Leaving his uncle Lothar to fume in the drafty main hall, Konrad did not waste a single moment worrying about the older man’s wounded pride.

Instead of resting his frail, recovering body, Konrad immediately locked himself inside his cramped study, grabbed a stick of charcoal, and began drafting the next phase of his survival plan.

He was not designing a grand weapon. He was designing a manufacturing jig.

The wheellock pistol was a marvel of modern engineering, a terrifyingly expensive handgun utilized almost exclusively by wealthy nobles, elite cavalry, and the personal guards of Emperor Charles V.

Unlike the clumsy matchlocks that required a burning slow-match to ignite the serpentine powder, the wheellock functioned like a modern cigarette lighter.

A tightly wound V-spring snapped a serrated steel wheel against a piece of iron pyrite, showering the priming pan in sparks.

It was weather-resistant, could be kept loaded and concealed beneath a cloak, and possessed immense stopping power against standard armor.

The problem was that crafting one required the precision of a master clockmaker.

The V-springs were incredibly difficult to temper by hand, and the lock plates took weeks to file down. Konrad’s charcoal scratched furiously across the rough parchment.

He was drawing a specialized, hand-cranked grinding jig and a series of standardized clay molds for the lock components.

If Dieter could build these tools, they could use semi-skilled laborers to rapidly stamp out, grind, and assemble the intricate firing mechanisms in secrecy.

As he drew, Konrad’s mind wandered to the treacherous web of feudal politics surrounding him.

Without livestock, they had no meat, no wool, and no manure for the grain fields. The moment the harvest failed, their already heavily taxed peasants would undoubtedly join the massive, mobs currently burning their way across the Swabian Circle.

Konrad let out a laugh, coughing into his fist.

Satisfied with the blueprints, Konrad rolled up the parchment, tucked it into his woolen tunic, and made his way down to the estate’s smithy.

The forge was located near the outer bailey, a sturdy stone building billowing with smoke.

Long before he reached the doors, Konrad could hear the angry shouting echoing.

He pushed the door open. Inside, Master Dieter stood near the glowing coals, his arms crossed over his leather apron.

He was glaring daggers at a man standing on the other side of the anvil. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

The intruder was Sir Ulrich, a local landed knight who held a tiny fiefdom near the edge of Konrad’s territory.

Ulrich was a notoriously arrogant man, dressed in a faded silk doublet and sporting a ridiculously large, plumed hat that was entirely out of fashion.

"You impudent peasant!" Sir Ulrich spat, "I am a sworn knight of this realm! You will hammer out these dents, and you will forge a new steel tip for my lance by tomorrow morning, or I will have you flogged for insubordination!"

"I take my orders from the Lord of this estate, not you," Dieter growled back, "And I have neither the charcoal nor the time to waste on your rusted tin."

Konrad stepped fully into the smoky room, clearing his throat.

"Ah, Lord Konrad," Ulrich sneered, refusing to bow. "Your father would be ashamed to see how unruly your servants have become. This brute refuses to honor the ancient feudal agreements of maintenance."

"There is no insubordination, Sir Ulrich," Konrad stated, "Master Dieter works under my direct and explicit orders to halt all complimentary repairs. The estate’s treasury is entirely depleted. We do not have the silver thalers to purchase the extra coal required to fix your armor."

Ulrich blinked, taken aback by the blunt truth.

"My armor is required to defend your lands!" Ulrich argued.

"If the peasant army arrives at our gates, one knight with a shiny lance will not save us," Konrad replied.

"If you require repairs, you will pay Master Dieter in pure silver, or you will trade three head of healthy livestock for his labor. Otherwise, you are dismissed. We have actual work to do."

Cursing under his breath about the death of chivalry, Ulrich snatched up his rusted breastplate and stormed out of the smithy, nearly tripping over a pile of iron slag on his way out.

Dieter let out a sigh, running a soot-stained hand over his bald head.

Konrad pulled the rolled parchment from his tunic and slapped it down onto the anvil.

"Do not celebrate, Dieter," Konrad said grimly, "If we do not begin producing valuable trade goods within the month, we will have fifty knights just like him, backed by the Swabian League, storming this forge to seize our assets."

Dieter unrolled the parchment, squinting at the intricate diagrams of the V-springs and the grinding jigs.

"This... this is madness, my Lord," Dieter muttered, tracing the lines with a finger. "You want to build the internal firing locks for wheellock pistols? By the hundreds? If the guilds in Nuremberg catch wind of this, they will hire assassins."

"Which is precisely why you will tell everyone you invented these jigs," Konrad instructed, "If a common blacksmith suddenly claims to have a minor epiphany on how to grind springs faster, the guilds might try to buy you out or intimidate you. If they find out a nobleman is mass-producing advanced weaponry components in secret, they will inform the Emperor that I am funding a rebellion. You take the credit, Dieter. It is the only political shield we have."

Dieter looked up from the parchment, staring at the frail teenager who was casually organizing a massive, treasonous industrial conspiracy.

"I will claim the invention, Lord Konrad," Dieter nodded slowly, "But you must understand the reality, even with these brilliant jigs... cutting the timber, shaping the water wheel for the boring machine, and building the new blast furnace will take grueling, back-breaking labor."

"How long?" Konrad asked.

"If I work from dawn until midnight, and if my apprentices don’t lose any fingers..."

"Two months. And that is only to establish the baseline machinery. We will not produce a single, sellable wheellock mechanism until the middle of summer."

Konrad closed his eyes. Two months of bleeding silver they didn’t have while peasant armies roamed the countryside and Uncle Lothar plotted to sell their lands from under them.

"Two months it is," Konrad finally said, opening his eyes. "Focus entirely on the water wheel and the blast furnace. I will figure out how to stretch our grain reserves and negotiate the trade routes to keep us afloat until the first batch of locks is ready."