As a revolutionary leader, Allen truly set the best example in leading by action.
Anyone who had witnessed his workaholic side couldn’t help but admire this Divine Emissary who compared himself to a “nuclear-powered beast of burden.”
“Fierce-browed, I coolly defy a thousand pointing fingers; head-bowed, like a willing ox I serve the children.”
This phrase fit Allen perfectly.
Allen and his three followers—Finn, Luca, and John Camille—simply had breakfast in the lobby of the Continental Hotel’s first floor.
When the hotel’s General Manager, Matthew, saw Allen, he immediately put down his work and came to accompany him.
Allen sipped his savory soy milk while watching the new members, who were queuing up to join the Mutual Aid Association and then happily looking for seats with their Chinese-style breakfasts—soy milk, fried dough sticks, and steamed buns—a soft smile appearing on his face.
Seeing the light of hope shining on people’s faces was far better than the deep-seated lifelessness so common in this era.
However, this small glimmer of light also made Allen think of more.
The situation in the Capital Lucien was different from anywhere else in this world.
Starlit Romance set its story stage here precisely because only this place could fulfill people’s fantasies of a prosperous, magical world.
But in reality, medieval pastoral idylls were the most common sight in this world.
The Capital was the most prosperous and ideologically advanced place in the entire world, which was why his cause could take root and sprout so rapidly.
Yet, once one turned their gaze to the vast countryside, the places most deeply influenced by the Sword-Bearing Nobles, it was a stagnant pool, even despairing.
In those places, feudal ideology was deeply entrenched, and the populace’s education level was extremely low. Reversing such ignorance in a short time was almost impossible.
But without changing the ideological climate of the entire society and without spreading the fruits of development to benefit the whole nation, his revolution would inevitably fail.
The entire Kingdom had tens of millions of people. Even being generous, the Capital’s permanent population was only around four hundred thousand.
His little spark of revolution was pitifully small against the darkness of the entire Kingdom.
So… he had to have guns.
Gentle reform was doomed to fail in this dark age. “Dawn’s Children” must seize power through the barrel of a gun, using the purest violence to complete land reform and uproot the entire feudal power structure.
This path was undoubtedly a road to hell, paved with mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
But Allen didn’t care.
He recalled the scripture from the Holy Scripture: “Among the wheat fields, the tares shall grow together with the wheat. To reap a bountiful harvest, one must wield the sickle, uproot them, and consign them to the flames. Their smoke shall rise forevermore, a necessary evil performed to purify the land.”
For humanity, he was the most effective targeted drug. Though the accompanying pain was inevitable, this was a genuinely effective prescription for salvation.
Only, occasionally, Allen also wondered if accepting the fate of the eventual destruction of all things in the universe was a required course for any species.
Even if humanity gained a brief, precarious survival, the vast, dark expanse of space… was it truly suitable for fragile and lonely humans?
To struggle hysterically for this, to sacrifice everything, just for a moment of lingering survival… was it… really worth it?
The few people accompanying Allen for the meal keenly sensed the lingering melancholy about him.
They exchanged glances but didn’t know what to say.
They knew Allen wasn’t worried about the immediate enemies; the counterattacks from the Guilds and Sword-Bearing Nobles were nothing, and everyone was prepared.
Then… what were they not prepared for?
“Leader, what are you worried about?” Finn mustered his courage and asked cautiously.
Allen looked up and found Finn, Luca, and John all watching him with concern. He had only taken a few bites of his breakfast on the table.
Allen put down his chopsticks, looked at the bustling crowd outside the window, and softly asked in return, “If everything we do will ultimately face an unavoidable destruction… what would you… do?”
The air instantly fell silent.
Finn and Luca frowned in thought; the question was too heavy, leaving them unsure how to answer.
Finally, it was John Camille, the veteran who had experienced life and death, who spoke first, his voice incredibly firm:
“Leader, I think… I’d still struggle a bit.”
He paused, seeming to organize his words.
“Like a dying patient, even knowing they’re beyond saving, they still want to take a few more breaths until the very last moment.”
“Is that so… I understand.”
The sadness in Allen’s eyes temporarily receded.
The will to survive and the death drive were inherently intertwined.
Since the patient wished to live, then he, this merciless targeted drug, only needed to complete his work.
Those tumors clinging to humanity, dragging people to death, just obediently die.
Your transmigrator grandpa is here!
“Let’s eat. We have serious business after we finish.” Allen picked up his chopsticks again and finished his breakfast in a few bites.
Allen quickly adjusted his mood, briefly discussed the Continental Hotel’s upcoming business strategies with Matthew, including plans to open branch stores and introduce franchisees, then led his comrades, hailed a carriage, and headed straight for Gutenberg’s Workshop.
Before arriving at the workshop, Allen first had the carriage stop at a street corner to meet with the captain of the Workers’ Patrol responsible for security in this area.
“For the next few days, Master Gutenberg’s workshop is highly likely to become a key target for enemy attacks.” Allen’s tone was serious. “The strength of a single patrol is limited, and your training level isn’t sufficient. The enemies won’t just be thugs; there will likely be regular soldiers disguised as mercenaries, and even… Crestbearers.”
