In the factory where steam and metal roar, the steel behemoth boring machine stands majestically, and the cast iron cannon barrel blanks are slowly hoisted to the center of the boring machine by workers using iron chains and pulleys.
As the water-powered flywheel roared to life, the boring bar pierced the cannon barrel like a precise scalpel, sparks and iron filings sprayed like a golden rainstorm, and the air was filled with the scorching metallic stench.
Workers no longer need to rely on feel and experience to repeatedly hammer away – the gears and connecting rods of the boring machine advance with a steady rhythm like a mechanical pulse, cutting every inch of the inner wall of the gun barrel as smooth as a mirror, with an error of no more than the thickness of a coin.
In the misty haze of coolant and steam, the gun barrels on the assembly line undergo a transformation one by one: the once rough cast iron shells are given standard curvature and caliber, and are neatly arranged on the inspection table like copies, reflecting the ruthless pursuit of perfect repetition by industrial civilization.
Sunlight streamed through the factory's high windows, casting slanted rays onto rows of black cannon barrels. The cold, straight metal axes seemed to herald the arrival of a new era—the manufacture of war machines had finally leaped from the fingertips of craftsmen into the absolute realm of steel and mathematics.
The Royal Army generals from Crystal Radiance watched the scene with solemn expressions. Everyone wanted to say something, but they couldn't say anything. Before coming here, the scene they could imagine was: skilled craftsmen leading their apprentices, hammering away with heavy iron hammers, just as the blacksmiths on this continent had done for thousands of years.
Although their creations are more ingenious—using violently expanding gas to ignite metal projectiles—the way they create these magical creations is not much different from the way they make ordinary swords. As long as the right approach is found, what Alda craftsmen can do, craftsmen elsewhere can also do.
But the scene before them shattered the above image, yet everyone could intuitively conclude which method was more advanced and which was more backward.
Humans often possess an exceptionally keen intuition for things that are more powerful, advanced, and potent, and can generally judge their quality based on their appearance alone, just as the more beautiful a fighter jet is, the higher its combat capability.
The visual impact of mass production is incomparable to that of traditional handicrafts.
It is obvious that Alda's production methods far exceeded those of other places in this era.
...
Since the victory at Black Worm Nest, Stanford has begun its process of taking control of the North Three Territories.
He first used Gunther's attack on the Black Worm Nest as a pretext to attack the Bloodhoof Tribe, demanding that the Bloodhoof Tribe submit to the Marquis Glaeman as punishment for the attack.
Chief Asoye of the Bloodhoof Tribe only then learned of the foolishness of his eldest son's actions, and that Gunther was dead.
This incident undoubtedly dealt a heavy blow to Asoye. Although he knew that Gunther was unreasonable first, he still refused Black Worm Nest's request.
Stanford showed no mercy to the chieftain, who always addressed him as an old friend in his letters. He immediately assembled a force of over five thousand men to march on the border, including both humans and orcs who had come to his side.
The two sides fought a fierce battle in the forest near the Bloodhoof Tribe settlement.
The primitively equipped orc warriors roared angrily and surged out of the gaps in the forest like a tide, brandishing stone weapons, and viciously charged at the human army.
However, the Black Worm Nest's army deployed firearms and artillery, and they immediately launched a counterattack. Explosions rang out continuously, and thick smoke filled the forest, severely disrupting the visibility of both sides.
The surrendered orc warriors served as human shields, fighting alongside the Bloodhoof Tribe warriors with height and physique comparable to their opponents. Although they lacked firearms, their equipment, crafted from polished metal, was still superior to the Bloodhoof Tribe warriors ' generally stone weapons. While the surrendered orcs engaged the enemy, the firearm users behind them would seize the opportunity to deliver the fatal blow.
Ultimately, the Black Worm Nest's army, with its superior equipment, subdued the enemy. The number of corpses lying on the Bloodhoof Tribe increased, and after several hours of fierce fighting, the Bloodhoof warriors, feeling hopeless, fled into the depths of the forest.
Chieftain Asoye was protected by his still loyal warriors, but it was too late to retreat as human armies surged in from all sides and surrounded them.
The old orc was badly injured. He knelt on the scorched earth, his back hunched over. His cracked armor had been torn to shreds by lead bullets, and his bare chest was riddled with several bowl-sized holes. Beneath his dark green skin, rotten flesh scorched by gunpowder curled up.
His broken axe was deeply embedded in the soil, serving as a crutch to support his broken body, the faded battle marks pulsating between the wrinkles as his muscles spasmed.
His loyal warriors were in no better condition than their chieftain; they were either exhausted or severely wounded, clinging to life by sheer willpower.
Hearing the sound of a firearm loading ammunition through the smoke, Asoye's cloudy single eye suddenly flashed with a fierce light, and a battle cry mixed with blood splattered from his throat. The soldiers around him also raised their weapons, determined to fight this hopeless battle to the bitter end.
"Bang!"
The volley of firearms roared, and the last warriors of the Bloodhoof Tribe fell one after another. One of the bullets spun and pierced Asoye's forehead, freezing his last unfinished roar into an eternal echo in the forest.
Not a single mistake, not a single song, not a single post, not a single piece of content, not a single 6-9 book, not a single bar, take a look!
When the smoke cleared, the battered body lost its last support and collapsed helplessly to the ground.
Black Worm Nest had won the victory, and the human army, riding the wave of its triumph, issued an ultimatum to the native tribes of the land who had long harbored hostility towards them: choose peace— peace under Alda's rule, of course—or be banished to the northern ice plains.
The Bloodhoof Tribe, the most powerful tribe in the area, had a chieftain named Asoye who had always held great prestige. Now that they had been wiped out, all the native tribes that were hostile to humans had lost a banner, which is why the Black Worm Nest was able to take control of the North Three Territories so easily.
It was at this time that Alvis and his servant Marek arrived at the North Three Territories.
Exhausted from their long journey, their clothes were torn to shreds by the winds of the grassland. Each of them led a horse, as thin and bony as themselves, into the forest.
Perhaps as compensation for their misfortunes along the way, the door of fortune finally opened for the two travelers. As Alda's control over the North Three Territories deepened, his stronghold had extended deep into the forest, so they soon came across a trading post, received timely relief, and continued their journey toward Black Worm Nest with the guidance of the staff.