Horn extended his hand, brushing over the fabric spread out on the table.

His fingertips first touched a layer of cool slickness, and then the dense texture.

It was neither as compact as wool nor as coarse as linen; rather, it had a feel almost akin to skin.

He picked up a piece of the fabric and held it under the sunlight, which surprisingly displayed a faint silver hue.

"Are these... all made from the giant spider’s silk?" Horn raised his eyes, looking at Schreiman who stood opposite.

This leader of the Bald Head Secret Faction still maintained his bald, ape-like Tarzan appearance.

His manners were still impeccable. He stretched his hand out, tucking hair back into his sleeve, then picked up the fabric in front of him and gently pulled it, introducing it as he did.

"This isn’t giant spider silk, it’s silver gland spider silk we’ve cultivated; no matter how you struggle, it won’t break. It’s great for wiping feet, face, and mouth..."

The fabric in Schreiman’s hands was being pulled, but it kept bouncing back with resilience.

"Is this the only quality you have?" Catherine, equally curious, picked up the fabric and touched it.

"Not at all, Your Highness." Schreiman took spools from his apron, arranging them on the table from left to right, "Divided by thickness from No.1 to No.5; No.1 is the thinnest, No.5 the thickest.

The fabric woven from No.1 lets light through; turned into stockings worn on the body, it’s like wearing nothing, though it’s expensive; a roll is worth ten rolls of silk.

As for No.5, it feels a bit rough but made into a coat, it’s much lighter than wool and won’t leave you cold in winter.

The most important thing is its washability; soaked in herb ash water and rubbed, washed ten times without deformation."

Horn nodded, his fingertips rubbed against the surface of No.5 fabric, the fuzz shorter than wool but denser and warmer.

"Where did you set up the silver gland spider breeding ground?"

"At the old quarry on the east slope," Schreiman led Horn outside.

They walked out of the previous giant spider breeding site greenhouse, cold wind bringing snow flurries into their faces.

Not far away in the mountain gully, a complex of stone-constructed buildings stretched along the slope.

The black-grey roofs formed a continuous surface, the white smoke from chimneys blown into neat slants by the wind.

The surrounding walls were built with grey rocks left from the quarry, three meters high, topped with iron spikes and pointed stakes.

Every few distances stood a watchtower, guards wrapped in thick cloaks bowing heads to warm their hands with breath.

After all, the ry Court Barracks spider breeding ground is a sacred institution, its defenses are truly equipped with guns, even authorized to kill enemies.

It’s not that Horn is guarding the food; one must know that Falan spies, Norn agents, and various ill-intentioned people had attempted to infiltrate and steal, even succeeding several times.

"These three rows of workshops each have their purpose," Schreiman pointed to the passageway in the middle of the building complex, "the front row is the nursery greenhouse, the middle for rearing adult spiders, the back for silk extraction."

As he spoke, a worker happened to push a wheelbarrow out from the side door.

The cart contained several woven baskets, inside of which gray-black big fixtures could be seen moving faintly.

Horn paused: "Those spiders..."

"About one meter in length," Schreiman took over the topic, "originally they were local venomous spiders, and later we crossbred them...

Sorry, we introduced non-toxic spiders to crossbreed with them, resulting in the smaller non-toxic silver gland spiders.

However, they initially had a very low silk yield, so I tried mixing growth potion into their feed to increase silk yield.

After generations of breeding, they became the tame characters we have now; one could say our members of the Bald Head Society poured their blood into it."

Horn stopped in his tracks, looking with an odd expression at Schreiman full of righteous air.

Well, his face was all hair, impossible to discern any expression, but Horn could see the pride in his eyes.

Could he really not hear what he’s saying?

"How about production and costs?" Fearing to see something unspeakable, Horn turned and walked back.

Schreiman followed behind, reporting a string of numbers: "An adult silver gland spider lives five to eight years, producing silk twice a year, spun into thread around 7.5 to 8.5 pounds.

As for costs, relatively moist woodland or caves can be used for farming, ten spiders per acre."

Ah, these numbers are very similar to the cotton Horn remembers.

In this world without cotton, while the spider silk costs slightly more, the quality is better.

Compared to other creatures created by the Holy Father here—

Silk is too delicate, can only be cultivated in small areas in the south.

Wool is too heavy, hardens after a few washes.

Linen is too coarse, causing the surface of fabric to always itch with pricks.

But this spider silk, light and warm, washable and inexpensive, suits anyone from mountains to plains.

As they say: cotton, coal, and stocks are the treasures of the Industrial Revolution.

The Holy Alliance already has peat and stocks; now, it finally fills in the last piece of the puzzle.

"Good stuff!" Horn himself didn’t realize the subtle excitement in his voice.

Returning to the greenhouse, he picked up a roll of No.1 spider silk fabric, looking through it under the light.

The dense threads flowed like water through his fingertips, and in a trance, he seemed to see the once impoverished Mountain County.

Those valleys, only left with wild grass apart from mining, erected one stone shed after another.

Workers pushed feed carts hustling between sheds, the sound of silver gland spiders crawling replaced the mountain’s silence.

Truth be told, before the impending industrialization, the Wool Brotherhood’s spinning co-op was considered advanced.

But once machinery comes into play, centralized assembly line factories will surely replace these scattered artisanal workshops.

Not to completely replace, but at least largely substitute.

Why does the empire’s market always look down upon Holy Alliance’s clothing fabrics, thinking only the poor wear them?

Because Holy Alliance’s cloth mostly can’t achieve consistent standards, only a rough range.

In other words, poor quality control, sometimes hit or miss, even the low-end market is like this.

Although starting factories can’t replace the high-end market initially, at least the quality has a baseline.

By that time, hand-spinning car will not compete with a factory’s hourly output, the barely regained livelihood will vanish again.

Therefore, over the next decade, the Wool Brotherhood must gradually transition, switching to spider breeding industry.

Replace hand-spinning car with silk extraction rack to at least have a way to live.

Of course, there will always be those unwilling.

But Horn certainly can’t actually yell at their ears, forcing them to accept new things?

An era’s elimination can’t be stopped; all he can do is pave the way first, giving them an option.

"What other difficulties?" Horn rolled up the fabric, placed it back on the table.

Schreiman scratched his bald head, admitting directly: "The first is the alchemical processing step that requires quite a few personnel, especially alchemists.

Second is the cleaning agent, needing massive amounts of oil, our own oil pressing yard can’t supply it."

"How much oil?"

Schreiman provided a number.

Horn frowned: "Afraid the Thousand River Valley’s canola fields and olive groves can’t produce that much, need to import."

He turned to Catherine, who was sitting aside flipping through account books: "Where is the empire currently producing the most oil? Can we import?"

"The rivière land of Falan," Catherine didn’t lift her head, "the olive forests over there stretch across the mountains, all a third of the empire’s oil comes from there."

"Another Falan-controlled area?" Horn clicked his tongue.

Catherine put down the account book: "No choice, we’ll have to let them earn the money for now."

"Making money is all right, but can’t let them keep strangling us," Horn walked to the window, gazing at the distant chimneys, "What do you think, the land between the rivière and Dawn Island, only a river divides them; does it’s land suit canola cultivation?"

Catherine paused, then laughed: "If the Shangruifo County representative knew, he’d probably run to the Secretariat crying, saying you don’t love your hometown and give all the benefits to outsiders."

Horn laughed too: "Let him cry then. My hometown ought to take the lead."

He turned to Schreiman: "Send a batch of silver gland spider eggs and adult spiders to Shangruifo County first, let them try raising them, I’ll check come spring."