The very next morning, Ernest arrived at the factory carrying another stack of papers.

At this point, nobody was surprised anymore.

A few workers saw him crossing the yard and immediately exchanged knowing looks.

One of them sighed.

"Another project."

The other nodded.

"Definitely another project."

Inside the office, Hollen was reviewing financial reports when the door opened.

He looked up.

Then looked at the papers.

Then slowly closed his ledger.

"No."

Ernest blinked.

"What?"

"No."

"I haven’t said anything."

"You don’t need to."

The forge owner pointed at the papers.

"Those are expensive papers."

Several clerks nearby burst into laughter.

Ernest rolled his eyes and sat down.

"They’re blueprints."

"Exactly."

He placed the stack onto the desk.

The top page revealed a large building.

Unlike the soap factory, this structure looked entirely industrial.

Large windows.

Wide loading doors.

Brick construction.

Multiple workshops.

Storage areas.

And an entire section dedicated to machinery.

Hollen sighed.

"You drew it already."

"Of course."

"When?"

"Last month."

The forge owner stared at him.

"Gods above, do you ever stop planning things?"

"No."

"At least you’re honest."

Ernest smiled.

Then spread the blueprints across the table.

"This is Helmarte Machine Works."

Silence.

Even the clerks looked up.

The name alone sounded important.

Very important.

Hollen studied the drawings.

"You’ve already named it?"

"I had free time."

"You run four factories."

"Exactly. I had lots of free time."

The room burst into laughter.

The young businessman pointed toward the drawings.

"The main building will be here."

His finger moved.

"Foundry section."

Another.

"Pattern-making workshop."

Another.

"Assembly area."

Another.

"Storage."

Then another.

"And here."

He tapped a large rectangular space.

"The machine shop."

Hollen frowned.

"What’s the difference between the machine shop and the assembly area?"

"The machine shop makes parts."

"The assembly area puts those parts together."

Silence.

That made sense.

A lot of sense.

Then Ernest pointed toward another section.

"We’ll also build a drafting office."

The forge owner blinked.

"A what?"

"A drafting office."

"For drawings?"

"Yes."

Hollen looked confused.

"You need an entire office just for drawings?"

Ernest nodded.

"Absolutely."

He looked around the room.

"Every machine starts as a drawing."

"The boring machine."

"The steam engine."

"The factory layouts."

"The line shafts."

"The pulley systems."

He tapped the blueprints.

"If we’re going to build more machines, we need a place where people can design them."

The room became quiet.

That idea sounded strange.

Yet nobody could argue with it.

Everything they had built began as drawings.

The drawings came first.

The machines came later.

Then another thought entered Hollen’s mind.

"Who’s going to work there?"

Ernest smiled.

The forge owner immediately regretted asking.

"We’re training draftsmen."

Silence.

Again.

The room seemed to have an endless supply of professions that didn’t exist yesterday.

One of the clerks raised his hand.

"Master Ernest?"

"Yes?"

"What’s a draftsman?"

The young businessman thought for a moment.

Then smiled.

"A person who turns ideas into drawings."

The clerk blinked.

"Oh."

That sounded surprisingly simple.

Then another worker spoke.

"What do we call the people who build the machines?"

Ernest looked toward the window.

The giant chimney of the engine house stood in the distance.

Smoke slowly drifted into the sky.

Hiss.

Clank.

Hiss.

Clank.

The sound reached the office.

Then he looked back at the workers.

"Machinists."

Silence.

The word sounded strange.

Foreign.

Unfamiliar.

One of the workers repeated it.

"Machinists."

Another.

"Machinists."

Hollen crossed his arms.

"I like it."

That earned several smiles.

Because it sounded important.

And in a way...

It was.

The first machinists in the Kingdom of Belfast.

A profession that had never existed before.

A profession created because one boy decided to build a steam engine.

The thought was almost absurd.

Then Ernest stood.

"Come with me."

"Where?" Hollen asked.

"The site."

The forge owner sighed.

"There’s already a site."

"Of course there is."

Several minutes later, they stood outside the soap factory.

The steam engine continued its steady rhythm inside the engine house.

Hiss.

Clank.

Hiss.

Clank.

Beside the factory lay a large empty field.

The area had once been unused land.

Now Ernest looked at it like a man staring at treasure.

He pointed forward.

"The main workshop goes there."

Another point.

"The foundry there."

Another.

"The assembly area there."

Then another.

"The loading yard here."

The workers followed his gestures.

Slowly, the empty field began transforming inside their minds.

They could almost see it.

Brick buildings.

Chimneys.

Workers.

Machinery.

The sound of hammers.

The movement of carts.

Another factory.

No.

Something different.

A factory that built factories.

One of the machinists spoke.

"How many people will work here?"

Ernest rubbed his chin.

"Eventually?"

The worker nodded.

The young businessman looked across the empty field.

Then began calculating.

Pattern makers.

Draftsmen.

Machinists.

Metalworkers.

Laborers.

Warehouse crews.

Assembly workers.

Maintenance personnel.

He looked back.

"Probably two hundred."

Silence.

A bird chirped somewhere.

Nobody spoke.

Two hundred workers.

For one building.

The number sounded impossible.

The soap factory employed hundreds.

That made sense.

It produced soap for the kingdom.

But this?

A machine workshop?

Two hundred workers?

Hollen looked horrified.

"You weren’t joking."

"No."

"You seriously think we’ll need that many people?"

"Eventually."

The forge owner slowly looked across the field.

Then toward the engine house.

Then back.

The scale of this dream was becoming frightening.

Then another thought occurred to him.

"What exactly are we going to build?"

Ernest smiled.

That was the question he wanted.

He held up a finger.

"Steam engines."

Another.

"Machine tools."

Another.

"Pumps."

Another.

"Industrial equipment."

Then another.

"And eventually things we haven’t even thought of yet."

The workers exchanged glances.

That sounded...

Huge.

Because it was.

One of the machinists slowly smiled.

"We’re going to build the machines that everyone else uses."

"Exactly."

Another worker looked toward the field.

"We’re not making soap anymore."

"No."

"We’re making machines."

"No."

The worker looked confused.

Ernest smiled.

"We’re making industry."

Silence.

The sentence hung in the air.

Even Hollen looked at him.

Because that wording felt different.

Larger.

More important.

Industry.

Not one machine.

Not one product.

Not one company.

An entire system.

The field suddenly seemed too small.

The workers stared into the distance.

And for the first time...

They no longer saw themselves as blacksmiths.

Or laborers.

Or carpenters.

Or forge workers.

They saw something else.

Builders of machines.

Creators of industry.

The first machinists of Belfast.

Hollen looked at Ernest.

The young businessman stood there with blueprints under one arm and a ridiculous dream in his head.

Just like always.

Then the forge owner laughed.

"What?"

Hollen shook his head.

"I remember when your biggest concern was selling a few bars of soap."

Ernest laughed too.

That felt like another lifetime.

The two looked at the empty field again.

A breeze passed through the grass.

The chimney continued releasing smoke.

Hiss.

Clank.

Hiss.

Clank.

The sound echoed in the distance.

The old world still existed.

Waterwheels.

Blacksmith shops.

Hand tools.

Animal power.

But standing there, looking at the empty land beside a steam-powered factory, everyone felt it.

Something had changed.

Something irreversible.

The age of machines had quietly arrived.

And its first home in the Kingdom of Belfast would be built right here.

On an empty patch of grass.

Beside a soap factory.

By a twelve-year-old boy who refused to stop having expensive ideas.