Munitions Empire

The other guard standing on the opposite side, who looked more ordinary, didn't say a word but stood there as if deep in thought.

"It is indeed nice, just the firing speed makes it very appealing," Baron Stela casually replied while loading his flintlock hunting gun, responding to the guard's comment as if making small talk.

These guards offered him loyalty, so he had to show them some deference at certain moments. It was a means of controlling subordinates, a survival skill that every member of the nobility would study carefully.

"Then why…" The guard didn't understand; if his master recognized the merits of the item, why did he so easily let it go?

In his view, possessing stronger weapons seemed to be extremely crucial in these turbulent times. After all, having some advantage when facing the enemy was always a comforting thought.

The other guard just touched his nose and maintained an attitude of being above the fray.

"The Kingdom has four Shireck Flintlock Gun workshops, which each year produce nearly 2000 new guns and repair another 800 old ones. Do you realize how much profit there is in this, and the interests involved?" The Baron, having finished loading, searched for his prey at the edge of the forest.

Without looking back, he continued to speak, "From the top to the bottom, I still get 150 Gold Coins! That's no small amount."

Shireck is the name of a consortium; the Shireck Consortium's name truly reverberates like thunder across the continent.

This consortium monopolized weapon production in dozens of countries, setting up workshops to produce firearms, artillery, and various ammunition and equipment within these nations.

Through various means, Shireck established intricately intertwined influences in these countries, controlling the bulk of the military weapon acquisition, raking in substantial profits, and even influencing the decisions of these countries to some extent.

"A few months ago, Viscount Hel just invested in shares and contributed to building a new Shireck Flintlock Gun workshop… Once that workshop is completed, it will be able to produce over 300 new flintlock guns a year!" He muttered to himself as if speaking to nobody in particular, "How could it go down the drain?"

"How many of these flintlock guns does the Kingdom have in reserve, and how many soldiers are undergoing shooting training with flintlock guns? Do you know how much money would be wasted if all this mess were to be scrapped and started over?" Baron Stela raised his gun and aimed at a distant hare, still asking questions without turning around.

"If I were to stir this hornet's nest, who would be pleased?" He pulled the trigger, and after a gunshot, he let the rifle emit a puff of white smoke from the muzzle and flintlock mechanism by his side.

"No one would thank me! No one! It would only bring a world of trouble…" He handed his hunting gun to the guard who wanted to speak up and, watching the hunting dogs chase after the prey in the distance, he said coldly.

What's the point of meddling in affairs when you can lie back and make money? That's the choice a noble should make, isn't it? Baron Stela cracked a smile as if everything went according to his calculations.

Tang Mo tossed his rifle into the carriage, then closed the door, and climbed onto the co-driver's seat at the front of the coach.

The coachman, who had been waiting for him, raised his hands slightly before abruptly whipping downward, making a snapping sound with the reins.

The two horses, which seemed in fairly good condition, began pulling the carriage forward as Tang Mo felt the warm wind rush towards him.

"This is the third one…" As he controlled the horses galloping forward, the bearded old coachman, who was also Tang Mo's steward, blacksmith, and half a technical engineer, said to Tang Mo, "Still no deal?"

The old man had been Tang Mo's father's confidant and had helped him establish the now Tang weapon workshop from scratch.

Called a weapon workshop, most of the time what they made the most were kitchen knives and various farming tools; their best sellers were a series of hunting guns that imitated Shireck Flintlock Guns.

When Tang Mo's father was alive, the weapon workshop had even received orders to repair flintlock guns for the Kingdom, and during its heyday, the workshop supported over two hundred people.

Unfortunately, the good times didn't last long. After the sudden death of Tang Mo's parents, Tang weapon workshop also declined, maintaining only a struggling existence until now.

"No!" Tang Mo shook his head and found a comfortable position on the bumpy coach, "These bastards have no idea about good merchandise, either they are truly stupid, or they are truly malevolent. In any case, not one of them seriously considers that they could win a war."

He couldn't comprehend why these people would reject him. If only they were willing to spend the money to purchase a batch of new weaponry, in the future they could earn it back tenfold or a hundredfold on the battlefield.

A soldier's life is still life, and a soldier's life or death is also money—wasn't such a simple concept obvious? Didn't these noble lords understand that?

Were they too indifferent to the lives of the soldiers, or did they know themselves too well, aware that they were incapable of winning even a single battle?

Tang Mo silently criticized them in his mind, then full of resentment, he complained to his old steward, "He even extorted a Gold Coin from me! Dammit!"

"Don't lose heart, selling things is always like this, getting someone to part with even a penny isn't easy," replied old Roger, handling the carriage with caution, comforting the somewhat disheartened Tang Mo.

