One week after the silent, terrible arrival of the Tier 1 Vanguards, life in the recently annexed territory of Scofield had settled into a rhythm dictated by the unrelenting drumbeat of industrial efficiency and martial law. The black and red banners of Valum were draped everywhere, a constant, sharp visual contrast against the pale stone of the castle and the dusty brown of the mining town. The atmosphere was one of forced, anxious calm. The castle, now the headquarters for the military occupation, pulsed with the low-frequency hum of newly installed radio equipment, connecting it instantly to Valum's central command. Two hundred Paratroopers patrolled the area, and the two massive airships, The Deliverance and The Swift, were a constant, intimidating presence, often seen making slow, methodical circuits over the farmlands before returning to their landing field near the castle.
Maximilian, however, was not concerned with parades or symbolic displays of power; he was concerned with production. The capture of the mines had been a success, securing the raw iron needed to feed his hungry factories, but the immediate integration of the former feudal operation was proving a challenge. Max spent the first week not in the castle's throne room, but deep within the iron mines themselves. His objective was immediate: maximize yield while drastically reducing the appalling fatality rate that had defined Scofield's operations for centuries.
The mines, once cold, damp tunnels manned by tired men and forced child labor, now roared with a new, constant symphony of industrial might. Max had rushed in the first tranche of his steam engines. These magnificent, hissing beasts were now the heart of the operation. Their primary use was dewatering the lower shafts, a task previously done by human chains and inefficient mana-powered siphons, which often led to dangerous collapses. Now, the constant, rhythmic chuff-chuff-chuff of the steam-driven pumps kept the tunnels dry, reducing the risk of flooding and collapse by over eighty percent. Other, smaller steam engines were employed in hauling the ore carts up the steeper inclines, instantly increasing the speed of extraction and alleviating the near-fatal strain on the miners.
Safety was prioritized with the same zeal Max applied to weapons design. The Vanguards, still covered in the grime of the initial raid, were retasked as safety overseers, ensuring every mine brace was triple-checked. New protocols for ventilation, based on the principle of forced air circulation via mechanized bellows, were implemented to combat the "mine sickness"—the lethal dust inhalation that had historically crippled miners by age thirty. Elias, the foreman Max had brought from Valum, oversaw the furious pace of change. He watched, stunned, as production quadrupled in three days.
The miners themselves—tough, taciturn men who had known only backbreaking labor and early death—were bewildered. They were paid actual wages (not meager stipends in rough grain), child labor was strictly forbidden, and the strange, hissing machines did the work of a hundred men. The work was still dangerous, but it was no longer immediately fatal. The change was so radical, so utterly divorced from their experience under the Baron, that they viewed Maximilian not as a conqueror, but as a severe, demanding, yet utterly rational deity of production. He had not taken their lives; he had saved them, all in the pursuit of more iron for his enigmatic, fire-spitting weapons.
After securing the industrial capacity, Maximilian shifted his focus to the next strategic challenge: sustaining the new population. The territory was now Valum's, and Valum was founded on self-sufficiency. A large portion of Scofield's territory was dedicated to agriculture, meant to feed both the population and the now-vanquished garrison. Max scheduled a meeting with the region's most influential farmer representative, a gnarled, elderly man known simply as Old Man Finn, whose family had worked the land for centuries.
The meeting was held in a hastily converted storehouse, filled with the smell of canvas and oil lamps. Lieutenant Voss stood rigidly near the entrance, ensuring security. Max sat opposite Finn, patiently waiting for the man to overcome his initial terror of addressing the "Sorcerer-King" who had fallen from the sky.
"Thank you for coming, Mr. Finn," Max began, speaking with the clear, unaccented pragmatism he reserved for technical discussions. "The yield reports for this territory are poor. Historically, Scofield has always struggled with food production, relying heavily on trade with the Eastern farms. Now that we own the land, we intend to change that. I require frankness. Why are the yields so low? The soil composition seems rich, and the water table is sufficient."
Old Man Finn adjusted his cap, finding courage in the technicality of the question. "Aye, Lord Scorpia. The soil is rich enough, especially in the upper fields. But the lower fields, the ones that run down toward the river flats… they're cursed. Always have been. My father swore the land was tainted by a demon's excrement."
