Louis reached out and pushed open the oak door, the hinges letting out a low, muffled groan.
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Varius stood inside the door, his hands tightly gripping that pen. It wasn't a particularly ornate object, but in his eyes, it was heavier than any scepter.
“Lord Louis, I will not fail your expectations,” he whispered, his voice still sowhat tight as he gave Louis a deep bow.
Louis said nothing more, rely giving a slight nod.
Varius turned and left.
His silhouette disappeared at the end of the corridor, exceptionally resolute.
“Click.” The door slowly closed behind him.
At almost the sa instant, the layer of ntor-like solemnity on Louis's face completely faded away.
He raised a hand to rub his brow, as if finally loosening a string that had been pulled tight for a long ti.
“Phew...” He exhaled a long breath.
He turned back to the table and picked up the cup of tea that had long since gone cold, taking a sip without hesitation.
A bitter taste exploded at the root of his tongue.
Louis frowned slightly but didn't put the cup down, taking another sip as if using this thod to pull himself back to reality.
The gentleness and guidance in his eyes vanished, replaced by familiar calculation and an irrepressible fatigue.
Just then, Bradley walked in silently.
His movents were efficient, without redundant pleasantries; he went straight to the table, gathered the draft bills that had been spread out earlier, and placed them into marked folders.
Imdiately after, he opened another archive box and spread out several new files.
On the parchnt were coastal routes, port draft lines, dock structural diagrams, and dense shipbuilding data.
Louis placed the empty cup back on the table, his voice returning to its usual steadiness: “Who is next?”
Bradley glanced at the itinerary in his hand: “Oland fernando, forr Chief Shipwright of the Southeast Province, and an elder left over from your grandfather's era.”
Bradley paused and added: “He has been standing at the door for half an hour. He looks very nervous.”
Louis's gaze fell on the sea chart on the table, lingering for a mont before he gave a soft nod: “Let him in.”
The oak door was pushed open again, and Oland walked in.
His hair was graying yet ticulously grood, the hairline pressed against his scalp without a single stray strand.
He wore a deep purple velvet formal suit, the cut already twenty years out of style; slight wear could be seen at the cuffs and elbows, but it had been cleaned repeatedly and still maintained its dignity.
The most conspicuous thing was an old-style badge pinned to his chest.
The coat of arms of the Calvin Family.
The silver base had oxidized and turned black, and there were even a few small nicks on the edges; it was clearly not a recently made imitation, but sothing truly brought through from the old era to the present day.
Oland walked to a position five steps from the desk, stopped perfectly, and perford an extrely standard—even slightly excessive—vassal's salute.
He bowed slightly, his knees visibly sinking, adopting an extrely low posture.
“Young Master Louis...” When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly, “...no, my Lord.”
“Seeing your achievents today, this old man... even if I were to die this very mont, I would finally have the face to see the Old Duke. God bless the Calvin Family.”
Oland looked up, his eyes rimd with red, his tone carrying a perfectly asured amount of excitent and choking emotion.
Despite saying this, this was the first ti the two had t.
As his voice fell, the room lapsed into a brief silence.
Louis's gaze swept over the badge on Oland's chest, and he had already made his judgnt.
That badge had most likely been pressed at the bottom of so trunk for over thirty years.
Being polished and pinned to his chest today was a statent in itself.
You are a mber of the Calvin Family, and I once served this family.
It was a reminder of his seniority and a hint at his past contributions.
But Louis did not expose him, because the performance was well-acted, and he happened to need such a character.
Louis imdiately walked around the desk, strode to the old man, and reached out to support him.
“Please, rise, Mr. Oland,” his tone was gentle and firm, without a hint of perfunctoriness. “You are a legendary figure from my grandfather's era, and also my elder.”
The mont those words were spoken, the tension in Oland's eyes visibly loosened.
Louis did not give him a chance to continue making statents, but personally pulled out a chair for him: “Please, sit.”
Soon, a servant brought hot tea.
