Munitions Empire Chapter 2: The speaker is unintentional, but the listener takes it to heart.

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"My lord, that Quick Gun the fellow took… it truly looks valuable…" Once Tang Mo departed, a guard who had witnessed the demonstration firsthand spoke up next to Baron Stela.

The guard on the opposite side, appearing more plain-looking, remained silent, lost in deep contemplation.

"It's quite impressive—the firing speed alone makes it highly desirable," Baron Stela replied casually as he loaded his flintlock hunting gun, chatting idly with the guard.

These guards swore loyalty to him, requiring occasional shows of respect. Managing underlings this way was an essential noble skill, studied with utmost care.

"Then why…" The guard was baffled; if his master valued the weapon, why let it slip away so easily?

Stronger weapons felt utterly vital in these chaotic times, offering vital edges against enemies for peace of mind.

The other guard simply rubbed his nose, staying aloof from the matter.

"The Kingdom operates four Shireck Flintlock Gun workshops, churning out nearly 2000 new guns yearly while repairing 800 more old ones. Understand the enormous profits and vested interests?" Loading finished, the Baron scanned the forest fringe for prey.

Without turning, he added, "I pocket 150 Gold Coins from top to bottom! No trivial sum."

Shireck names a powerful consortium, its reputation booming like thunder across the entire continent.

This consortium dominates arms production in dozens of nations, planting workshops to forge firearms, cannons, ammo, and gear within their borders.

Via cunning tactics, Shireck weaves complex webs of influence in these realms, seizing control of most military arms purchases, harvesting vast wealth, and subtly shaping national choices.

"Viscount Hel invested shares months ago to build a fresh Shireck Flintlock Gun workshop… Completed, it'll yield over 300 new flintlock guns annually!" Muttering as if to the wind, he added, "Why let it all waste away?"

"How many flintlock guns stock the Kingdom's reserves, and how many soldiers drill with them? Grasp the fortune lost scrapping it all for a restart?" Baron Stela shouldered his gun, targeting a distant hare, questions flowing sans glance back.

"Who'd be happy if I stirred this hornet's nest?" Trigger pulled, the shot rang out, white smoke puffing from muzzle and flintlock at his side.

"Nobody would thank me! Nobody at all! Just heaps of trouble…" He thrust the hunting gun at the hesitant guard, coldly eyeing the dogs pursuing far-off game.

Why meddle when reclining brings gold? The wise noble's path, no? Baron Stela smirked, everything aligning to his design.

Tang Mo hurled his rifle into the carriage, slammed the door shut, and vaulted to the front co-driver's perch.

The awaiting coachman raised his hands briefly, then lashed the reins down sharply with a crack.

The well-kept pair of horses lunged forward, dragging the carriage as warm gusts assailed Tang Mo.

"Third one now…" Guiding the thundering horses, the bearded veteran coachman—Tang Mo's steward, blacksmith, and makeshift technician—queried, "No deal still?"

The elder had been Tang Mo's father's trusted aide, instrumental in bootstrapping the Tang weapon workshop.

Dubbed a weapons forge, it mostly crafted kitchen blades and farm tools; prime sellers mimicked Shireck Flintlock Guns as hunting pieces.

During Tang Mo's father's era, it snagged Kingdom repair gigs for flintlocks, thriving to feed over two hundred souls.

Regrettably, fortune faded fast. After Tang Mo's parents' sudden passing, the Tang workshop dwindled, clinging to bare survival till today.

"No!" Tang Mo shook his head, shifting to a more comfortable spot on the rough-riding carriage. "Those scoundrels don't recognize fine goods at all—either they're complete fools, or they're downright wicked. Either way, none of them truly believes they can triumph in battle."

He couldn't figure out why these folks turned him down. If they'd just invest in a shipment of modern firearms, they'd recoup their costs ten or even a hundred times over on the battlefield.

A soldier's life counts for something, and whether a soldier lives or dies boils down to money—wasn't that basic truth clear? Didn't these highborn lords get it?

Were they simply callous toward their troops' fates, or did they know deep down they couldn't claim victory in even one fight?

In his thoughts, Tang Mo inwardly condemned them all, then vented his bitterness to the loyal old steward. "That jerk even squeezed a Gold Coin out of me! Damn it!"

"Don't get discouraged—selling goods is always tough; prying even a single penny loose takes real effort," old Roger responded, steering the carriage carefully while offering solace to the dejected Tang Mo.

He recognized that this young heir of the Tang lineage possessed sharp ideas, since the innovative firearm model loaded at the rear stemmed from their joint labors, crafted painstakingly piece by piece.

