The heat of the forge was a physical wall, smelling of sulfur, sweat, and burning coal. To Ronan, it smelled like opportunity.
He stood at the edge of the open air structure, watching Kennos work. The blacksmith was a master of his craft, capable of shaping steel into beautiful curves, but watching him make simple iron nails was agonizing.
Ronan's eyes tracked the process, the Sovereign's Ledger overlaying a timer in his vision.
1. Kennos grabbed the cold iron rod.
2. He pumped the bellows himself (Time wasted: 12 seconds).
3. He waited for the heat (Time wasted: 45 seconds).
4. He moved to the anvil and hammered (Value Added).
5. He walked five paces to the water trough to quench it (Time wasted: 8 seconds).
6. He walked back to the bellows.
[Current Efficiency: 14%]
[Industrial CP Rate: +0.04 / hour]
"Stop," Ronan said.
The command wasn't loud, but it cut through the ringing of the hammer. Kennos froze, the hammer raised high. He lowered it slowly, wiping soot from his forehead with a massive forearm.
"My Lord?" Kennos asked, his tone bordering on irritation. " The iron cools fast. If I don't strike—"
"You're walking too much," Ronan interrupted, stepping under the roof. "And you're doing jobs that don't require a master's arm."
He looked at the two apprentices huddled in the corner. One was a skinny lad named Pate, who was currently polishing a finished horseshoe. The other was Gendel, broader in the shoulders but slow witted.
"Pate, Gendel. Get over here," Ronan ordered.
The two boys scrambled to attention. Kennos crossed his arms. "Begging your pardon, Ronan—Lord Ronan—but smithing isn't a dance. I can't have boys underfoot."
"It is a dance," Ronan corrected. "But you're dancing to the wrong tune. We need nails, Kennos. Thousands of them. We need hinges. We need basic tools for the harvest. And at this pace, we won't have them until the Snows fall."
Ronan pointed to the bellows. "Gendel, you are strong. Your only job is the fire. You pump the bellows. You keep the coals white hot. You do not move from that spot. When the iron is hot, you use the tongs to place it on the anvil. That is all."
Gendel blinked, looking at his master for confirmation. "Just... pump, my Lord?"
"Just pump," Ronan confirmed. He turned to the blacksmith. "Kennos, you are the Hammer. You do not touch the bellows. You do not walk to the water trough. You stand at the anvil. When Gendel puts the iron down, you strike. You shape it. Then you slide it to the right."
Ronan grabbed Pate by the shoulder and shoved him gently toward the water trough. "Pate, bring the water bucket here. Place it right next to the anvil. Your job is the Quench. You take the hot iron Kennos finishes, you dunk it, you toss it in the pile. Then you grab the next cold rod and hand it to Gendel."
Kennos stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "My Lord, this is… this is not how it is done. A smith sees the metal through from start to finish. I need to feel the heat to know—"
"Do it," Ronan snapped, letting a bit of the Lord's authority bleed into his voice. "Humor me. For one hour. If the pile of nails isn't double your usual amount, I will leave you alone and never step foot in here again."
Kennos grunted, clearly offended, but he nodded. "Aye. One hour. Gendel! Get the bellows."
The first ten minutes were a disaster.
Gendel overheated the first rod until it sparked and ruined. Pate dropped a hot nail on his foot and yelped, knocking over the water bucket. Kennos kept trying to reach for the tongs out of habit, cursing when he realized Gendel already had them.
[Efficiency: 8% (Confusion penalty)]
"Focus!" Ronan barked, pacing like a drill sergeant. "Kennos, stop reaching! Trust the boy! Gendel, now! Place it!"
Clang.
"Strike, strike, strike! Now slide it!"
Hiss.
"Pate, grab the next one! Gendel, heat!"
It was chaotic, loud, and frustrating. But slowly, the human gears began to mesh.
Gendel realized he didn't have to think; he just had to watch the color of the flame. Kennos realized he didn't have to preserve his energy for walking; he could put all his strength into the swing.
The rhythm changed.
Whoosh (Bellows).
Clang clang clang (Hammer).
Hiss (Quench).
Whoosh.
Clang clang clang.
Hiss.
It became a heartbeat. A mechanical, driving pulse that echoed off the stone walls of the keep. There was no pause. No walking. No wiping sweat. Just the relentless transformation of raw iron into useful metal.
Ronan watched the numbers.
[Optimization Detected]
[Synergy Bonus: +15%]
[Current Efficiency: 65%]
The pile of nails grew. First a handful. Then a mound. Then a heap.
Kennos was sweating profusely, his breathing heavy, but his eyes were wide. He had never swung his hammer this many times in a row without a break. He was in a trance of destruction and creation.
"Time!" Ronan called out after the sun dipped below the Wolfswood tree line.
Kennos dropped his hammer, his chest heaving. Gendel collapsed onto a stool. Pate was nursing a burnt thumb.
But on the table sat a pile of iron nails that would usually take three days to forge.
Ronan walked over and picked one up. It was rough, utilitarian, and perfect for holding a granary together.
"Count them," Ronan said softly.
Kennos looked at the pile. He didn't need to count to know. He looked up at Ronan, the annoyance gone, replaced by a fearful sort of respect. "It's… it's three times the work, my Lord. Maybe four."
"It's specialization," Ronan said. "You were doing three jobs, Kennos. Now you're doing one masterfully."
A blue notification pulsed in Ronan's vision, bright and beautiful.
[Goal Update]
[Industrial Output Increased: +0.12 CP / Hour]
[New Daily Projection: 4.8 Industrial CP]
It was working. The math was working.
"We do this every day," Ronan said, tossing the nail back onto the pile. "Tomorrow, we start on the hoe heads. But we don't stop there."
He pointed to the bellows.
"Gendel is tired because that pump is designed for a single hand. If we build a double chambered bellows with a foot treadle, he can pump twice the air with half the effort."
Kennos looked at the bellows, seeing it not as a tool he had inherited from his father, but as a machine that could be improved. The smith nodded slowly. "A foot treadle... aye. That would work. We have the leather for it."
Ronan felt the tension in his shoulders relax, just a fraction.
[Tech Tree Progress: Heavy Mouldboard Plow]
[Time to Unlock: 18 Days]
He had cut the time in half. But eighteen days was still too long. He needed more points. He needed to expand.
"Rest well," Ronan told them. "Tomorrow, we fix the world."