Rain still fell beyond the tall windows of the Valcriox intelligence chamber.

The atmosphere inside had only grown heavier.

Production reports from Elarion remained scattered across the central strategy table while nobles and intelligence officers stood in tense silence around Kassian.

No one liked the direction of the conversation anymore.

Because every new report from the north carried the same message:

Elarion was growing.

Faster than expected. Faster than reasonable. Faster than anyone could comfortably explain.

Kassian remained standing near the table while his eyes moved slowly across the latest industrial estimates.

Steel production increasing. Refineries expanding. Military scaling upward.

Then finally—

He asked the question that mattered.

"How much progress have our own smithies made?"

The room became strangely quiet.

Several officers exchanged glances immediately.

Kassian noticed.

That alone irritated him.

His voice sharpened slightly.

"The rifles."

His eyes moved toward the military overseer.

"How many?"

The overseer swallowed lightly before opening a leather-bound production ledger.

"Our current manufactories produce approximately forty-seven rifles per month."

Silence.

Then:

"...Forty-seven?"

The man lowered his head slightly.

"Yes, lord Kassian."

The chamber suddenly felt much smaller.

One noble immediately attempted to soften the number.

"The artisans continue improving production efficiency—"

Kassian cut him off instantly.

"Forty-seven."

Meanwhile Elarion reportedly equipped entire battalions.

That comparison lingered in the room like poison.

The overseer hurried to continue.

"Material inconsistencies remain problematic."

"Barrel quality varies." "Lock mechanisms often fail." "Powder measurements remain unstable."

Another officer reluctantly added:

"Several rifles exploded during recent testing."

One elderly noble frowned deeply.

"Exploded?"

The overseer nodded weakly.

"One test shooter lost two fingers."

A younger noble muttered quietly:

"At least the rifle fired."

No one laughed.

Kassian slowly closed the production ledger.

Not angrily.

Worse.

Calmly.

"Why?"

The military overseer hesitated carefully.

"Our smithies operate independently."

"There is no standardized tooling." "No centralized measurements." "Every workshop builds differently."

Another officer added:

"Artisans also refuse to share techniques."

That finally explained part of the problem.

Traditional craftsmen protected methods like family secrets.

Meanwhile Lucien standardized production itself.

Kassian suddenly understood something deeply irritating.

The north did not possess better craftsmen.

It possessed better organization.

That realization bothered him immensely.

One noble stepped forward afterward.

"The copied flintlock designs function adequately for limited deployment."

Kassian looked toward him slowly.

"Limited?"

The noble hesitated.

"Accuracy remains poor beyond shorter ranges."

Of course it did.

Because the blueprints stolen from Elarion had been incomplete.

Or intentionally flawed.

Kassian realized that now with growing certainty.

Lucien had fed them controlled information.

And House Valcriox had unknowingly wasted months chasing inferior production methods.

That truth settled heavily across the chamber.

The military overseer quickly moved toward another subject.

"Gunpowder refinement also continues."

Kassian’s eyes shifted toward him again.

"At least tell me something improved."

The overseer looked significantly less confident afterward.

"...There have been difficulties."

Cedric would have enjoyed this conversation immensely.

"What difficulties?"

The overseer cleared his throat awkwardly.

"One workshop exploded."

Silence.

Then another officer quietly added:

"A second workshop also exploded."

Kassian stared at them.

"How?"

The answer came reluctantly.

"Powder instability."

Another pause.

Then:

"There was also a fire."

"...Naturally."

One older noble finally snapped impatiently.

"How does Elarion manage this?"

No one answered immediately.

Because that was the terrifying question.

How?

How did a frozen northern territory suddenly outperform established southern industry?

How did Lucien organize production so efficiently?

How did he continue expanding despite economic pressure?

Kassian slowly walked back toward the northern strategy maps.

Then finally spoke quietly.

"You are all still thinking like nobles."

The room fell silent again.

Kassian’s fingers rested lightly against the edge of the table.

"You see weapons."

His eyes shifted toward the production reports afterward.

"Lucien sees processes."

No one interrupted.

Because unfortunately—

That sounded correct.

Kassian looked toward the failed production reports from their own manufactories.

Independent workshops. Competing artisans. Inconsistent measurements. Unreliable quality.

Traditional systems.

Meanwhile Elarion centralized:

materials,

labor,

production,

logistics,

and training.

Not superior blacksmiths.

Superior structure.

One younger officer finally asked carefully:

"Then what do we do?"

Kassian remained silent briefly.

Rain continued striking the windows softly behind him.

Finally—

"We adapt."

Several nobles frowned immediately.

"You cannot mean—"

"I mean exactly that."

Kassian turned toward them fully now.

"Lucien is proving something dangerous."

His voice remained calm.

"Industry rewards efficiency more than bloodlines."

That statement made several nobles visibly uncomfortable.

As it should.

Because feudal power depended heavily on inherited control.

Industrial systems cared far less about noble prestige.

Kassian’s gaze shifted back toward the northern maps afterward.

"Continue weapons development."

"Expand centralized production."

"And reorganize the manufactories."

One older noble looked skeptical.

"You would imitate him?"

Kassian answered immediately.

"No."

Then after a brief pause:

"But I would rather learn from a dangerous man than underestimate him."

The chamber fell silent once more.

Outside, rain continued falling across the capital.

Far to the north beyond the mountains—

The furnaces of Elarion still burned through the night while rifles rolled steadily from organized production lines.

And for the first time—

House Valcriox was beginning to understand the true difference between:

workshops,

and industry.