Unexpected Gains

Nehru felt that life was truly strange.

He was a thoroughgoing opportunist. After his defeat, he had desperately wanted to win High Mountain Keep's favor and improve his situation.

At first, he had been confident. He had positioned himself as chief mage and adviser, and worked hard to showcase his accomplishments in magic, wisdom, and erudition. But his flattering glances had been wasted on the blind; no one cared in the slightest. In the end, all he had gained was a few extra kicks.

Perhaps fate really was a circle. After winding around and around, it always returned to where it had begun, often without anyone noticing.

Just when he had despaired and was preparing to give up, a vat of failed liquor had brought him what he wanted.

For some reason, the lord of High Mountain Keep clearly valued this stuff highly, and had even given it the strange name "Soy Sauce."

Nehru was immediately untied and appointed head of the slaves at High Mountain Keep on the spot. His only requirement was that Nehru continue brewing Soy Sauce.

Like other elemental users, shamans were mostly teetotalers, so the old kobold had not put much effort into brewing it back then.

Now he regretted it bitterly. He could not remember many of the details, only that the main ingredient had been some yellowish wild beans.

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

Every subject of High Mountain Keep had been mobilized to search for beans across the mountains, but they had not found much so far.

These werewolf subjects were extremely enthusiastic. They had originally been prepared to become slaves or even livestock, but unexpectedly they had found an overlord they could rely on while still retaining 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 have been luckier, so they responded enthusiastically to every order Richard gave.

"Boss, why are you brewing this?" Gunther held a crystal bottle and sniffed it lightly, his brows furrowing deeply. He did not particularly like the smell.

It had been the container that previously held holy water. After being washed clean, Richard had filled half of it with Soy Sauce.

"Gunther, you know what? We're about to make a fortune." Richard gave a reserved little smile, but unfortunately could not hold it back for long. It soon turned into a wild, unrestrained laugh.

Anyone familiar with him could see something in both his eyes: money in the left, and money in the right.

Gunther discreetly rolled his eyes.

"My lord, the rest of the members of our tribe have arrived." Hert's four hooves pounded the ground in rapid succession as he charged over like a whirlwind. He only managed to brake to a stop four or five paces away, raising both forelegs high into the air.

Following the direction of his arm, Richard saw sixty or seventy centaur men, women, and children slowly approaching while herding groups of Blue-Horned Yellow Cattle. Every cow carried bundles tied to its back that were piled up like little mountains. They looked as though the entire tribe was migrating.

Faced with the unfamiliar surroundings, the children nervously hid in their mothers' arms, unaware that their mothers were just as bewildered.

Although they knew there would be no danger, several adolescent centaur boys still gripped crude weapons such as wooden sticks and bone clubs while patrolling around. Their older relatives, steadier and more cautious, soon stopped them.

Richard strode forward to greet them.

"My lord, these are the five great Busmis of our tribe." Hert pointed toward five especially robust elderly centaurs.

In every respect, their ages had clearly carried them past their physical prime. Yet their sturdy, solid muscles showed no sign of sagging, and they were in no way inferior to the hulking Hert.

"Busmi means elder, right?" Richard said with a hearty laugh as he slapped palms with the muscular old man at the front. The rough calluses on the other man's palm made Richard feel as though he had slapped sandstone.

He did not understand the orc language, but judging from the context, he felt he was probably close.

"No, it means blacksmith, my lord." The five Busmis bowed together, respectful and composed.

Hert had told them a few things about High Mountain Keep. Though his account had been vague, the excitement of someone who had struck it rich was impossible to fake. They were old now, and were willing to trust the judgment of the tribe's finest younger generation and follow this young man.

"Pfft..."

The centaur women were presenting the customary offerings of pure white milk, flatbread, and salt. Richard had just raised the bowl and taken a sip when he could not hold it in and sprayed it everywhere.

"Cough, cough, cough... you people—cough, cough..."

Richard carefully looked over the old centaurs again.

Both of their arms were slightly different in thickness, with their dominant arms stronger than the other. Their arms were densely marked with many light-brown old burn scars, and the calluses on their palms were thicker than those of ordinary warriors. They really did show all the obvious traits of blacksmiths.

"Blacksmiths? You can actually smelt iron?" Richard still found it hard to believe.

"My lord, we're centaurs. As long as you have iron ingots, we can fire up the forge at any time." The centaur Busmis were deeply indignant at being subjected to such baseless doubt.

"The Orc Kingdom has always had the saying 'horseshoe iron.' It means that the centaurs possess the art of smithing." Hert blinked, unable to understand what was so strange.

"Is that so?" Richard turned to look at the five great Busmis.

Five heads covered in weathered wrinkles nodded in unison.

"Then can you forge military equipment?" Richard's heart tightened.

A country blacksmith who could only make farm tools and one who could manufacture military equipment were two entirely different things. He desperately hoped the centaurs were the latter.

At that moment, Richard was worried that fate was about to play a thoroughly unfunny joke on him, cutting off all hope just when he was one step away from success. Things like that happened to him all the time.

The old centaurs exchanged smiles. The one in the middle stepped forward, placed a hand over his chest, and said, "If you mean enchanting weapons, then we truly are incapable of it. But if you only mean smelting and forging metal, then not even dwarves could do it better than us."

Richard suddenly felt struck by an enormous, uncontrollable surge of joy. Overcome with excitement, he lifted the bowl of milk and gulped it down to the last drop before thrusting it back into the hands of the stunned centaur woman.

How important was military industry to the development of a territory? That question should never even have been asked, because the answer could only be that it was as important as anything could possibly be. Saying it concerned life and death would not be an exaggeration!

Pompeii had more than a thousand fief-holding noble territories, yet fewer than one in ten could truly produce military equipment on a large scale. In the somewhat turbulent border regions, that was the key distinction between a nobody and a powerful noble.

"My lord, it has been several years since we left our homeland, and we have not touched an anvil in all that time. But as long as we can purchase raw materials from Pompeii, us old fellows can provide your army with high-quality weapons at any time—and guarantee that we will not slack off."

They gazed eagerly at the lord of High Mountain Keep. As outstanding blacksmiths, even they felt restless and yearned for the familiar anvils they had left behind for a lifetime.

"That can be arranged."

Richard agreed immediately. As for military equipment, he already had plenty of wild ideas waiting to be tested.