Chapter 565: The Age of Steel

It felt like an age of steel had dawned.

As if overnight, the world people had known on this land was turned upside down.

Just last year, life had remained unchanged for centuries. Common folk toiled in the soil from dawn till dusk; knights patrolled the castles on horseback, proud and imposing; nobles and their ladies feasted endlessly within castle walls; and in the village taverns, folks spun wild tales of dark magic, wizards, monsters, and heroes. Everyone lived their lives in their assigned roles, just as they had a century ago, or two centuries before that.

Then, suddenly, the nobles raised their banners and marched off to war. The proud knights donned their armor and left their lands. The lords abandoned their castles. A vast army set out, bearing seized grain and colorful flags. The elders said such things happened a few times in a lifetime—knights would return after a year or two, laden with gold and slaves. But these knights never came back. Nor did the nobles in their castles.

Even the elders had never seen anything like this.

New masters took over the castles. The old lords were deposed, their laws abolished. A powerful new lord imposed fresh rules across the southern lands. The administration replaced the old lords and their advisors; clerks took the place of tax collectors and stewards. The entire world’s order shifted—dramatically, breathtakingly.

And then, the age of steel arrived—so the newspapers described it last week.

Sam, a villager near Hosman, thought the phrase fitting. Only cultured folk could come up with such a name.

The rising sun burned off the night’s lingering mist. Early summer in the northern kingdom brought a crisp morning, neither cold nor hot, refreshing to the soul. Sam stepped out of his home, wearing the coarse linen clothes he’d bought last year, a water flask at his waist, shoes on his feet, and a piece of bread in hand—breakfast to eat on the way. He headed toward the courtyard of the “Agricultural Machinery Office.”

There were seventeen Sams in the village. Illiterate country folk rarely came up with other names—it was either Sam or George, or John and Tom. But since the night school opened last year, many had learned a few letters and changed their names. Ten Sams had renamed themselves, but not him.

He didn’t particularly like his name, but after half a lifetime, he was used to it.

He had, however, renamed his son Tom to “Parni.” The night school teacher said it was a term from the magical engineering industry, meaning “power.” To Sam, his son was his power.

The Agricultural Machinery Office was just ahead.

Sam quickened his pace, a flicker of excitement stirring in his chest.

The farming machines were brought by the administration, just like the land redistribution and surveying laws—new things promoted by the new lord. As a farmer who had just learned a few letters at night school, Sam didn’t understand how the machines worked, nor why the lord wanted to relocate remote villagers to Hosman and nearby towns. But one thing was clear: these machines were good.

The roaring machines were powerful—stronger than several men and oxen combined. With them, plus cheap druidic potions and the newly surveyed, consolidated fields, this year’s harvest was almost unbelievable.

The gate to the Agricultural Machinery Office stood open. Sam stepped inside cautiously, glancing left and right. No one else had arrived before him. Then he saw the steel machine—quietly resting in the courtyard.

Its lines were sharp and rigid, like a giant iron box. Rows of wheels lined its sides, wrapped in metal bands. At the front was a mechanical contraption of gears, chains, and rollers.

A young man busied himself around the lead-gray machine, checking the connections of the device that bundled and ejected straw at the back. Seeing Sam, he pointed toward a small building nearby. “Go register inside. I’ll be ready soon.”

Sam nodded quickly and hurried into the small building.

Inside, a clerk in a white shirt sat flipping through a newspaper. Sam approached the desk and saw bold black headlines. Squinting, he made out the words: “Pioneer Arrives in Carol Region—Citizens Cheer Along the Coast.”

In a smaller section, another headline read: “Gravel Ridge Bandit Troubles Ended; Seven Renegade Knights Recruited.”

“Can you read?” the clerk asked, looking up at the farmer before him—a typical countryman, bent and weathered, dark-skinned with rough hands and a face lined with early wrinkles. He looked old but was probably middle-aged.

Sam startled awake and nodded hurriedly. “Ah, yes, yes… Sorry, sir, I’m just…”

“It’s alright. Knowing how to read is a good thing. The more letters you know, the more knowledge you can gain from books,” the clerk smiled. “Don’t be so nervous. I’m not a noble either—I’m a commoner, just like you.”

Sam still felt a bit flustered but nodded. The officials in the administration were kind—much kinder than the old tax collectors and stewards—but he still instinctively got nervous around them. “I… I’m here to borrow the harvester and tractor. I got my number three days ago.”

He pulled out a slip of paper he’d kept close since then. There was only one harvester and one tractor here, recently transferred from Hosman city. These new machines were as precious as the magical vehicles, and the chance to use them was just as rare.

