Translator: CinderTL
Alden Town, Lord's Office.
Wells handed over the report, his fingertips trembling slightly, yet his face couldn't conceal his triumph. Behind him, several ceramic jars stood on a wooden shelf, their mouths sealed tightly with wax, each labeled with what appeared to be serial numbers.
"Lord Grayman!" he declared in a booming voice, as if releasing years of pent-up achievement in a single breath. "We've succeeded! This new explosive, primarily composed of picric acid, has been nitrated and purified to achieve a potency far exceeding Black Powder. In field tests, a mere three pounds of this explosive collapsed a granite test wall—an effect utterly unmatched by Black Powder!"
His gaze burned into Paul's. "If deployed for blasting tunnels in the Rocky Mountains, even the deepest dwarf fortifications wouldn't withstand two detonations."
Paul took the report, flipped through a few pages, his brow furrowing at first, then suddenly lifting, a flicker of disbelief flashing in his eyes.
He leaped to his feet, rounded the desk, and clapped Wells heavily on the shoulder.
"Professor Wells, this... this is nothing short of a miracle!" His voice carried just the right amount of awe. "I never imagined I'd witness such explosive power in my lifetime! You've not only solved the mountain assault problem but also rewritten the very history of warfare! Remarkable, truly remarkable!"
Wells straightened his back, his chest nearly bursting with pride, and his lips stretched into a grin that reached his ears. The chemistry researchers behind him also lifted their heads, unable to conceal their elation.
Black Powder—Lord Paul Grayman's invention—was the black powder that had ignited Alden's rise to power.
Muskets had replaced longbows, cannons had shattered city walls, pirates had scattered, and orc cavalry had howled under the hail of coordinated volleys. Black Powder formed the very backbone of the Northwest Legion.
And now, he, Wells, had personally created something even more powerful.
Not an improvement, not an optimization, but a transcendence! A true "explosive" capable of splitting mountains and shaking the earth itself.
He could almost imagine the moment this yellow crystalline substance was packed into tunnels deep within the Rocky Mountains, the fuse lit, and the entire mountain range trembling.
He glanced unconsciously at Hoffman and Tennyson beside him. They too were exhausted yet exhilarated, their eyes sunken, their fingers still stained with nitric acid burns.
Yes, this was a collective achievement, but he had been the driving force. It was he who had persisted in refining the nitration process after countless failures, and he who had first proposed purifying picric acid crystals to military-grade purity. This glory was rightfully his.
He straightened his back once more, basking in Paul's praise, his heart swelling with indescribable pride. He had not only participated in the greatest endeavor of their era but had personally propelled it to new heights.
Standing beside him, Derson bowed slightly, offering polite congratulations such as, "Congratulations, Professor Wells, well-deserved," his face adorned with a courteous smile.
Yet as his gaze fell upon Paul's feigned expression of shock, a barely perceptible flicker of amusement crossed his mind.
He knew better than anyone else.
This explosive, known as "picric acid," had appeared in the world of Lord Grayman's memories over a century ago. Initially used merely as a yellow dye, its explosive properties were later discovered by chance. Briefly employed for military purposes, it was soon superseded by more stable and efficient explosives. In the vast ocean of "Earth's history," it was merely a fleeting ripple in the long river of military technology.
What Professor Wells regarded as a monumental breakthrough was, in the depths of Lord Grayman's soul, perhaps nothing more than a few lines in a textbook.
Derson lowered his gaze, concealing the complex emotions in his eyes.
He didn't reveal his knowledge, nor could he. In this world, it was a weapon capable of shifting the tides of war.
He simply stood quietly, watching Wells bask in the joy of praise, while Paul maintained his feigned enthusiasm, engaging Wells in conversation as if truly awestruck by this "epoch-making" invention.
Finally, Paul announced that to reward the Weiss Academy Chemistry Department for their groundbreaking achievement, their funding for the coming year would be doubled. Wells, Hoffman, and the others erupted in jubilation, showering Paul with gratitude before taking their leave.
The office door closed softly behind them, and the sound of their footsteps faded down the corridor.
The feigned excitement on Paul's face receded like a receding tide, replaced by his usual calm. He walked to the window, gazing thoughtfully at the newly planted phoenix trees in the courtyard.
Derson hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Lord, since you know the formula for this yellow explosive—and even... the more powerful TNT—why not simply tell them? It would save them half a year of trial and error, and conserve vast amounts of funding and manpower."
Paul turned, tapping his finger lightly on the window frame. "Do you know the story of the farmer who tried to help his seedlings grow faster by pulling them upward?"
Derson paused, then shook his head.
"It's a story," Paul said. "Once upon a time, there was a farmer who grew impatient with how slowly his rice seedlings were growing. So he squatted in the field and pulled each seedling upward a little. That evening, he went to check on them, full of anticipation, only to find that all the seedlings had withered and died."
He paused, his gaze settling on Derson's face. "If I simply wrote down the formula, it would be like that farmer pulling up the seedlings. With Wells and Hoffman's abilities, they could quickly figure out the explosive, but they would stop thinking for themselves. They would believe that all the answers come from me, not from experimentation, calculation, and reasoning. Over time, Weiss Academy would become a mere scribal hall, not a place of research."
He walked to the desk, picked up the report, and gently stroked the edge of the paper. "What this world needs isn't prophets, my dear Derson. It needs methods—observation, hypothesis, experimentation, verification. Only through these methods can they continue to advance even after I'm gone. Even if it's slower, with detours and setbacks, at least the footprints they leave behind will be their own. Science must grow from within, not fall from the sky."
Derson remained silent for a long time before finally murmuring, "I understand."
Paul picked up another military intelligence report from the front lines, his tone turning somber. "The Stonemason Clan has been increasingly restless lately."
He handed the report to Derson. "According to reports from Mountain Throat Fortress, the dwarves have begun harassing our eastern outposts with increasing frequency. Small groups of three to five strike and retreat, sometimes firing a few arrows, sometimes rolling down boulders. Their objective is clear: to lure our troops into the mountains."
Derson took the report, his brow furrowing slightly. "Luring us into a trap?"
"Precisely," Paul nodded. "The mountainous terrain is treacherous, and the dwarves' tunnels crisscross the region like a labyrinth. They know the terrain intimately, making ambushes child's play. Once our soldiers pursue them into the mountains, they might never return."
A sardonic smile flickered across Paul's lips. "Perhaps because they've been hiding in these mountains for millennia, rarely engaging in warfare with the outside world, their tactics are laughably outdated. Derrick recognized the trap immediately and issued strict orders forbidding our troops from crossing the border in pursuit. Instead, he reinforced defenses at the mountain passes and known tunnel entrances."
(End of the Chapter)
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