Unexpected Gains

Nehru found life to be truly remarkable.

He was a complete opportunist, and after his defeat, he desperately craved High Mountain Keep's favor to improve his situation.

Initially, he was quite confident, positioning himself as chief mage and advisor. He diligently showcased his mastery of magic, wisdom, and erudition. But his efforts were wasted; no one paid any attention, and the only result was a few more kicks.

Perhaps fate truly is a loop, constantly circling back to the starting point when one least expects it.

Just as he was despairing and ready to give up, a batch of failed brew brought him exactly what he wanted.

For some reason, the High Mountain Keep lord clearly valued this concoction, even giving it the peculiar name "Soy Sauce."

Nehru was immediately unbound and appointed head of the High Mountain Keep slaves on the spot, with the sole requirement that he continue brewing Soy Sauce.

Like other elemental users, most shamans don't drink alcohol, so the old Kobold hadn't been very careful when brewing it initially.

Now, he regretted it deeply; he couldn't recall many details, only remembering that the main ingredient was a yellowish wild bean.

Richard had examined the sample Nehru submitted. It looked very much like the soybeans he was familiar with, though it had a slightly salty taste.

All the High Mountain Keep subjects were mobilized, searching the mountains for beans, but they hadn't found much yet.

These Werewolf subjects were highly enthusiastic. They had been prepared to become slaves or even livestock, yet they unexpectedly found a liege they could rely on, and even retain their freedom and property.

For a tribe that had lost most of its warriors and was desperate for protection, it was like a pie falling from the sky—nothing could be luckier. So, whatever Richard commanded, they responded with great fervor.

"Boss, why are you brewing this?" Gunther held a crystal bottle, sniffing it lightly with a deep frown. He didn't much care for the smell.

It was a container previously used for holy water, which Richard had cleaned and filled halfway with Soy Sauce.

"Gunther, do you know? We're going to be rich very soon." Richard smiled subtly and demurely, but couldn't hold it in, quickly dissolving into wild, unrestrained laughter.

Those familiar with him could see something in his eyes: on the left, money, and on the right, still money.

Gunther subtly rolled his eyes.

"My lord, the rest of our tribe has arrived." Hert's four hooves pounded the ground rapidly, like a whirlwind, until he slammed to a halt four or five paces away, his two front hooves raised high.

Following the direction of his arm, Richard saw sixty or seventy Centaur, men, women, and children, slowly approaching, herding groups of green-horned yellow oxen. Piled high on the oxen's backs were mountain-like bundles of belongings, looking like an entire tribe relocating.

Facing the unfamiliar environment, the children nervously hid in their mothers' arms, unaware that their mothers were equally at a loss.

Although they knew there was no danger, several half-grown Centaur boys still roamed around clutching crude weapons like wooden sticks and bone clubs, only to be quickly stopped by their calmer, more cautious elders.

Richard strode forward to meet them.

"My lord, these are the Great Busmi of our tribe," Hert said, pointing to five particularly burly elderly Centaur.

In every respect, their age had clearly passed their physical prime, yet their strong, solid muscles showed no signs of slackening, in no way inferior to Hert, that massive individual.

"Busmi means elder, right?" Richard chuckled, high-fiving the muscular old man at the front. The rough calluses on the man's palm felt like he was slapping sandstone.

He didn't understand the Orc language, but from the context, he felt he was probably close.

"No, it means blacksmith, my lord." The five Busmi bowed simultaneously, respectfully and with decorum.

Hert had told them a few things about High Mountain Keep, though vaguely. Still, the excitement of having stumbled upon a great fortune couldn't be faked. They were old now and willing to trust the judgment of the most promising younger generation in their tribe, to follow this young man.

"Pfft..."

A Centaur woman was offering white milk, flatbread, and salt according to custom. Richard had just picked up a bowl and taken a sip when he couldn't help but spray it everywhere.

"Cough, cough, cough... you cough, cough... cough, cough..."

Richard carefully scrutinized the old Centaur again.

The thickness of their two arms varied slightly, with the dominant hand being stronger than the other. Their arms were densely covered with numerous light brown, old burn scars, and their palms had thicker calluses than ordinary warriors—all clear characteristics of blacksmiths.

"Blacksmiths? You actually know how to smelt iron?" Richard still couldn't quite believe it.

"My lord, we are Centaur! As long as you have iron ingots, we can open the forge at any time." The Centaur Busmi were quite indignant at such baseless suspicion.

"The Orc Kingdom has always had the saying 'horseshoe iron,' meaning that Centaur possess the skill of smithing," Hert blinked, not understanding what was so strange about it.

"Is that so?" Richard turned to look at the Great Busmi.

The five weathered faces, covered in rough features, nodded in unison.

"Then can you forge military equipment?" Richard's heart hung in the balance.

A village blacksmith who only forges farm tools is entirely different from a blacksmith who can manufacture military equipment. He fervently hoped the Centaur were the latter.

At this moment, Richard was worried that fate would play a truly unfunny joke on him, cutting off all hope just when he was on the verge of success—this often happened to him.

The old Centaur exchanged glances, a smile passing between them. The one in the middle stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest and saying, "If you mean enchanting weapons, then we are indeed powerless. But if it's merely smelting and forging metal, not even dwarves could do better than us."

Richard was suddenly struck by an immense and uncontrollable ecstasy, so excited he could barely contain himself. He picked up the bowl of milk, gulped it down to the last drop, and then shoved it back into the hands of the dumbfounded Centaur woman.

How important is military industry to the development of a territory? This question shouldn't even be asked, because the answer can only ever be: as important as can be, to the point of being a matter of life and death!

Pompeii had over a thousand feudal noble territories, but fewer than a tenth could genuinely produce military equipment on a significant scale. In the somewhat turbulent border regions, this was the key distinction between a nobody and a powerful figure.

"My lord, it has been several years since we touched an anvil, ever since we left our homeland. But as long as raw materials can be purchased from Pompeii, us old fellows can provide your army with high-quality weapons at any time, and we guarantee we won't slack off."

They looked eagerly at the High Mountain Keep lord. As excellent blacksmiths, having been away from the anvil they had known their whole lives, they felt their hands itch and a sense of longing.

"That's easy enough to arrange."

Richard readily agreed. Regarding military equipment, he had many outlandish ideas in his mind waiting to be tested.

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