The Governor's subtle intervention was a shield, but Mikhail knew it was temporary. Katorov was a predator who would not be deterred by a single setback. The message was clear: Volkovo was no longer beneath his notice. Mikhail used the reprieve not to relax, but to accelerate.
He poured every ruble of profit back into the brickworks. He bought the stretch of riverbank outright from a now thoroughly intimidated Baron Fyodorov, securing his sand supply permanently. He hired another dozen men, expanding his workforce and organizing them into shifts for near-continuous production. Wagons laden with Volkovo's distinctive, high-quality bricks became a common sight on the road to Pskov as his reputation for reliability and superior quality grew. Volkovo, the backwater estate, was becoming a humming engine of local industry.
As expected, Katorov's retaliation was not long in coming. It was not political this time, but brutally economic. Suddenly, the price of common bricks in Pskov plummeted. Katorov, using his vast capital reserves, began dumping massive quantities of his own inferior bricks onto the market at a price far below what it cost Mikhail to produce his. He didn't need to make a profit; he just needed to bleed his competitor dry. Contractors who had praised Mikhail's quality now regretfully turned to Katorov's cheaper alternative. Orders for Volkovo bricks slowed to a trickle.
Mikhail's men grew anxious. The wage he paid depended on sales, and they watched the growing stacks of unsold bricks with worried eyes.
Mikhail, however, had been anticipating this move. A price war against a titan like Katorov was unwinnable. As Alistair, he had studied the predatory tactics of 19th-century monopolists. The only way to win was to refuse to play the game.
He once again retreated to his study with his books on chemistry and engineering. His bricks were strong, but they were a simple commodity. He needed to create a product that Katorov could not easily replicate, a product that solved a problem the local gentry didn't even know they could fix. He found his answer in a combination of agricultural science and ceramic technology: vitrified clay pipes.
The local landowners, including his neighbor Fyodorov, all had the same problem: vast tracts of marshy, waterlogged land that were useless for farming. The concept of drainage was rudimentary at best. Mikhail, using his advanced knowledge, designed a system of interlocking, high-temperature-fired ceramic pipes that could drain these swamps and turn them into fertile fields. Manufacturing them would require modifications to his kiln to achieve higher temperatures and new techniques for molding the clay, but it was all within his technical reach.
Instead of seeking buyers for a product no one understood, he decided on a demonstration. He sent formal invitations to two dozen of the most influential landowners in the province, including many he had spoken with at the assembly. The invitation was simple: "Baron Volkov cordially invites you to witness the reclamation of the Volkovo marshlands and to discuss the future of provincial agriculture."
To ensure the attendance of the most important guests, he sent a special, personal letter to Princess Sofia.
The day of the demonstration was a crisp autumn afternoon. A skeptical but curious crowd of nobles gathered on a hill overlooking the soupiest part of Mikhail's estate—a bog that had been a breeding ground for mosquitoes for centuries. They watched as his workers, following a network of trenches they had spent weeks digging, laid the last of the strange, reddish-brown pipes. At Mikhail's signal, a final ditch was opened, connecting the system to a lower-lying creek.
For a few minutes, nothing happened. Then, with a gurgle, water began to flow from the outlet pipe. It started as a trickle, then became a steady, clear stream. Before the astonished eyes of the assembled gentry, the marsh began to bleed its water away. The saturated ground visibly firmed up. It was a miracle of engineering, simple and profound.
Mikhail stood before them, not as a desperate merchant, but as a visionary. "Gentlemen," he announced, his voice carrying in the still air. "You have just witnessed the transformation of three useless acres into what will be, by next spring, the most fertile field on my estate. This technology can double the arable land of every man standing here."
As he spoke, a fine carriage arrived, bearing the crest of the provincial governor. Princess Sofia stepped out, elegant and poised, nodding graciously to the assembled nobles before turning her full attention to Mikhail's demonstration. Her presence was an unspoken but powerful endorsement. It was a signal to everyone present: this man, this strange young baron, has the favor of the governor's palace.
The effect was immediate. After the demonstration, Mikhail was swarmed. The landowners, practical and greedy men, understood the implications instantly. They peppered him with questions about cost, installation, and capacity. Katorov's cheap bricks were forgotten. This was not about construction; it was about the creation of new wealth from nothing.
By the end of the day, Mikhail had secured contracts for drainage systems on six different estates, totaling a sum that dwarfed his entire brick-making profits to date. His new, higher-margin product had found its market.
That evening, he shared a brief, private word with Sofia before her departure. "Your timing was impeccable, Princess," he said with a small smile. "Progress is a worthy cause to support, Baron," she replied, her eyes sharp. "And it is always wise to encourage those who challenge entrenched monopolies. My uncle appreciates a… dynamic economy."
He turned back toward the manor, the last light of day glinting off the damp fields that were no longer a swamp. Katorov had tried to bleed him with cheap bricks. In doing so, the man had forced him to invent something better, something Katorov couldn't easily copy. The irony was satisfying. His enemy had provided both the problem and the impetus for a far more lucrative solution. Let him keep his brute force, Mikhail thought. It was a clumsy weapon against an opponent who refused to stand still.