Northreach Riverbank – Makeshift Paper Mill. Two Weeks Post-Debt Payment.
The stinging scent of rotten eggs filled the air by the rushing river. It was the smell of sulfur and cooking wood pulp.
"I swear, the smell is unbearable," complained Lady Rumina (Rumaisha), covering her nose with a handkerchief. She wore a leather apron over her now-dirty dress. "If my art school friends knew I was now a wood porridge maker, they'd cry."
Sir Rianor, who was inspecting a fine wire mesh sieve, chuckled.
"Hold it in, Rum. This is the smell of money," Rianor said. "In this world, people write on Parchment (sheepskin) or Vellum (calfskin). They are expensive, thick, and smell like dead animals. If we succeed in making Paper from wood fiber, we will monopolize the media."
Rianor lifted the sieve. On top of it, a thin layer of wet wood pulp had settled evenly. He pressed the water out, then laid it to dry on a hot copper plate.
A few minutes later.
Rianor lifted the result.
A sheet of paper.
Ivory white, thin, smooth, and lightweight.
"Voila," Rianor murmured.
Rhea (Lady Rhea), who was sitting sharpening a knife in the corner of the hut, approached. She felt the paper.
"Crazy... so smooth," Rhea commented. "This is basically the fantasy version of 80 GSM printer paper. Are we selling this?"
"No," Rianor answered, his eyes glinting cunningly. "We won't sell blank paper. We will sell the writing on it."
Rianor placed the paper on the table, then picked up a quill and black ink.
"Roland said Duke Varkas has started slandering us in the Capital. He claims we got the money from robbery or black magic."
"So we slander him back?" Rumina asked.
"Not slander. Facts," Rianor smirked. "Rhea, you're a Literature graduate. Write this."
Rianor dictated the headline.
"NORTHERN SCANDAL: DUKE VARKAS HOARDING GRAIN WHILE THE PEOPLE STARVE?"
Rhea raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? A clickbait title?"
"It has to be bombastic. Below it, write the leaked data we got from the original Rianor's memories. About the illegal taxes Varkas collects at the southern border, and about him keeping mistresses in the port city."
"Damn, straight-up tabloid gossip," Rhea laughed, then began writing in beautiful, flowing script.
"We print 500 copies of this using simple Woodblock Printing. Then we scatter them in border taverns, markets, and the Capital."
"The goal?" Rumina asked innocently.
"Destroying his troops' morale and making other nobles disgusted with him," Rianor answered coldly. "War in the old days was about information. Whoever controls the narrative, wins."
Three Days Later – A Tavern in the Border Region.
(Neutral Zone between Sudrath and Valerius)
The tavern was bustling with merchants and mercenaries taking a break.
Suddenly, a cloaked man (Garrick's paid spy) entered and "accidentally" left a stack of papers on the tables.
A fat merchant picked up a sheet.
"What is this? The paper is so fine... soft as silk."
He read the contents. His eyes widened.
"Hah?! Duke Varkas is raising the bridge tax by 20% secretly next month?!"
"What?!" another merchant snatched the paper. "Bastard! No wonder my margins are getting thinner!"
At another table, a group of mercenaries read the gossip section.
"Hey, look at this! 'Duke Varkas spent 1,000 gold on his dog's birthday party, while the gate guards' wages are two months in arrears.'"
"Son of a..." grumbled one mercenary who happened to have worked for Varkas. "It's true. I was there. He's stingy as hell."
In a matter of hours, those papers—dubbed "The Voice of the North"—spread from hand to hand. The content became a hot topic. Anger grew. Not because of swords, but because of words.
House Valerius Castle – Duke's Study.
CRASH!
Duke Varkas, a massive man with a thick red beard, slammed his desk until it cracked.
In his hand was a crumpled piece of Rianor's paper.
"Who... WHO WROTE THIS?!" Varkas roared. His face was beet red.
Baron Gorm, standing trembling before him, bowed in fear.
"T-there is no author name, My Lord. But... this paper... the quality..."
"I don't care about the paper!" Varkas screamed. "The content! Everyone is talking about me! Merchants are striking against crossing my territory! My soldiers are whispering about demanding a raise!"
Varkas tore the paper apart.
"Sudrath... It must be those Sudrath rats."
Varkas walked to the window, staring toward the North. Hatred burned in his eyes.
"Gorm!"
"Y-yes, My Lord?"
"Prepare the army. Not to collect a debt. But for war."
Varkas turned around, his eyes crazed.
"They want to play with fire? I will bring them hell. We attack Iron Hearth in one month. Burn everything. And find whoever wrote this trash, then cut out their tongue!"
Iron Hearth Castle – Strategy Room.
Sir Rianor placed the intelligence report on the map table.
The Sudrath family was gathered in full force.
"The bait is taken," Rianor said calmly, though his heart pounded. "Varkas is furious. He is mobilizing his troops."
"How many?" Lucian asked.
"Garrick's intel estimates... about 3,000 infantry and 500 cavalry," Rianor replied.
Roland swallowed hard. "We only have 30 village boys, 50 of Garrick's mercenaries, and... the nine of us."
"3,500 against 90," Riven muttered, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He didn't look scared; instead, he was grinning. "The math is terrible, Nor."
"Numerically, we lose for sure," Rianor admitted. He pointed to the map of a narrow valley that was the only entrance to Northreach. The Mist Valley.
"But this isn't normal math. This is Tower Defense."
Rianor picked up a knight chess piece and placed it on the valley map.
"We won't fight them in the open field. We will drag them into the Mist Valley. In there, their numbers mean nothing."
Rianor looked at Rumina.
"Rumi, is the stock ready?"
Rumina nodded hesitantly. "Ready, Kak. But... those are explosives, you know. If we mix them wrong, we blow up first."
"Explosives?" Aurelia asked, shocked. "Since when do you make bombs?"
"Not modern bombs, Mom," Rianor reassured his mother. "Just... simple Black Powder. Gunpowder. A mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate."
Rianor looked at his father, Duke Lucian.
"Dad, Varkas wants open war. We give him guerilla warfare. We will turn Mist Valley into a mass grave for those 'Iron Pigs'."
Lucian stood up. His General's aura flared fully.
"Sir Riven. Prepare the troops."
"Lady Rhea. Prepare the traps."
"Sir Rianor. Ensure your explosions are on time."
"Let's welcome them," Lucian said coldly.