The rifle stood in the palace like a relic of prophecy. Nobles came to glimpse it, merchants whispered about it, and soldiers begged to touch it. To many, it was merely a weapon. To Tafari, it was proof of what Ethiopia could become.
But one rifle was a symbol, not an arsenal. He knew that if Ethiopia was to survive the storms ahead, symbols must be multiplied into steel.
Tafari gathered his blacksmiths again in the workshop. Their faces were streaked with soot, but their eyes shone with pride. He unrolled new sketches before them — not just rifles, but furnaces, water-powered hammers, lathes carved from wood and iron.
"We cannot make rifles one by one, as a farmer plants single seeds," Tafari declared. "We must make them as a farmer sows a whole field. This means we need industry — a system, not just a forge."
The smiths muttered uneasily. One said, "We do not have the machines of Europe, Prince. Their factories roar like thunder. We have only our hands."
Tafari shook his head. "Hands are enough to begin. Europe built its first factories with wood, leather, and simple wheels. We will start as they did — and learn as they learned. But we must move quickly."
The plan began small, disguised as harmless craftwork. New forges were built under the guise of making plows, hoes, and iron pots. Farmers welcomed the stronger tools, never knowing that the same furnaces tempered rifle barrels at night.
Tafari applied what he remembered of assembly systems. Instead of each smith building a full weapon, he assigned tasks:
Barrel teams hammered and rifled iron tubes.
Bolt teams filed and shaped mechanisms with precision.
Stock teams carved wood, perfecting grip and balance.
Piece by piece, the rifles came together faster than before.
At first, a rifle took two weeks. Then, with refinements, one week. Soon, a single workshop produced a handful each month.
It was slow compared to Europe — but for Ethiopia, it was a revolution.
Yet Tafari knew rifles alone could not win wars. Industry was not just about weapons. It was about foundations: steel, transport, energy.
So he turned to the rivers.
He led Abebe and a group of laborers to a rushing stream outside Harar. "Here," he said, pointing to the bend, "we will build a waterwheel. It will power hammers and bellows. Men tire, but rivers never sleep."
The laborers doubted, but Tafari guided them step by step — wood cut to frame the wheel, paddles angled to catch the flow, gears fashioned from iron scraps. When the wheel turned and the hammer struck steel without human hands, the smiths gasped as if witnessing sorcery.
"This," Tafari said, placing his soot-stained hand on the wheel, "is the strength of industry. With it, Ethiopia will multiply her arms faster than any invader expects."
The weeks grew into months, and with every success came whispers.
Merchants noticed sudden demand for iron ore and charcoal. Farmers marveled at new tools, not realizing they were byproducts of weapons work. Soldiers began training with the first batch of Ethiopian-made rifles, their pride swelling with every shot fired.
But Tafari moved carefully. He knew the Italians watched. Too much noise would invite spies. So he kept the workshops hidden, spread across villages, each appearing to be no more than a smithy. Only he, Abebe, and a few trusted elders knew the full extent.
By the year's end, fifty rifles stood ready. Fifty weapons that no foreign hand had forged. Fifty seeds of an Ethiopian army that could no longer be disarmed by embargo or betrayal.
One evening, Abebe walked into the workshop, his hands blackened from tending the forges. He set down a finished rifle with pride. "We are getting faster, Tafari. At this pace, we could arm a hundred men before next season."
Tafari looked at the rows of rifles, their barrels gleaming in the lamplight. His heart swelled — not with arrogance, but with resolve.
"This is only the beginning," he said. "Rifles today, cannons tomorrow. Workshops today, factories tomorrow. Ethiopia must not only fight her enemies — she must outgrow them."
Outside, the sound of the waterwheel turned steadily, endlessly, like the heartbeat of a new age.
Tafari stood in the doorway, gazing toward the horizon where he knew foreign ships lurked on distant coasts.
"Let them come," he whispered. "They will not find a starving, begging land. They will find fire and iron waiting."