Sweat beaded on the captain’s forehead, and he nervously swallowed.
“Don’t worry,” Allen patted his shoulder, calming him down. “The main force of the Lily Guard will be stationed here disguised as your people. What you need to do is cooperate with them and secure the perimeter.”
Allen knew well that the employees of the Lily Guard PMC company were no ordinary mercenaries.
Trained under his epoch-spanning Infantry Drill Manual, these continuously integrated professional soldiers were already the era’s top-tier modern infantry.
If using the discipline rating from a classic map-painting game like EU4 as an example, the discipline of ordinary gang thugs wouldn’t exceed 40%, the Kingdom’s regular army was around 100%, and his Lily Guard had already stacked discipline to over 130%, with morale far ahead as well.
His only disadvantage was manpower and numbers, but for street brawl-scale fights, the Lily Guard was more than sufficient.
The real challenge was that ordinary people couldn’t effectively oppose Crestbearers, which was why he placed such importance on firearms today.
This secret weapon would be his key to dealing with Crestbearers.
Firearms carried too much heavy significance for Allen. Confident as he was, he couldn’t help but worry: Could Master Gutenberg really produce a qualified wheellock gun?
As for why not have Hugo, that powerful Crestbearer, hold the fort?
The reason was simple: that hot-blooded idiot, once worked up and using the Sun Emblem, would one hundred percent expose his identity, which would absolutely steer things toward a worse situation.
However, even without the wheellock gun, Allen had prepared other backup plans.
After arranging the work, Allen’s group finally entered Gutenberg’s Workshop.
The sight before Allen felt somewhat novel.
The memory of that crowded, noisy workshop was now completely refreshed.
It had not only been expanded but had even swallowed up several surrounding buildings, forming a rudimentary factory complex.
Dozens of young craftsmen in uniform work clothes bustled inside. They were no longer traditional master-apprentice pairs but more like colleagues in a modern factory, with clear divisions of labor, cooperating with each other, the atmosphere lively and efficient.
“Young Master Allen!” Gutenberg had been waiting at the entrance early today and warmly welcomed Allen as soon as he saw him.
After the two exchanged some effusive mutual praise, Allen introduced the three comrades behind him.
Gutenberg shook hands warmly with all three. When he grasped John Camille’s hand, this master-level craftsman froze.
He squeezed, feeling the cold, hard sensation transmitted by the metal palm.
“This… this is…” Gutenberg’s eyes lit up.
At Allen’s signal, John removed his glove, revealing the prosthetic limb that gleamed with a metallic luster.
Gutenberg’s breathing grew rapid. He leaned in as if admiring a peerless work of art, his fingers gently tracing the intricate mechanical joints, muttering to himself, wishing he could disassemble it on the spot to study it thoroughly.
“Ahem!” Allen gave a light cough, interrupting this tech enthusiast’s immersive experience.
He lowered his voice, adopting a deliberately mysterious tone. “Master Gutenberg, calm down. This is a secret of the Inquisition not to be passed on. Taking it apart would get you burned at the stake.”
“Ah? Oh, oh!” Gutenberg seemed to snap out of a dream, reluctantly letting go, his face full of regret.
“Don’t worry,” Allen laughed. “Once our science develops, not just this kind of mechanical arm, but even things that can fly through the skies and burrow through the earth, you’ll be able to build them with your own hands.”
“Then I really have to live well and wait for that day!” Gutenberg laughed heartily, the anticipation in his eyes almost overflowing.
Learning of John’s experiences, Gutenberg couldn’t help but feel deeply moved.
The Mutual Aid Association had not only changed this one-armed knight who had been reduced to a beggar but had also completely changed himself.
“In the old days, taking on apprentices, I’d hide and conceal things, afraid the craft would be learned and the master would starve.” Gutenberg led the group, talking as they walked. “Now that the workshop has changed to the Mutual Aid Association model, everyone’s motivation is completely different. Output is skyrocketing! Everyone hopes the workshop does well, so they can earn more too!”
After the pleasantries, Gutenberg led everyone to a newly built, underground secret workshop.
The smile faded from his face, replaced by a grave expression. “After joining the Mutual Aid Association, I’ve come to understand. Some technologies must not be casually shared until those stubborn old fossils are completely swept into the dustbin of history. The printing press is one, and this thing even more so.”
Pushing open the heavy iron door, four wheellock guns, two long and two short, lay quietly on a wooden stand draped with velvet, like slumbering beasts of prey.
Their bodies were made of cold-gleaming steel and meticulously polished dark hardwood.
The precise gears, springs, and steel wheels on the gun bodies reflected fragmented light under the candlelight, brimming with an intoxicating mechanical beauty.
“My god…” Finn couldn’t help but let out a gasp of admiration.
“A masterpiece! This is simply art!” John, the veteran, was even more enthralled, his eyes shining.
Allen picked up one of the long guns, hefted it with one hand to gauge its weight, then shouldered the stock, adopting an aiming posture.
Perfectly fitted components, smooth mechanisms, perfectly balanced weight distribution… it completely met his blueprint requirements, even better than he had imagined.
Truly worthy of being the era’s top-tier craftsman.