On July 2, sunlight filtered through the morning mist, spilling onto the slightly uneven cobblestone roads of the Lucien Lower City.
A modestly decorated carriage traveled along the winding streets, its wheels emitting a rhythmic clatter as they rolled over the bumpy pavement.
Allen sat inside the carriage, his gaze fixed through the window, quietly observing the waking district.
A baker was stuffing balls of dough into a brick oven; the rhythmic clanging of hammers echoed from a blacksmith shop, with sparks occasionally flying out from the open door; a few young apprentices were working together to carry a heavy wooden barrel, stepping clumsily out of a brewery as the slightly sour scent of fermenting malt filled the air.
This area was the Lower City Industrial Area, a place where various manual workshops and the workers who relied on them gathered.
In this era without steam engines, these small workshops—which relied on manual labor and simple tools—could not compare to the modern factories in Allen’s memory.
Yet, they were filled with a raw, vigorous vitality unique to this time.
“Son, do you really think Master Gutenberg has built the printing press? It has only been a few days. That speed is incredible, isn’t it?” Bernard, sitting across from Allen, appeared somewhat nervous.
He rubbed his hands together, caught between anticipation and unease, as if he were about to witness a momentous historical event.
“Don’t worry, Father,” Allen replied, his tone calm and certain.
“Often, people do not lack wisdom or skill; they simply lack a breakthrough idea. I have already provided the most critical design concepts. With Master Gutenberg’s skill and his craftsman’s persistence, he will not disappoint us.”
Marianne sat closely beside Allen, carefully cradling an oilcloth bundle in her arms. Inside were the new blueprints Allen had prepared for Gutenberg.
She blinked curiously. “Master, can that printing press you mentioned really print hundreds of books in a single day?”
“Hundreds?” Allen smiled slightly. “Marianne, if you’re going to follow me, you need to broaden your horizons. If all goes well, printing 1,000 copies a day will only be the beginning.”
The old butler, who was driving the carriage, listened silently to the conversation.
He didn’t speak, but the look of expectation on his face said everything.
As a well-traveled noble butler, he knew exactly what the success of such a machine would signify.
The carriage slowed to a stop in front of a three-story stone building.
The structure looked aged, its walls bore smoke stains, and a wooden sign hung by the door with the words: “John Gutenberg Metal Craft Workshop.”
As they pushed open the heavy iron door, they were greeted by a scent that mixed charcoal, molten metal, sweat, and leather.
The interior of the workshop was much more spacious than it appeared from the outside.
It was sweltering, with more than a dozen craftsmen busy around various furnaces, anvils, and workbenches.
The clanging of hammers, the whoosh of bellows, and the brief exchanges between craftsmen intertwined to form a powerful industrial symphony.
“Please wait a moment, everyone. The Master is handling a small urgent matter and will be with you shortly.”
A young apprentice hurried over to greet them, his face filled with apology and a hint of trepidation, especially after seeing Bernard’s noble attire.
Bernard waved his hand affably. “No matter. A busy master is a good sign; it means business is thriving.”
Allen’s attention, however, was drawn to a corner of the workshop.
A shirtless swordsmith with knotted muscles was working with his assistant on the final, crucial step of forging a blade—the quenching.
A glowing red iron bar was held firmly by iron tongs as it was pulled from the roaring furnace, radiating scorching heat waves and a dazzling light.
The swordsmith placed the iron on the anvil, and another young apprentice swung a heavy sledgehammer, aiming right at the spot the Master indicated, and slammed it down!
*Clang!*
The heavy, resonant impact wasn’t mere noise; it was a roar full of power and rhythm.
The Master Smith used a small hammer to nimbly tap different spots on the iron, guiding the landing points of the sledgehammer.
One heavy, one light; one leading, one following. Sparks bloomed like fireworks with every strike.
Under the hammering, the iron gradually extended and deformed, slowly revealing the prototype of a sword.
Every fold and every strike was removing impurities from the steel, forging its inner strength.
Sweat poured down their bronze skin, evaporating instantly in the blistering air.