It wasn't so casually prepared drink, but the highest grade within the Red Tide.
As the tea was poured, steam rose, and the room was imdiately filled with a gentle fragrance.
“It was a long journey; thank you for your hard work.”
After Oland sat down, his hands rested naturally on his knees. He first looked down at the teacup, then secretly used his peripheral vision to gauge Louis's expression.
When he confird that this young lord truly valued old ties and that his attitude was sincere, his originally sowhat hunched back quietly straightened a bit.
The expression on his face also slowly shifted from the earlier excitent to a asured kindliness.
“I am honored by your concern, my Lord.” Oland finally looked up, his hands tightening slightly on his knees, yet no longer as humble as when he first entered.
“The journey was a bit long, but... I can still move.” He gave a light smile. “To be able to see your current appearance with my own eyes, this bit of hardship is nothing.”
Louis didn't respond imdiately, just quietly observing the subtle changes on the old man's face.
“With your skills,” Louis said as if in casual conversation, “you should have been sitting in the position of Chief Engineer of the Southeast Province. How did you end up being a wanted man?”
As soon as the words fell, the layer of deliberately maintained humility on Oland's face was torn away.
He struck the floor heavily with his cane, the sound of wood hitting the ground exceptionally piercing in the quiet room.
“Wanted?” The old man's voice suddenly rose, his face turning purple. “That wasn't being wanted; it was persecution!”
“It was a purge by those mad dogs of the golden feather flower church!”
Once the floodgates of emotion opened, the accumulated anger could no longer be contained.
“They took a fancy to my shipbuilding techniques and wanted to hand over the latest ship blueprints to them. That would have been one thing...” Oland's hands trembled slightly, “but they actually forced to publicly renounce the Dragon Ancestor!”
He looked up suddenly, his eyes full of humiliation.
“They said the Dragon Ancestor is a false god, a totem of beasts! They wanted to burn the dragon bone amulet passed down through my family in the square in front of everyone, kneel before their damned flower statue to be baptized, and even change my na!”
Oland's voice beca hoarse, carrying an unmistakable tremor: “But the fernando family has built ships under the gaze of the Dragon Ancestor for generations.
To have betray my ancestors to believe in their flower god who only knows how to sell indulgences?”
He spat fiercely: “I would rather set the shipyard on fire than build even a single plank for those charlatans!”
The room fell silent once more.
Louis looked at the old man who had lost control of his emotions, yet his own heart was exceptionally calm.
The anger was real, the dignity was real, but he was equally aware that another layer of things was just as true.
This old shipwright was accustod to a life of luxury and being looked up to; he could not bear being trampled into the mud by the tis and power.
What he needed was not just protection, but a stage worthy of his ambition and vanity.
Louis spoke, his tone even more direct than before: “They were indeed blind, but in the Red Tide, technology is the only faith.”
Louis looked directly at Oland, giving him no room for maneuvering.
“Stay, Mr. Oland. The newly built Royal-class shipyards at Dawn Harbor will be entirely your responsibility.
There will be no limit on research funding. You can recruit the best apprentices and use the finest timber and steel.
I will arrange for your residence at the highest point of the harbor, where you can see your ships being launched just by opening your window.”
Hearing this, Oland's breathing quickened, though he still maintained his mature and steady posture.
“This... how can I accept this.” He forced a smile. “This old man just wants to leave sothing behind for the family...”
“Mr. Oland.” Louis interrupted his pleasantries.
He reached out and opened a drawer, took out a folded blueprint, and slowly spread it out on the table.
As soon as the paper was flattened, Oland was stunned.
The blueprint wasn't complex; it didn't have those dense symbols he was familiar with, nor did it have strange structures beyond the era. It could even be called blunt.
The hull was very wide and thick, with heavy lines; it didn't pursue a slender shape for speed but looked more like a floating platform of wood and stone.
The keel was repeatedly marked for reinforcent, with a simple note written beside it: 'Load-bearing priority, stability priority.'
