The road to Tretogor, the capital of Redania, didn't look like a peasant revolt. It looked like a very loud, very organized industrial field trip.
At the head of the column walked Alfred, now six years old and carrying a small, brass-encased device that clicked rhythmically. It was a Zippo-style lighter, a "gift" from the System after he spent 300 points on [Miniaturized Combustion & Flint-Strikers]. Behind him, a hundred farmers and laborers carried long, red cylinders wrapped in waxed paper.
"Remember the rule, Barnaby," Alfred called back over his shoulder."Don't eat the red sticks, and don't light the fuse until we're at a safe distance," the blacksmith recited, patting a bundle of Dynamite as if it were a newborn babe.
Alfred had spent the last month teaching them that "stability" was just a matter of soaking nitroglycerin into kieselguhr (or in this case, a specific blend of porous clay and sawdust). He didn't call it magic. He called it Controlled Kinetic Energy.
Inside the Royal Palace, King Vizimir II was staring at a map of his kingdom, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. Beside him, his spymaster Sigismund Dijkstra and the sorceress Philippa Eilhart were engaged in a rare moment of shared silence.
"Explain it to me again, Dijkstra," Vizimir commanded. "They aren't shouting for my head? They aren't burning effigies of the Eternal Fire?"
"No, Majesty," Dijkstra rumbled, his arms crossed over his massive chest. "The reports say they are carrying 'Account Books' and 'Refund Requests.' They are specifically targeting the Alchemists' Guild and the Mages' Quarters."
"Why?"
"Because," Philippa said, her voice dripping with icy disdain, "apparently a six-year-old child has convinced the entire peasantry that we are 'scientifically fraudulent.' They claim our protection spells are just overpriced weather-vane logic and our healing potions are 'diluted willow bark with a markup of 400%.'"
Vizimir blinked. "Fraud? Not heresy? They're... they're suing the Guild?"
"In a manner of speaking," Dijkstra said, glancing out the window. "Though their 'legal counsel' seems to consist of red sticks that can level a city wall."
The lynch mob didn't stop at the city gates. They didn't have to. Barnaby simply showed the guards a "demonstration" of a single dynamite stick on a nearby boulder. The guards, being logical men who preferred having all their limbs, opened the gates immediately.
The mob marched straight to the grand, marble-pillared Academy of Alchemists.
"Master Eltibald!" Barnaby bellowed, holding his lighter aloft. Flick-hiss. The tiny flame danced, casting a terrifyingly steady light. "Come out! We've got some questions about the Molar Mass of your 'Soil Blessing' and we'd like our crowns back. With interest!"
The Alchemists peeked from the balconies, their robes trembling. They tried to cast 'Shield of the Aegis,' but Alfred just pointed a finger at the shimmering air.
"It's just an ionized gas barrier!" Alfred shouted. "Throw the sticks at the base! Gravity and pressure don't care about your ions!"
The first explosion didn't just rock the building; it rocked the very foundation of the Continent's power structure. As the Alchemists began jumping out of windows—not because of demons, but because they couldn't explain the Thermodynamics of why their front door was now in the next street—Alfred felt the System chime.
------
[Task Complete: Start a Scientific Reformation (Violently).]
[Reward: 1,000 System Points.]
[New Knowledge Unlocked: Basic Steam Power & Pressure Valves.]
------
Alfred looked up at the Royal Palace, where he knew his "father" was watching. He didn't want the throne. He just wanted a world where a fever didn't cost a farm and "fate" didn't involve people getting eaten by monsters that could be solved with a bit of Silver Nitrate and a blunderbuss.
******
The courtyard of the Tretogor Palace was thick with the smell of tension and sulfur. King Vizimir II, known as "The Just," stood on the royal balcony, looking down at a scene that defied all his military training. Instead of a bloodthirsty rebellion, he saw a crowd of citizens holding receipts like weapons.
"Your Majesty!" Barnaby bellowed, stepping forward. "We've been robbed! Not by thieves in the night, but by these 'masters' in silk robes! They charge us the price of a farm for a 'soil blessing' that this boy does with a handful of salt and air!"
Vizimir's gaze fell on Alfred. The boy looked remarkably like a miniature version of the king himself—the same sharp line of the jaw, the same piercing eyes. The king felt a flicker of recognition, a memory of a pale, corn-silk-haired woman from years ago, but he pushed it aside. The "miracle boy" was currently more interesting than a potential bastard.
"Explain yourself, boy," Vizimir commanded, his voice echoing. "The Alchemists' Guild claims you are using forbidden arts to destabilize the crown."
Alfred stepped forward, holding a simple glass beaker. "It's not forbidden, Majesty. It's just Efficient. These men aren't evil; they're just... well, they're dunces."
A collective gasp went up from the mages and alchemists.
"How dare you!" a high-ranking Alchemist sputtered. "We study the ancient texts of the Elder Races! We spend decades learning the spiritual alignment of lead and gold!"
"That's the problem," Alfred said, bored. "You're reading poetry when you should be doing math. You use primitive 'transmutation' to fix soil, which requires massive amounts of Chaotic Energy and expensive ritual components. That's why you charge the farmers so much."
Alfred held up his beaker. "I use the Haber-Bosch Process—well, a localized magical version of it. I don't 'transmute' the soil. I simply use a tiny catalyst of Chaos to pull nitrogen directly from the air and bind it to the earth. It uses 1% of the energy and 0% of the 'spiritual alignment.' You're using a siege engine to crack a nut, and charging the nut-owner for the castle's upkeep."
The mages began scratching their heads. They looked at each other, then at Alfred's beaker. The logic was so simple it was insulting.
"You mean..." Vizimir leaned over the railing, his eyes narrowing at his court mages. "The famine in the White Valley could have been solved for the price of a few glass jars and some common air?"
"Yes," Alfred shrugged. "But they didn't know how because they were too busy trying to turn lead into gold—which, by the way, is a total waste of time since gold has no industrial utility compared to high-carbon steel."
The King looked at the Alchemists, who were now sweating under the collective glare of a hundred angry, dynamite-carrying peasants.
"It seems," Vizimir said slowly, a dangerous glint in his eye, "that my 'wise men' have been charging me for 'mysteries' that are actually just bad management. Alfred, was it? Since you find my court so... primitive... perhaps you'd like to show us what else we've been overpaying for?"
------
[System Notification: Level Up!]
[New Title: Royal Scientific Advisor (Temporary).]
[Reward: 2,000 System Points.]
[New Knowledge Unlocked: Basic Medical Anatomy & Antiseptics.]
------
"I'd start with the hospital," Alfred said, pointing toward the city's plague ward. "The 'evil spirits' in there are actually just microscopic organisms that hate soap. We can clear the ward by Tuesday for the price of a few bars of lye."