He knew that this young orphan of the Tang family actually had good ideas, because the new model of weapon at the back was the fruit of their combined efforts, painstakingly manufactured bit by bit.

However, it now seems that the workshop's luck is ill-fated, and there is clearly no hope of competing with those large weapon factories.

"Failure is the mother of success." Tang Mo sat at the front, chinning into the back of his hand while he gazed at the distant road, absentmindedly responding to old Roger's consolations.

The roads of this era were not so smooth; though there was a spring under the carriage, it still bumped along. Tang Mo's body swayed gently with the swift motion of the carriage, and the two of them fell silent for a good while.

The woods on both sides rapidly receded into the background, framing the road with their primeval beauty. They had already left the edges of the town, and the carriages and pedestrians they passed became increasingly sparse.

"Believe me, there will eventually come a day when the whole world will use our weapons," Tang Mo suddenly spoke up again after a long pause, telling Roger, "The rest are mediocrities, only fit to follow in our footsteps and treasure the trash we discard as precious gems."

"I believe it, I believe that day will come," Roger chuckled, echoing Tang Mo's sentiment.

Though he had confidence in Tang Mo, their current situation was indeed dire. Tang Mo had just handed over his last Gold Coin, and the money that remained seemed hardly sufficient to keep the workshop running normally.

There were over one hundred and fifty people to support in the workshop, most of them craftsmen who had to be paid every day for their work. These people also had apprentices who, though unpaid, still represented a significant daily expense with their meals and needs.

If the entire workshop were profitable, these craftsmen and apprentices would undoubtedly be Tang Mo's valuable assets, but if the workshop were losing money, they would be the nooses tightening around Tang Mo's neck.

...

"Hey! Reiner..." Not long after Tang Mo's carriage departed, in the manor of the Baron, a Baron's personal guard armed with a flintlock gun walked into the servants' resting room, toying with a silver coin in his hand.

As he entered, he greeted everyone, and several servants and maids resting in the room nodded their acknowledgements to him. This man was indeed the same silent guard who had stood beside Baron Stela earlier.

"Hey! Wes!" It was the shift change time, and a servant who had just come to rest greeted him, then bent his head down again to continue polishing his boots.

The room bore no decorations, only a few worn chairs and a battered table covered in scratches.

The guard named Wes pulled over a chair and sat down next to him, crossing his legs as he inquired with a smile, "Who was that demonstrating the new gun just now?"

He had remained silent during the Baron's enthusiastic talk earlier and afterward, excusing himself to take care of a sick elder at home, he had asked to leave. After obtaining the Baron's permission, he didn't leave immediately but came here instead.

"Him? A businessman from Brunas Province." The boot-polishing servant answered without lifting his head, "A country bumpkin, probably hasn't seen much of the world."

A freckled-faced maid bowed slightly and approached the two men; it was time for her to start her shift and take over from someone else.

"Brunas? Isn't that by the sea?" Wes made room for the maid to pass between them and then continued to chat aimlessly, without any particular direction to the conversation.

"Yeah, yesterday they sent over two fish from there... stinking to high heaven. Hahaha." Reiner, the servant, burst into laughter as he spoke.

"Hahahaha!" Wes joined in the laughter, as if he could imagine the smell of the fish after being transported here, "What about that bumpkin, what's his name?"

"Tang Mo, and he gave me this." Reiner set down the boot he had been polishing halfway, took a small piece of paper from his pocket with the hand that had been propping up the boot, and handed it to the guard.

Serving as a servant for the Baron naturally required a certain level of perceptiveness. The servant had figured out the guard's purpose for coming here, which was likely related to the young man named Tang Mo.

So he decided to extend a courtesy; after all, everyone worked under the Baron, and building a good rapport was always beneficial.

Wes frowned slightly, but still accepted the paper, reading the bold words on it: "Tang's Weapon Workshop."

In those times, the scale of production facilities was strictly denoted by certain terms; those with under a hundred people could only be called small workshops, those with more than a hundred could be called workshops, and those with over a thousand, large workshops, were referred to as factories.

Wes turned the paper over and saw a rather detailed address on the back, along with a name in somewhat larger font—Tang Mo.

"No problem taking this, right?" Wes pressed the silver coin in his hand onto the table and asked, as a matter of form.

"Of course! No problem." Reiner shrugged his shoulders, indicating the paper was of no real significance, "To see such a shabby paper used for a calling card, that's a first for me."

"Yeah, an interesting person," Wes said as he stood up, tucking Tang Mo's name card into his pocket and walking towards the door.

"Thanks!" Pocketing the silver coin, the servant looked towards the guard who had reached the door and spoke."

Wes, with one foot already outside, seemed preoccupied with his thoughts and, without turning his head, waved a hand, "You're welcome."