Chapter 407 - 393: Mounting Rack

Chapter 407: Chapter 393: Mounting Rack

Inside Workshop Number Three, the air was as sweltering as a smoldering iron pot. The acrid scent of steamed oak mingled with the smell of rust, filling every inch of the space.

Anton wiped the sweat from his face, his calloused hands holding a curved oak plank steady. Instead of bringing the hammer down by feel as he used to, he glanced up at the parchment posted on the wall in front of his workstation.

It was the Standard Oak Barrel Manufacturing Process Manual, Third Edition.

Detailed diagrams illustrated the breakdown of each step, annotated with neat lines of instructions in the Common Tongue. Anton squinted, his gaze falling on the fourth rule: "Curvature Calibration: Steam softening time must not be less than fifteen minutes. The angle of entry into the mold must be maintained at seventy-five degrees to ensure uniform tension on the inner wall."

Three months ago, these winding, snake-like words would have been gibberish to him. But now, they were tools—more useful than the hammer in his hand.

Anton took a deep breath, adjusted the angle of the plank, and brought the hammer down.

THUD.

Crisp and solid. The plank slid snugly into the base without a hint of rebound.

A few of the older craftsmen nearby, who had yet to pass the literacy assessment, shot him furtive glances filled with envy and jealousy. They still had to rely on trial and error, tapping and hammering for ages just to find the right position, while Anton’s efficiency was now frighteningly fast.

"What are you all gawking at! Have you stopped working?!"

A harsh shout shattered the rhythm of the workshop. Rogan strode in, smacking a clipboard against his palm.

The clanging in the workshop died down.

Rogan stood in the middle of the aisle, his gaze sweeping over everyone like a searchlight before finally landing on the list in his hand.

"When I call your name, drop what you’re doing and step forward immediately."

Rogan cleared his throat, his voice rising an octave.

"Team Three, Anton. Team Five, Hans. Team Seven, Peter..."

He called out seven names in a row.

Anton’s heart lurched. He put down his hammer and stepped out from his workstation, feeling apprehensive. The men who were called exchanged uneasy glances, anxiety plain to see in their eyes. In these turbulent times, being suddenly pulled from your work was rarely a good thing.

"Boss, what’s this..." the young craftsman named Peter couldn’t help but ask. "Did we do something wrong? The quality of this batch of barrels..."

"Quiet." Rogan glared at him, then snapped his clipboard shut. His tone softened, however, even taking on a hint of respect. "It’s not bad news. We have orders from above to requisition carpenters and blacksmiths certified at ’Knowledge Level 3’ or higher, with at least ten years of experience."

He deliberately emphasized the words "Knowledge Level."

The surrounding workers, who had been watching the commotion, let out a collective, low gasp.

Anton was stunned. He subconsciously touched the bronze plaque at his waist, which had a small "3" engraved on it. He’d earned that by spending half a month of sleepless nights painstakingly cramming the book Basic Common Tongue: 300 Words.

"Follow me. Don’t keep our superiors waiting."

Rogan offered no further explanation, simply turning to lead the way.

Leaving the clamor of Workshop Number Three behind, the group was ushered into a fully enclosed black carriage. The carriage bounced along the territory’s cobblestone roads for twenty minutes before stopping in front of a remote, red-brick building.

There was no sign on the building, but the guards at the entrance weren’t wearing the usual gray uniforms. They were clad in black full-plate armor and held heavy crossbows at the ready.

A chill crawled up Anton’s spine as he stepped out of the carriage. The atmosphere here was oppressive; the very air was thick with an unsettling smell of sulfur.

An official from the Government Hall, dressed in a black robe, was already waiting at the door. He said nothing, merely checking everyone’s identification tags before waving them through.

After passing through two heavy iron doors, the view opened up dramatically.

It was a massive indoor workshop, even more spacious than Workshop Number Three. But there were no piles of wood or clouds of sawdust here—only a few huge, long tables and a group of people in Alchemy robes, their faces etched with anxiety.

Beside the centermost table stood an old man with white hair and a matching beard. He was staring at a pile of parts on the table, scratching his head in frustration and letting out an irritated grunt from time to time.

"That is Master Valerius," the Government Hall official said in a low voice. "The chief Alchemist of the Golden Sail Commerce Association and the Lord’s chief technical advisor. Keep your curiosity to yourselves. Just listen, and do as you’re told."

Anton swallowed hard. A legendary figure like this was someone he’d normally never even get a chance to see.

Valerius didn’t seem to notice the newcomers. He was wearing a thick-lensed monocle, his face almost pressed against a metal cylinder. His fingers, stained with black machine oil, fiddled with a slot as he muttered to himself.

"Strange... truly strange. In theory, the ductility of brass should be sufficient. Why is it still locking up due to micrometer-level deformation?"

The old Alchemist sighed and gently set down the cylinder. There was no anger on his face, only deep exhaustion and the vexation of an unsolved problem.

"Children, it seems we’ve hit another dead end."

Anton stole a glance at the items on the table.

There was a black metal canister, about the length of a forearm, sealed at both ends. A conspicuous red skull was painted on its surface. Next to the canister sat a complex metal frame covered in precision gears and springs.