In the center of the deck, a closed iron-clad cabin was clearly drawn, occupying the most central position of the entire ship.
There was no decoration, only its purpose labeled: Boiler Room.
What made Oland's heart race the most were the two sides of the hull.
There were no diagrams for deploying spare sails, nor complex oar fras; instead, there were drawings of two massive wooden wheels.
The paddles were thick and broad, the structure simple, resembling waterwheels mounted directly onto the sides of the ship.
The axle was connected by a sturdy connecting rod, leading straight to the boiler room in the center of the hull.
There were no fancy annotations, only a single sentence: "Fire turns the axle, the axle pushes the ship forward."
Orland's breath hitched visibly, not because the blueprints were profound, but because they were so blunt.
"...Not relying on the wind?" His voice dropped, carrying a hint of hesitation, "Fire burns inside, and the wheels turn outside?"
He looked up at Louis, then down at the blueprints again, as if repeatedly confirming that he hadn't misunderstood.
"Downstream or upstream, as long as the fire doesn't stop, this ship can keep going?" Orland's finger stopped beside the wooden wheel. "Doesn't that an... no waiting for wind, no watching the tides, no praying to the heavens?"
At this mont, all the calculation and performance on his face vanished, leaving only the primal shock of an old shipwright.
Louis watched his reaction and nodded slightly. "You've seen it correctly, and it's not just an idea stuck on paper."
As these words fell, Orland snapped his head up.
Louis continued, "A prototype has already been built, in the inner bay of Dawn Harbor."
Oland's pupils contracted sharply, and his breathing skipped a beat in an instant.
Louis gave him no ti to digest this, following up with the next blow: "Of course, the current version isn't perfect."
The hull structure isn't rational enough, and the stress distribution on the axle has issues; long-term operation will damage the keel."
"That's why I need you," Louis said, looking the old man straight in the eye. "If you just wanted to build a larger sailing ship, I wouldn't have needed you."
He paused, then added a sentence that seed casual but carried the weight of a thousand catties: "But if this ship can truly be finalized and mass-produced, I will have it nad after your surna."
As these words fell, the room fell so silent that only the faint crackle of the candlelight remained.
Oland froze in place.
His Adam's apple bobbed violently, as if he wanted to say sothing but couldn't imdiately make a sound.
His gaze was first pinned firmly to the blueprint, then slowly lifted to rest on Louis's face.
In that look, the calculation and performance were still there, but they were being forcibly pushed aside by an irrepressible heat.
Naming it after his surna—the thought echoed repeatedly in his mind.
If Louis's words were true, then in the future port taverns, on shipping ledgers, and even in academy textbooks, when people talked about that 'monster that doesn't rely on wind,' they would casually ntion fernando.
Oland's breathing beca rapid, and he subconsciously puffed out his chest, as if already standing on an imaginary slipway, watching workers and apprentices look up to wait for his command.
"...Using my na." He seed to be tasting the weight of the title itself.
Oland didn't say anything more; he just nodded slowly.
The movent appeared sowhat dazed, as if he were still lingering in the mont his na was uttered; his consciousness had agreed first, while his reason hadn't yet caught up.
Louis didn't press him; he simply closed the blueprints and personally escorted the old man to the door.
The lights in the corridor were soft, and footsteps echoed on the empty stone floor.
Oland stopped before the door and straightened his bow tie once more, as if making final preparations for a long-destined stage appearance.
The door closed.
Louis stood in place, watching the figure disappear at the end of the corridor before his lips curled up almost imperceptibly.
The reason he did this wasn't because Oland was loyal, nor because he was of high character.
It was because the current Red Tide had reached a stage where it had to demand a future from the waters.
The North lacked neither ore, nor coal, nor manpower.
What truly restricted it was transportation.
Inland rivers froze as soon as winter arrived, and carriages were immobilized in mud and snowstorm.
Grain, coal, and steel were all stuck on the road. Even with railways, they couldn't cover every river network and harbor.