This primitive, rugged scene possessed a heart-stopping beauty.
When the blade took its initial shape, the Master Smith suddenly plunged it into the quenching tank nearby.
*Sizzle—!*
Cold water and hot metal clashed violently. White steam exploded upward, accompanied by a sharp hissing.
Once the steam cleared slightly, the swordsmith pulled the blade out. The once glowing metal now possessed a dark blue, metallic luster with subtle textures.
He carefully inspected the straightness and edge of the blade, a look of satisfaction appearing on his face.
Next, he carefully brought the blade near the fire again for tempering to adjust its final hardness and toughness.
Finally, it would undergo grinding, polishing, and the installation of the hilt and guard.
The entire process was filled with a primal sense of power and a ritualistic quality that bordered on art.
Not only Allen, but even Bernard, Marianne, and the butler were somewhat mesmerized.
Allen couldn’t help but feel a sense of admiration.
This long-standing traditional sword-making craft condensed the countless efforts and experiences of craftsmen.
In a way, it was the most direct manifestation of craftsmanship, literally showing that ‘the workers have power.’
“Viscount Laval! Master Allen! My apologies for keeping you waiting!”
A booming voice broke their observation. A burly middle-aged man with a thick beard, his apron stained with oil and coal dust, strode out from the inner part of the workshop.
He had sharp eyes and rough palms—clearly someone who had dealt with metal and fire for many years.
He was John Gutenberg, a skilled goldsmith and master of metalwork from the Empire.
Ten years ago, he had come to the capital of Lorraine due to debt issues, and with his superior skills, he had managed to establish himself there.
“Master Gutenberg, thank you for your hard work.” Allen stepped forward and extended his hand.
“It’s no trouble at all! Not at all!”
Gutenberg shook Allen’s hand vigorously, appearing extremely excited.
His face glowed red from both the furnace heat and his own enthusiasm.
“Master Allen, your design… it’s simply the work of a genius! I have been a craftsman for forty years, and I have never seen machine blueprints so sophisticated and imaginative!”
He enthusiastically led the group toward the back of the workshop, passing rows of workbenches along the way.
Allen saw apprentices with their heads down, manufacturing various precision metal components.
Some were carefully carving tiny type molds, while others were adjusting mechanical structures with screws and pressure plates.
“Look, these are the pieces of movable type made according to your drawings.”
Gutenberg pointed to rows of small lead blocks neatly arranged in wooden grids, his voice full of pride.
“We used an alloy of lead, antimony, and tin. Pure lead is too soft and deforms easily; adding antimony makes it harder, but then it becomes too brittle. By adding the right amount of tin, we get a material with just the right hardness and toughness. We experimented with this alloy ratio more than ten times before finding the optimal formula.”
“And this type mold!” A young craftsman nearby couldn’t help but interject, his face beaming with the excitement of a creator.
“To ensure the height of every piece of type is identical, we redesigned the molds and the casting process. The type we cast now has negligible errors; it definitely won’t affect the print quality.”
“The ink was also a challenge,” Gutenberg continued.
“Ordinary writing ink is too thin and lacks adhesion; the print comes out as a blurry mess. We experimented for a long time and finally used linseed oil as a base, added rosin to increase viscosity, and used top-grade soot as pigment. The resulting ink has the perfect consistency—it doesn’t smudge easily and adheres well.”
Bernard listened, feeling a bit lost but sensing that it was all very impressive.
Allen, on the other hand, nodded repeatedly.
As someone from the Information Age, he knew that these seemingly minor technical details were often the key factors in determining whether an invention could be successfully popularized.
Movable type printing was not a single invention, but a system.
Allen’s hand-drawn designs provided the core concept, but the special alloy required for the type, the process for casting precise molds, and the specialized ink for metal type… these supporting technologies were equally indispensable.
They finally reached the very end of the workshop.
A massive, complex machine made primarily of hardwoods and metal components stood there quietly.
Under the glow of the surrounding furnaces, it appeared exceptionally unusual.
