The workshop was filled with the scent of sweat, and the echoing clatter of hammering resounded in the air. Craftsmen of all kinds were working intently, each man focused on his position. Even apprentices were thrown into the chaos, hurrying around with raw materials, tools, or half-finished parts in hand.
The entire workshop functioned like a well-oiled machine, each part of the operation seamlessly coordinated.
Here, in the very heart of Red Tide Territory, the prototype of an industrial system was quietly taking shape.
Louis observed the scene with satisfaction. Things were moving in the right direction.
He didn't waste time on greetings or formality. His target was clear—he made his way straight into the workshop's depths to find the head of the craftsmen: Mike.
Mike was wielding a hammer, pounding away at a wooden board with great focus—or so it seemed. In truth, he had just been slacking off and was putting on a show of productivity. Only when Louis approached did he abandon the act, set the hammer down, and flash an eager grin.
"Lord, what brings you here personally?" he asked, clearly surprised and excited.
"It's time to build the castle," Louis said directly, getting straight to the point.
Mike's eyes lit up instantly. This was the moment he had been waiting for.
"A castle? Lord, just give me fifty years! I swear I'll build the grandest and most magnificent castle the Iron-Blood Empire has ever seen in the Northern Lands!"
Louis blinked. "Fifty years? I'll be seventy by then—and you'll probably be in a coffin."
He strongly suspected that Mike was one of those wonder-building enthusiasts, always dreaming of crafting a monument that would last centuries.
Mike laughed heartily. "If I die, my apprentice will build it! If he dies, then my grand-apprentice will continue! We'll finish it—no matter how many generations it takes!"
Louis rolled his eyes. "What are you, Robert? Are you planning to build a castle by passing the hammer down through the ages?"
Mike scratched his head. "Who's Robert?"
"Doesn't matter," Louis waved his hand, exasperated. "Let's be realistic. We don't have that kind of time. The castle needs to be built quickly. It has to be functional, but most importantly—it needs to be defensible."
As he spoke, he pulled out a rolled-up parchment from his Arms and handed it to Mike. It was a castle blueprint he had personally sketched.
The design was meticulous. Each section was labeled, every function detailed—from storage rooms and barracks to defense towers and escape passages. Louis explained the vision as Mike examined the drawing.
"The key is to balance functionality, defense, and livability," Louis said, tapping a few areas on the blueprint. "But defense must always be prioritized. 80% defense, 20% habitability. If we must sacrifice comfort for safety—we do it."
Mike looked at the design, his expression growing increasingly awkward. At last, he let out a heavy sigh.
"Lord… the design is excellent, no doubt. But building a stone fortress of this scale and complexity would take at least ten years. Realistically, it could take thirty or forty."
Louis's jaw dropped. "Ten? Thirty? Forty years?!"
He had believed his plan was already optimized for speed, but now it seemed laughably unrealistic.
Mike offered a helpless smile. "With our current manpower and technology, it's simply not possible to build something this ambitious quickly. We'd need decades to pull this off properly."
Louis frowned, thinking hard.
Red Tide Territory had taken shape, yes—but it was still vulnerable to threats from outside. The castle wasn't supposed to be a monument—it was a shield, a wall between survival and extinction.
The Cold Moon Tribe was in chaos for now, but when they unified, they would surely march south. That wasn't the only threat either. To the north were the Glacier Beastmen, while behind them stirred remnants of the Snow Country rebels, all looming like storm clouds over Red Tide.
The danger was like a runaway wagon, hurtling toward them at full speed.
Louis couldn't afford to wait decades. He couldn't wait until he was an old man just to move into his ideal castle.
He changed the question. "Is there any faster alternative?"
Mike paused, stunned. He looked at the hammer in his hand, then at the bustling workers, as if trying to draw inspiration from the tools around him. But in the end, he shook his head.
"I… I've never studied anything outside our usual methods," he admitted. "I'm not exactly a fountain of innovation."
Louis sighed and waved him off. "Forget it. I'll figure something out myself."
He closed his eyes, rifling through memories from his past life—scrolling mentally through every architectural style he could remember.
Stone fortresses, medieval castles, Renaissance keeps… all required materials, workers, and above all—time. Time he didn't have.
"Too slow… too complicated… not good enough…" he muttered.
Then, as if struck by lightning, a memory surfaced.
"Tulou."
The word escaped his mouth before he even realized it.
Tulou—traditional fortified buildings from his old world. Large, round, and designed by the Hakka people to withstand war. With strong outer walls, simple materials, and communal inner structures, they were famously resilient and quick to build.
They were even nicknamed "Oriental Ancient Castles."
And most importantly—they were fast to construct.
"Yes! This is what I need!" Louis exclaimed.
He grabbed a nearby pen and began furiously sketching over his original blueprint, transforming the detailed fortress design into a massive cylindrical structure.
Mike peeked over his shoulder, frowning. "It looks… kind of bare. Not very aesthetic."
Louis rolled his eyes. "Aesthetics? What are we building, a gallery? This is a fortress! It just needs to block enemies and keep us alive!"
He pointed at the revised blueprint. "See this circular structure? It's perfect for absorbing and dispersing impact. The shape helps redirect external force, improving defense significantly."
"And instead of stone," he continued, "we use compacted earth mixed with hot spring clay—easy to work with and fast to build. Strong enough, low-cost, and fast."
Mike scratched his head, clearly skeptical, but he leaned in and examined the drawing more seriously.
And the more he looked, the more it made sense.
It was simple, sure—but it was smart. Practical. Efficient.
Louis stood tall in the center of the workshop, blueprint in hand, as he called the craftsmen together.
"Alright! Listen up!" he said loudly, pointing at the new drawing. "Here's how we're going to do it."
"First—site selection. This is critical. We need to find a place near a hot spring—not too hot, just warm enough. That geothermal energy can heat the building naturally. In winter, we'll run hot spring water through pipes under the floor to keep our feet warm. No freezing feet. No frostbite."
The craftsmen stared at him, mouths open. This was revolutionary to them.
Louis grinned. "Yeah, you heard right—a heated floor."
He continued, pointing to the perimeter wall. "The outer ring will be made of one-meter-thick stone. Inside that, we'll layer compressed earth mixed with hot spring clay—reinforced with wooden supports."
"That gives us durability without sacrificing speed."
"In the inner ring, we'll build wooden living quarters—thick log pillars, beams to support multiple floors. The ground floor is for storage. The second, third, and fourth floors are for living. Access between levels will be simple wooden ladders carved from planed tree trunks."
As he spoke, he drew a side profile of the interior. His plan was both minimal and brilliant. The materials were available locally, the methods were straightforward, and the design offered shelter, security, and speed.
Mike slowly nodded, awe dawning on his face.
It wasn't grand, but it was clever. A practical fortress that could be built quickly—and might just be the difference between survival and ruin.
For the first time in weeks, Louis felt hope.
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