The clerk checked the slip against his ledger and nodded. “Sam, right? Your name and resident number are here. You’re renting for half a day, to harvest District Two of Lucidi.”

“Yes, yes,” Sam said eagerly. “District Two, District Two.”

“Here’s your voucher. The mechanic’s in the yard—you saw him earlier. Just give it to him. The tractor’s out hauling goods in town but will be back soon. I’ll have the mechanic find you.” The clerk pulled a printed card from under the desk and handed it to Sam. “Also, no payment needed. Your family was among the first to actively respond to the land redistribution. The administration has covered the mechanic’s fee.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

Sam took the card, thanked him again, and hurried out.

The clerk watched the humble farmer leave, then lowered his head to the ledger.

Names filled the pages, and he couldn’t help but smile.

When the first tractor arrived in Hosman, its clanking, powerful presence had scared off half the onlookers—just like when the first magical vehicle rolled into town, or the first water pump started up—causing quite a stir.

But in such a short time, so many had come to rent harvesters and tractors.

This was thanks to the administration’s recent machine demonstrations. They showed the people how useful these farming machines could be, easing their doubts. After all, for farmers, a bigger harvest was everything.

The harvester was a new invention, developed after the magical vehicle. The engineers in Cecil City had begun researching agricultural machinery immediately after creating the magical vehicle. From last autumn to this spring, they built a series of incredible machines.

New technologies always found their first use in the military to secure the homeland, then were adapted for civilian use to enrich the people. The upper class’s luxury came last—this was what set Cecil apart from other places.

The clerk sorted through a week’s rental records, marveling at the rapid development of magical engineering and the promising harvest ahead.

Since the new policies took effect, Hosman had transformed faster and more thoroughly than anywhere else. Under Governor Daedalus’s efforts, the administration applied Cecil’s successful experience here, with remarkable results—especially in agriculture.

Many remote farmers relocated to towns and satellite villages. The old noble estates and knightly manors were surveyed and redistributed as contracted land to the new settlers. With seed distribution, affordable druidic potions, unified agricultural training, and appropriate incentives and penalties, the once scattered, traditional farming was swiftly replaced by Cecil-style “planned agriculture.” Now, the results were plain to see—

A harvest to be expected.

In the courtyard, Sam handed the card to the mechanic, then climbed up beside him on the machine, gripping the handrail tightly. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his nervous heart.

He glanced down at his shoes, making sure they hadn’t been damaged climbing onto the tracks and pedals. Relief washed over him.

These were his first new shoes in years.

The machine roared to life. Powered by magic, the steel beast’s “belly” hummed with moving parts. As it began to vibrate, Sam instinctively gripped the handrail, palms sweating. But once the machine rolled steadily through the courtyard gate, his pounding heart settled.

Outside stretched endless fields, waiting to be worked—one of them his own.

Nothing calmed him more than that.

Sitting atop the mechanical monster, watching the mechanic expertly manipulate levers, pedals, and the steering wheel with gestures Sam couldn’t understand, a pang of envy stirred.

He didn’t know if he’d ever get to touch those controls himself. He was too old to learn such complicated things. But Parni… his son was still young. Maybe he could.

The boy had learned so much at school—he was the smartest in the family’s history. If he kept studying, maybe he could become a “mechanic” too—a clever operator of machines.

The steel machine rumbled forward into the fields.

The armored knights who once swaggered between towns were gone. The nobles who feasted endlessly in castles were gone. The villagers who once whispered of dark magic and wizards now read newspapers aloud, debating the news.

And Sam…

Sam sat atop the machine heading toward his own land, feeling the steel’s vibration and power beneath him.

This must be what they called the age of steel.

In Cecil City, inside the Mechanical Manufacturing Institute’s Agricultural Machinery Workshop I, Gawain gazed at the massive, rugged, and crude machine before him—yet it radiated an undeniable sense of power.

This thing… in the end, it really was built right here in the tractor assembly line.

A White Knight from the Church of the Holy Light was offering a blessing over the colossal machine: “…May the Holy Light bless its weighted wheels and tracks, that it may never overturn; bless its barrel, that it may never overheat; bless its engine, that it may forever be filled with strength…”

As the knight’s prayer echoed—earnest, if somewhat uncertain, yet solemn—the young knight Philip stepped forward and tapped the steel war machine’s hull, feeling the cold, unyielding metal beneath his fingers. Turning back, a faint smile touched his lips. “My lord, I believe I finally understand what you meant by the ‘Age of Steel’—just as you said, this truly is an age forged of steel.”

(End of chapter)