This was the first practical movable type printing press in the world.
The body of the machine was a sturdy wooden frame. In the center was a platform for the type bed, and above it hung a large wooden screw connected to a heavy platen.
“Come, let me show you.” Gutenberg rolled up his sleeves and stepped up to the machine.
He skillfully selected pieces of type from a nearby box and, following the order of a short manuscript, quickly and accurately arranged them on the bed.
Soon, rows of mirrored text were neatly aligned.
“Next is the inking.”
Using a leather ink ball soaked in the specialized ink, he gently rolled it over the arranged type, ensuring that the top of every character was evenly coated with a thin layer of ink.
“Placing the paper.” A sheet of pre-cut paper was carefully laid over the inked type.
“The most critical step—the impression!”
Gutenberg grabbed the lever on the side of the machine and began to turn the massive screw.
The screw drove the upper platen down slowly, steadily and powerfully pressing the paper against the type. A faint squeezing sound could be heard.
“Done!”
Gutenberg turned the screw in reverse, raised the platen, and then carefully peeled back the paper.
A printed page was presented to everyone.
The handwriting on the paper was clear, the ink was even, and the lines were straight.
Its neatness even surpassed that of most hand-copied manuscripts.
Marianne couldn’t help but gasp softly. Having experienced the toil of transcribing documents herself, she could better appreciate the magic of this machine.
Bernard excitedly took the page, which still carried the scent of fresh ink.
His fingers trembled slightly as he traced the words, staring at it for a long while without being able to speak.
“Master Gutenberg, how long does it take to print a page like this?” Allen asked.
“With our current lack of practice, typesetting a page might take 30 minutes. Once we’re used to it, a page like this will take about 10 minutes. Once the layout is set, however…”
Gutenberg patted the sturdy machine with force.
“As long as our physical strength holds up, the time it takes to print 100 or 1,000 copies is almost the same.”
The butler quickly did the math in his head and sucked in a breath of cold air.
“At this speed, one machine could print thousands of pages in a single day—hundreds of times faster than a scribe.”
“It’s not just the speed.” Allen’s smile carried a certain magic.
“The key is the cost. Hiring a scribe, you can’t even get many pages done in a day, and the wages aren’t low. With printing, the main costs are paper and ink. The cost per page can be reduced ten times, or even dozens of times.”
“In the future, we will print books as fast as we print money.”
Allen added this as he looked at his stunned father.
Bernard finally snapped out of his shock and tightly gripped Gutenberg’s rough hand. “Master! You… you have created history! This machine will surely change the entire world!”
“Lord Viscount, you flatter me!” Gutenberg waved his hands repeatedly, speaking with great humility.
“All the credit goes to Master Allen. Without the detailed blueprints he provided, we would just be a group of blacksmiths who only know how to hammer metal.”
Allen said with a smile, “The process of turning imagination into reality is the true magic. The contributions of you masters come first.”
Allen looked around at the craftsmen in the workshop who were peeking over due to the commotion, feeling a massive sense of achievement.
The way knowledge was transmitted in human civilization was about to undergo a revolutionary change because of their efforts.
From this day forward, he would personally push the wheels of history, and they would roar forward.
Perhaps ‘Dawn’s Children’ would be ruthlessly crushed by the iron fist of the Old World, but once the seeds of thought were sown, they would bloom everywhere and could never be uprooted.
As long as this machine existed, there would be new revolutionaries following in his footsteps, one after another.
Even if Allen could not escape a final fate of death, these legacies would be a worthy contribution to human civilization.
Thinking of this, Allen pulled his thoughts back and looked at Gutenberg, who was gazing at him with admiration.
Before popularizing printing technology, he had one more important thing to do.
“Master Gutenberg.” Allen’s tone suddenly became solemn.
“Yes, Master Allen?”
Allen smiled slightly and said something that instantly silenced the entire workshop.
“I want to acquire your workshop.”
The noise in the workshop froze instantly, and everyone’s gaze focused on Allen and Gutenberg.