looking slightly embarrassed. “That is a specialized thrower I designed. Though, to be honest, it probably won’t be of much use if things go as predicted.”

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“Explain,” Jack prompted.

“Well, I heard the people in the village talking about last winter,” Roland said. “They mentioned using boiling liquids to burn the beasts from atop the walls. So, I built this. It’s a tension-thrower designed to launch fragile, insulated wooden barrels filled with boiling oil or water over long distances. The barrels shatter on impact, splashing the hot liquid over a wide radius.”

Roland demonstrated the mechanics, pulling a steel lever back. “We load the fragile barrel into this wooden bowl, lock the catch, and draw the tension spring back.”

Roland flipped the release latch. CRACK! The wooden bowl snapped forward with terrifying intensity, slamming against the padded crossbar. Anything sitting in that bowl would have been launched dozens of yards away with devastating speed.

“It works perfectly,” Roland explained, “but as I said, we likely won’t need it. Based on my calculations, the heavy ballistas, the crossbowmen, and the trench traps should be more than enough to slaughter the standard winter beasts. As long as we don’t encounter heavily armored magical beasts, we won’t need to waste boiling oil.”

“Very good. I am deeply impressed by every single design here, Roland. I am actually looking forward to seeing them in action,” Jack praised him warmly.

Internally, Jack was blown away. Roland was a genius. Part of Jack genuinely wished the engineer wouldn’t leave the valley after his five-year contract expired. Jack knew he technically had the power to force Roland to stay, but he wasn’t a tyrant; he had made a promise to lower their contracts, and he would honor it.

If I gave Roland a few more years and pointed him in the right direction, Jack mused, he could easily reinvent the most lethal ancient war engines from Earth—trebuchets, hwachas, maybe even primitive gunpowder cannons. But as quickly as the thought arrived, Jack realized the harsh reality of this world. Magic rendered primitive artillery nearly obsolete. A single, high-level Church Mage could summon a localized earthquake or a hurricane to wipe out a battery of trebuchets in seconds. Even Jack himself, simply using Elias and Sylvia, could walk right through Roland’s traps and burn the wooden ballistas to ash without breaking a sweat. Engineering was vital for survival against mindless beasts, but against real magic, it was just kindling.

Finishing the inspection, Jack met briefly with Barnaby, Giles, Corin, and the Old Miller.

The Old Miller reported that the planting process inside the heated greenhouse had successfully begun. Because the glasshouse wasn’t massive, it only required a dozen hands to tend the soil and water the seeds. This freed up the rest of the laborers to continue mining coal, forging steel, and fortifying the village.

Satisfied, Jack walked toward the center of the village. Thanks to Corin’s expanded blueprints, the central square was now massive, easily accommodating the booming population.

Jack nodded to Giles. “Gather everyone.”

Within minutes, the villagers poured out of their warm cabins, huddling together against the falling snow.

Jack stood on a raised wooden platform. “Listen closely,” he began. “I received word from the church. The Church Mages have been dispatched. They will be arriving in our valley any day now.”

The reaction was immediate and divided. The former slaves, having no deep ties to this specific land, remained mostly indifferent, shuffling their feet in the snow.

The original villagers, however, erupted. A wave of complicated, mostly angry emotions washed over the crowd.

“Why are they coming now?” a woman yelled bitterly. “They didn’t come last year when we were starving! They didn’t come when we lost our brothers and husbands!”

“Send them away!” an old man shouted, shaking his fist. “We survived last year on our own! We have walls and steel now! We don’t need their charity!”

The shouting escalated, threatening to become a chaotic mob.

Jack didn’t shout back. He simply reached into his mind and commanded Elias.

Standing beside the platform, the armored mage slowly raised his heavy gauntlet.

The crowd fell dead silent in an instant, terrified of the imposing mage.

Satisfied, Jack lowered his hand, and Elias dropped his gauntlet.

“I understand your anger,” Jack said, his tone commanding but reasonable. “Although they are coming under the guise of aiding us during the beast tide, we are going to reject their help. We must show the Church that we do not need their interference, and that we can handle these difficulties with our own strength.”

He looked out over the crowd. “Why? Because many of you already know the truth of wild beasts. If a monster is killed directly by raw magic, the magical energy taints the flesh. It becomes completely inedible. We cannot harvest the meat, and the pelt is often ruined.”

Jack leaned forward, his eyes burning with conviction. “Most of the newer arrivals may not know this, but the beast meat we harvested last winter is the exact reason we survived. Selling those untouched pelts and bones is what funded our revival. It is what bought your new clothes, your tools, and your warm cabins. We are not going to let a group of arrogant Church Mages burn our profits to ash!”

A cheer of agreement went up from the original villagers, their morale instantly spiking to a fever pitch.

In the back of the crowd, a cynical former slave leaned over to his neighbor. “See?” he whispered derisively. “The Lord’s end will be his own greed. If the Church is providing free magical protection, why not just take it? Why risk all our lives just to secure some meat and a few silver coins?”

The heavy-set slave standing next to him suddenly grabbed the cynic by the scruff of his neck, pulling him close. “Shut your mouth,” the big man hissed, his eyes darting nervously toward Elias. “Or his armored knight will rip your tongue out right along with mine. Do as you’re told.”

Letting the crowd’s excitement settle, Jack raised his hands for a final announcement.

“Since the severe winter environment will prevent most of you from working outdoor jobs, I am lowering the prices of all food, spices, and basic necessities from the castle stores starting today,” Jack declared. “However, to prevent hoarding, strict rationing laws are now in effect. Every family may only purchase what they reasonably need for the week. This ensures that every person in this valley benefits equally.”

A chorus of grateful cheers echoed through the square.

Jack ended his speech, stepping down from the platform. Pulling his heavy wool coat tight against the freezing wind, he walked toward the palisade gates leading back to the castle.

As he walked, his gaze drifted toward the southern woods.

The tree line was noticeably thinner. In just one year of aggressive expansion, they had leveled a massive chunk of the forest. Back on modern Earth, this rapid deforestation would have been an environmental calamity. But this was a primitive world; with endless, untouched forests stretching for thousands of miles, no one cared about cutting down a few thousand trees. Without heavy machinery or cheap concrete, wood was the only way to build.

Still, it bothered Jack’s modern sensibilities. If we keep expanding like this, the southern woods will lose thirty percent of its density in a decade, he calculated.

He couldn’t stop the logging—progress demanded timber. But he could manage it.

Starting next spring, I’ll institute a mandatory replanting initiative, Jack decided. Whenever the people have downtime during the spring and summer, they will plant saplings. It won’t make a dent in the lumber supply for a decade, but something is always far better than nothing.

The heavy steel-bound gates groaned open before him, and Jack stepped out of the village.