And water transport was the cheapest, yet most ruthless, passage on this continent.
As long as ships relied on sails, routes relied on weather, and scheduling relied on luck—those were variables an industrial system could not accept.
The significance of the steamship was never just about running fast.
It was about turning rivers and coasts into transportation lines that could be precisely calculated, fitting into the entire production system like gears.
And Orland was the most suitable person for this link.
He hadn't climbed to that position by luck.
In the era of sails, more than half of the main ocean-going ship types in Southeast Province ca from shipyards he presided over or personally finalized.
What he was best at was never flashy design, but how to ensure a ship wouldn't fall apart or deform under full load, heavy waves, and days of continuous sailing.
Where materials could be saved, where reinforcent was mandatory, which rib bore long-term fatigue, and which section of the keel was most likely to snap before returning to port.
These things weren't on the blueprints; they were in his decades of experience.
Furthermore, his craftsmanship, his habits, and his entire set of shipbuilding logic—outdated by the era but still solid—would be passed down layer by layer through apprentices.
Today it's one ship; tomorrow it's an entire shipbuilding system.
An industry that could take root, replicate, and spread in the ports of the Red Tide.
And for a truly top-tier craftsman, the strongest shackles were never orders or money, but reputation.
As long as that ship could bear his na, it would be impossible for Oland to betray it.
He would work harder than anyone else to make that ship a success.
Because it wasn't just the Red Tide's ship; it was his, even if only in na.
And his disciples and descendants would spend their entire lives on this shipping route.
Only then did Louis slowly exhale, turning back to sit behind his desk, leaning against the back of the chair and closing his eyes to rest for a mont.
It wasn't that he was too exhausted to carry on, but he needed to relax his tense thoughts.
Over the past few days, he had hardly ever been truly free.
The door was tapped softly, and Bradley walked in.
"Is there anyone else today?" Louis asked casually without opening his eyes.
"No more," Bradley flipped through the schedule in his hand. "The rest are arranged for tomorrow."
Louis nodded. "Then let's end it here."
Bradley didn't leave imdiately but stood to the side, waiting for instructions.
Louis opened his eyes and looked at the docunts on the desk that hadn't been put away yet, his gaze returning to its usual calmness.
These days, he had been doing the sa thing: receiving talents from the Old Empire who had traveled from the south.
As of today, more than a hundred technical officers, legal officers, and master craftsn of various kinds had been formally absorbed, settled, and reactivated by the Red Tide.
This number itself wasn't eye-catching, but the impact it brought had already begun to manifest in the Empire's talent market.
Workshops and institutions in the southern provinces were quietly being hollowed out.
People with prestige and experience were disappearing from sight one after another; those remaining were either apprentices who hadn't been tempered yet or diocre people who only knew how to stick to old rules.
And rumors about the Red Tide were also fernting along the ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) routes these people traveled... that background didn't matter there, only ability... as long as you could create value, soone would have your back and provide generous rewards.
Once this kind of signal was ford, it was difficult to suppress again.
For many Old Empire talents who were marginalized, purged, or pushed out, the Red Tide had beco the best choice.
They had different identities and temperants; so craved fa, so craved profit, and so only believed in their own outdated philosophies.
Therefore, the thods of using them couldn't be the sa either.
For soone like Oland, talking about philosophy was a waste of ti.
What he needed was to be rembered, a position where his na could once again stand at the center of the era.
So Louis gave him honor, gave him a stage, and casually placed a pair of shackles on him that he wouldn't struggle to escape.
But for soone like Varius, money and titles were secondary.
What he truly craved was a set of self-consistent philosophies that could explain the world, an order that was no longer arbitrarily distorted by the powerful.
So what Louis gave him was thought, logic, and a new system he could personally participate in building.
Every heart has its price; what he had to do was calculate the price accurately.
Putting every kind of person in the most suitable position, letting them willingly burn for the sa goal.
"Continue tomorrow," Louis finally said.
"Yes," Bradley answered in a low voice and gently closed the door.
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