The contracts for the drainage pipes transformed Volkovo. The estate, once a quiet backwater, was now a hive of constant, organized activity. The orange glow of the kilns burned through the night, and the muddy yard was filled with the sounds of hammers, saws, and men shouting orders. Mikhail was no longer just a baron; he was a general contractor, a logistics manager, and a teacher, overseeing the complex schedule of producing thousands of pipes and managing multiple installation teams across the province.
He now had nearly fifty men on his payroll. He had built bunkhouses and a communal kitchen, turning his ramshackle estate into a proper company town. He paid his workers well and on time, and in return, he demanded discipline and excellence. He was respected, feared, and regarded as something of a sorcerer by the local peasantry, a man who could turn mud into money and swamps into farmland.
Yet, amidst this success, Alistair's analytical mind pinpointed a critical vulnerability. Every tool they used, from the spades that dug the trenches to the metal fittings for the kilns, had to be purchased from smiths in Pskov, often at inflated prices from merchants in Katorov's pocket. He was building a modern enterprise on a foundation of antiquated, unreliable tools. He was dependent. It was a weakness he could not tolerate.
The solution, as always, was to leapfrog the competition. He would not just start a simple blacksmith shop; he would create a foundry.
His German chemistry and French metallurgy books became his new bibles. For weeks, he drew and redrew plans, not for a simple forge, but for a small-scale cupola furnace—a design capable of achieving temperatures high enough to melt iron and produce crude steel. It was a technology that existed in the massive industrial centers of Britain and Germany but was virtually unknown in a rural Russian province.
To lead this new venture, he needed more than just laborers. He needed a mind he could shape. He found it in Pyotr's youngest son, a quiet, nineteen-year-old named Alexei. Mikhail had noticed the boy's talent for fixing tools, his intuitive understanding of mechanics, and his insatiable curiosity about how the kilns worked. He saw a spark of engineering genius waiting to be kindled.
Mikhail took Alexei under his wing, turning the boy into his personal apprentice. In the evenings, long after the other workers were asleep, he would teach him. He started not with metal, but with paper and charcoal. He taught Alexei the principles of physics—leverage, stress, and thermodynamics. He explained the chemistry of combustion and the properties of carbon in iron. Alexei absorbed every word as if it were scripture. The awe he once felt for the Baron was reforged into something harder, a loyalty so absolute it felt like a component of his own soul. He no longer saw the Baron as just a master, but as the architect of a new world he was privileged to help build.
Their next project was the proof: a furnace of brick and reinforced iron that took shape next to the kilns. It was a structure unlike any he had ever seen, squat and powerful, seeming to hum with a contained energy even before it was finished. Its construction was a puzzle, forcing Mikhail to devise clever workarounds for the lack of modern tools, but with Alexei's growing practical skill, the impossible slowly took shape.
As the furnace neared completion, a rider arrived from Pskov bearing a letter with an unfamiliar, ornate seal. It was not from a landowner or a merchant. The wax was stamped with the double-headed eagle of the Imperial government. Mikhail's heart gave a sudden, sharp jolt.
The letter was from the office of the Assistant Minister of Internal Affairs in St. Petersburg, a man by the name of Vyacheslav Plehve—a name Alistair knew well as a future ruthless and powerful figure. The letter was terse and formal. It noted that reports from the Pskov governorate regarding "significant agricultural and production innovations" by one Baron Mikhail Volkov had reached the Ministry. His presence was requested in the capital to provide a more detailed report on his methods.
It was not an invitation; it was a summons.
He stared at the summons from St. Petersburg, a cold clarity settling over him. It was a chain of events, he realized. Katorov's attack had necessitated Sofia's aid, and her aid had brought his name to the attention of men like Plehve. The provincial chessboard was being put away, and a far larger, more dangerous one was being brought out. The thought sent a jolt through him, a feeling that was equal parts fear of the unknown and the pure, predatory thrill of a greater challenge.
The night before his scheduled departure, they fired the new furnace for the first time. Mikhail and Alexei stood before the roaring beast, the intense, almost white heat washing over them. The air vibrated with its power. When Alexei, shielded by a heavy leather apron, tapped the crucible, a stream of brilliant, molten iron flowed out, a river of liquid fire that was more than just metal. It was potential. It was power. It was the building block of the modern world, and it was his.
Alexei looked at the molten iron with awe, but Mikhail saw something more. He saw cannon barrels and railway tracks, engine pistons and the steel hulls of battleships. He had mastered dirt, and now he was mastering fire and iron.
He turned to his young apprentice, his face illuminated by the fierce glow of the furnace. "You are in charge of this while I am gone, Alexei. I trust no one else."
The young man's eyes widened, filled with a mixture of terror and immense pride. He nodded, unable to speak.
Mikhail looked back at the furnace, its fiery maw a gateway to the future he intended to build. He had created a self-sustaining engine of wealth and innovation in the middle of nowhere. He had a loyal workforce, a growing reputation, and a budding political alliance. Now, the capital was calling. It was time to leave the laboratory and enter the lion's den.