Corrected Version:

  As dawn’s pale light filtered into Reyn’s study, he leaned over a worn oak desk piled high with ledgers and scraps of parchment. Outside, a chill wind stirred the barren fields, and the distant outline of the Black Water Territory’s ramshackle village lay muted under overcast skies. Winter was coming, and with it demands he couldn’t ignore. He felt the weight of a hundred small problems pressing on his shoulders: the Red Claw Bandits lurking beyond the forest’s edge, the possibility of the Fang Thieves taking advantage of winter’s scarcity, and now the strained finances of the territory.

  Inside, it was warmer but no less tense. The night before, his secret militia had once again drilled in the castle’s dungeon. Muffled gunshots echoed off the stone walls. The chosen men were learning quickly; Thorris reported they were gaining confidence and accuracy. Soon, they might be ready to face the bandits openly.

  He picked up a quill, dipped it into thin ink, and jotted down tentative changes to the tax ledger. He had decided to ease the serfs’ burdens slightly; starving them only made them more likely to run. If they ran and found refuge in a city under principality rule, he’d lose both labor and face. The Dulips Principality’s stance was unambiguous: if a lord couldn’t retain peasants, he didn’t deserve them. At the same time, he couldn’t ignore the knights’ and officials’ pay.

  The door creaked open softly. Dohnal, the old butler, entered, carrying a cup of broth and a parchment. He set the cup down gently. “My lord,” he said in a hushed voice. “I have the figures you asked for. Reducing serf taxes by a small portion will help curb discontent, but we’ll need to offset the shortfall. You’re postponing tribute to NorthSeet City, but that’s only temporary, isn’t it?”

  “I know,” Reyn said, rubbing his temples. He sipped the broth—weak but warm. “We must find another way to support the territory. If our people see improvements, like better farm tools, they might produce more next year. That would bring in more surplus and allow us to pay everyone without squeezing them dry.”

  Dohnal raised a brow. “Better tools, my lord? Our blacksmith does what he can, but iron is scarce and expensive. Without decent metal, we’re stuck making crude tools out of poor-quality scrap.”

  Reyn sat back, fingers drifting to the mark hidden under his sleeve. He had an idea—risky, but potentially able to relieve pressure for a while. He couldn’t flood his people with modern weapons openly, but raw materials were another matter. Iron could be obtained from that secret dimension. He could access not just firearms but knives, bayonets, crates, and other metal scraps. If he melted them down, he’d have a steady supply of quality iron.

  “Dohnal,” Reyn said quietly, “have the blacksmith meet me this afternoon. I have a plan to make some simple farm tools. I’ve found a reliable iron supplier through… discreet channels.”

  Dohnal looked surprised. “Iron, my lord?”

  Reyn nodded. “Exactly. As for paying the knights, we’ll sell a portion of this iron to get through this month. Later… we’ll see how things develop.”

  The butler’s posture relaxed. He offered a thin smile. “I will summon the blacksmith after midday. He’s a hard-working man. If he sees high-quality iron like you said, I’m sure he’ll be eager to craft anything.”

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  With that settled, Dohnal bowed and departed, leaving Reyn alone with his ledgers again. He ran a fingertip along the parchment where he’d reduced the serf taxes and postponed tribute. He would owe NorthSeet City eventually, but perhaps by then he’d have some surplus. He was also counting on introducing some of these items to traveling merchants to gather extra money.

  After a brief midday meal—more stale bread and thin porridge—Reyn took action. He retreated to his private chamber and summoned the strange store interface only he could access. He scrolled through the menu shelves, selecting items that contained good steel and iron. He found knives and other equipment he could strip down. Unlike firearms—too distinctive to risk showing—raw metal could be melted and reshaped without suspicion. He spent what felt like an hour inside that realm, gathering a neat pile of metal tools and weapons in a hidden corner of the castle’s storage upon his return.

  Barely an hour had passed outside when he emerged, slightly sweaty but pleased. He had assembled a small heap of random metal scraps—enough to yield a decent quantity of high-quality iron once melted.

  Later, as the afternoon shadows lengthened, he summoned the blacksmith to the castle’s small courtyard. The blacksmith, a stocky man named Ordric with soot-stained hands and a face weathered by years at the forge, approached warily. He was used to lords demanding miracles without providing materials. Reyn intended to invert that expectation.

  “You called for me, my lord?” Ordric asked, bowing stiffly.

  Reyn gestured to a half-covered cart near the wall. “Ordric, I’m aware you’ve struggled with poor-quality iron. I managed to acquire these scraps,” he said, pulling back a curtain to reveal the pile of odds and ends. “I want you to melt it down and forge better farming tools—plows, hoes, scythes.

  Start with a small batch and distribute them to the most reliable farmers. I need them to start preparing the land for next spring.”

  Ordric’s eyes widened, his rough face lighting up like a child’s. He prodded one piece of metal and let out a low whistle. “This is high-quality. Better than the brittle scrap we’ve had before.” He looked up at Reyn, astonished. “My lord, are you sure you want to invest this metal in farming tools and not weapons?”

  Reyn gave a thin smile. “We have enough to manage our defense in other ways.”

  Ordric nodded eagerly. “I’ll start at once, my lord. With this, I can make a dozen top-quality plowshares in a week, maybe more.”

  “Excellent. You may go now and start working,” Reyn said, patting the blacksmith’s shoulder.

  “Understood,” Ordric replied, hauling a chunk of metal with surprising strength. He left with a spring in his step.

  Reyn watched him go, relief washing over him. If the fields produced more next season, he could tax less. That, in turn, would foster loyalty and reduce the chance of serfs running off. It was a fragile ecosystem, but one he now had a plan to nurture.

  As dusk approached, Reyn went to finalize the month’s wage disbursements.

  Stepping back into the corridor, Dohnal waited with a small lantern. “A merchant sent a messenger, my lord. They will arrive next week.”

  Reyn exhaled. Another small step forward.

  Still, unease lingered. The Red Claw Bandits were somewhere in the forest.

  That night, after a meager supper, Reyn retreated to his chamber. He lit a single candle and reviewed his notes.

  Soon, he would have a territory worth defending and men ready to defend it. If a bandit raid came now, his militia would give them a shock they wouldn’t forget. The iron from his game dimension could also provide materials for reinforcing the castle’s gates and walls over time. He pictured distributing stronger farm tools next spring—seeing fields plowed deeper, crops growing taller.

  The candle’s flame flickered, drawing his eye. He checked the window. Beyond the castle walls, darkness stretched across the fields. A breeze carried the scent of damp earth, winter’s chill nipping at the stones. He pulled his cloak tighter and moved to the small bed. Before lying down, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction: he was setting a foundation, step by step. Balanced taxes, secret weaponry, improved agriculture, stable contracts—all the ingredients for a slow revolution.

  He would do it discreetly. The Red Claws, the Fang Thieves, the church, and rival lords would see only surface changes: a slight improvement in harvests, a marginal increase in quality of life, a few more guards who seemed oddly calm and confident. No one needed to know the true source of iron or the firearms training hidden below ground—at least not until it was too late for them to stop him.

  As he finally lay down, fully clothed, on the creaking mattress, Reyn closed his eyes and smiled faintly.