Yet it appeared the workshop's fortune was cursed, with slim chances of rivaling those massive arms manufacturers.

"Failure births success." Perched up front, Tang Mo propped his chin on his hand, staring down the far-stretching path, murmuring absently to old Roger's encouragements.

The paths of this age weren't paved smooth; despite the springs beneath the carriage, it jolted along roughly. Tang Mo's frame rocked softly with the vehicle's quick pace, and silence stretched between the pair for some time.

Thick forests on either side blurred past, their ancient allure bordering the route. They'd passed beyond the town's outskirts, encountering fewer and fewer wagons and walkers.

"Trust me, a time will arrive when everyone in the world wields our firearms," Tang Mo declared abruptly after the quiet lingered, assuring Roger. "The others are mere copycats, worthy only of trailing us and prizing our castoffs like jewels."

"I trust you, I know that moment will arrive," Roger laughed lightly, affirming Tang Mo's conviction.

While he held faith in Tang Mo, their plight remained grim. Tang Mo had surrendered his final Gold Coin moments ago, leaving funds too meager to sustain the workshop's daily operations.

The workshop sustained more than 150 souls, chiefly skilled artisans demanding wages each day for their labor. These workers also brought along unpaid apprentices, whose food and upkeep added hefty ongoing costs.

Should the workshop thrive with profits, those artisans and learners would prove Tang Mo's prized resources; but amid deficits, they'd become chains strangling him.

...

"Hey! Reiner..." Shortly after Tang Mo's carriage rolled away, within the Baron's estate, a personal guard of the Baron—flintlock in hand—entered the servants' lounge, flipping a silver coin idly.

Upon stepping in, he called out casually, earning nods from the lounging servants and maids. He was none other than the quiet sentinel who'd flanked Baron Stela before.

"Hey! Wes!" Shift change had arrived, so a freshly relieved servant hailed him before resuming his boot shine, head bowed low.

The space lacked any finery—just rickety chairs and a scarred, battered table.

Wes dragged a seat close and plopped down beside the polisher, legs crossed, grinning as he asked, "Who was that guy showing off the new rifle earlier?"

He'd stayed mute through the Baron's excited pitch and the follow-up, then claimed a family elder's illness to slip away with permission. Rather than depart, though, he'd headed here.

"That guy? Some merchant out of Brunas Province." The boot-shiner replied without glancing up. "A real hick, hasn't seen much beyond his village."

A freckle-dotted maid dipped a curtsy and neared the pair; her duty shift beckoned, ready to relieve another.

"Brunas? Isn't that by the sea?" Wes stepped aside to let the maid slip past between them, then kept up the idle banter with no real focus or purpose.

"Yeah, they shipped two fish from there yesterday... reeking to the heavens. Hahaha." Reiner the servant erupted in hearty laughter as he replied.

"Hahahaha!" Wes laughed right along, vividly picturing the foul stench of those long-hauled fish, "And that country bumpkin, what's his name again?"

"Tang Mo, he handed me this." Reiner paused midway through polishing the boot, fished a small scrap of paper from his pocket with the hand steadying the boot, and passed it over to the guard.

A servant to the Baron had to possess keen insight naturally. Reiner had already sussed out the guard's reason for showing up, which surely tied to that young fellow called Tang Mo.

Thus, he chose to offer this small favor; after all, they all served under the Baron, and nurturing solid connections was always a smart move.

Wes's brow furrowed faintly, yet he took the paper regardless, his gaze locking onto the prominent lettering: "Tang's Weapon Workshop."

During that era, the sizes of production operations were rigidly marked by precise labels; spots with fewer than a hundred hands were mere small workshops, over a hundred earned the title of workshops, while those exceeding a thousand in large workshops got dubbed factories.

Turning the paper around, Wes noted a quite precise address on the reverse side, paired with a name in bolder script—Tang Mo.

"No issue grabbing this, yeah?" Wes slapped the silver coin from his grip onto the table and inquired, just going through the motions.

"Of course! No problem at all." Reiner shrugged nonchalantly, making clear the paper held little value, "First time I've seen such a dingy scrap passed off as a calling card."

"Yeah, quite the character," Wes remarked while rising, stuffing Tang Mo's card into his pocket and striding toward the door.

"Thanks!" The servant pocketed the silver coin and called out to the guard, who was already at the threshold.

With one foot beyond the doorway, Wes looked deep in contemplation and, head unturned, gave a casual wave, "You're welcome."