"Tainted how, precisely?" Max pressed, leaning forward. "Is it poor drainage? Is the soil too acidic?"
"No, sir. It's the substance," Finn explained, pointing a shaky, calloused finger eastward. "It's a brownish black substance that rises from the ground, especially after the spring rains. It coats the fields, settles in the water. It smells like rot and sulphur, and nothing grows where it pools. It ruins the seeds, taints the hay, and makes the cattle sick if they drink the water. We dig trenches to catch it and burn it when we can, but it's a constant, fouling presence."
Max's mind, a perpetual engine of recognition and extrapolation, froze. A faint image—a geological map he had quickly reviewed a week prior—flashed into his thoughts. Subterranean pressure, geological faults, proximity to certain rock layers, and the persistent presence of this "taint."
"Tell me, Finn," Max said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, startling Lieutenant Voss. "When you burn this black substance... what happens?"
"It burns, my Lord," Finn replied, confused by the question. "It catches easy, too easy, and throws up a thick, choking black smoke. The fire is hot, much hotter than wood or charcoal. We use it sometimes to seal the field edges in winter, but the smell... the smell is terrible."
A profound silence descended upon the storehouse, interrupted only by the distant chuffing of the steam pumps in the valley. Max wasn't looking at Finn anymore. He was staring through the man, through the walls of the storehouse, through the ground beneath his feet, right into the Earth's untapped crust. The brownish black substance, the sulphur smell, the easy ignition, the intense heat, the ruining of topsoil—it all clicked into a discovery far more impactful than a mere iron mine.
"Get me a sample, Finn," Max ordered, his voice resonating with an uncontainable excitement he rarely showed. "A barrel. Now."
The moment Finn and his attendant left, Max jumped to his feet, pacing the confines of the room. Crude oil. Petroleum. The lifeblood of the future he had been struggling to build. He had spent the last two years designing engines that ran on difficult-to-produce ethanol and unstable hydrogen because this world offered no refined fuels. Ethanol was inefficient; hydrogen was dangerous to store. But now, in the same piece of land he had seized for iron, he had stumbled upon the very substance that powered the industrial revolutions of his past life. This was not a resource; this was geopolitical dominance.
The implications hit him with overwhelming force. Iron gave him weapons; oil gave him mobility and total energy independence. His current steam engines were bulky and stationary; powered by this black, liquid gold, he could perfect the true internal combustion engine. He could build reliable, high-speed trucks to replace the steam wagons, greatly accelerating logistics. He could develop high-octane fuel for faster, smaller-winged aircraft. Most immediately, he could create diesel fuel, a safer, more concentrated energy source for his larger machinery and generators.
Max walked over to Lieutenant Voss, whose expression remained professionally blank but whose curiosity was visibly piqued by the Sovereign's sudden frenzy.
"Voss," Max said, his eyes still burning with the realization. "The war we are fighting is not one of iron and steel, but one of energy and logistics. This 'taint' that Old Man Finn speaks of... it is the most valuable substance on this entire continent. We will need to immediately secure the lowlands, establish strict environmental protection—no burning, no pouring into the river—and prepare for deep drilling operations. This will require new engineers, entirely new machinery, and a security perimeter that makes the wall look like a garden fence."
He paused, gathering his thoughts, running calculations in his head for cracking towers, fractionation, and refinery designs. The crude oil would not only power his war machine, but it would give him materials for plastics, rubber, and chemical weapons—all the advanced materiel he hadn't dared dream of producing yet. His iron mines were vital; his oil fields were a death sentence for the Empire.
"Issue an immediate decree," Max commanded. "All farmland bordering the river flats is now under military protection and designated as a 'Toxic Zone.' Anyone found attempting to harvest, burn, or remove the black substance will be tried under martial law. I want perimeter trenches dug immediately to prevent runoff. This resource is more vital than all the gold in the Imperial treasury, and no one, especially not the Imperial Court who believes I use sorcery, must know what it truly is. For now, it remains the 'Toxic Taint of the Demon.' Go, Lieutenant. Make the preparations. Valum has just secured its industrial future, and it is far darker, and far more powerful, than anyone could have possibly imagined."
The distance in his thoughts—the span between Scofield's superstitious terror and the vast, transformative power of the coming oil age—was dizzying. He had planned to conquer a Duchy; now, he could conquer the world.