The candlelight flickered on the lampstand, casting Rodney XVIII's shadow onto the heavy tapestry in the study.
The meeting summary report from Northwest Bay in his hand had been turned to the last page, the edges of which were slightly curled from the dense notes on the paper.
"Through systematic observation and experimentation, establish a verifiable system of natural laws..."
The king's fingers gently traced the definition paragraph of " Science " in the report, the ink gleaming with an indigo sheen in the candlelight.
The chimes of the clock tower in the capital city echoed outside the window, but he seemed not to hear them.
On the desk, a planetary chart, also from the Lakeheart Town academic conference, was placed on top of the star chart.
The bronze disc is etched with the geocentric orbit, a theory passed down through the church for thousands of years, while the elliptical orbital path on the sketch resembles a sharp sword, cleaving the ancient astrolabe in two.
Rodney XVIII suddenly recalled his childhood astronomy tutor's warning: "Heretical doctrines will burn the fingers of those who touch them." But now, his fingertips were touching a lunar eclipse prediction chart that was more accurate than the royal archives.
As the king uttered the concise formula "F=ma," his throat suddenly tightened. Just three symbols could explain the entire motion from the fall to the flight of the arrow, like a key unlocking a door to truth that had been locked. One sentence in the report made him ponder repeatedly: "The laws of nature are not altered by prayer, nor shifted by blasphemy."
"Reproducible and verifiable…" Rodney XVIII murmured the key words from the report, suddenly realizing that the corners of his mouth were turning up.
He was inspired by the phrase "repeatable verification" to think of "repeatable production".
The workers in Northwest Bay don't need any mysterious rituals; they can replicate the same machines by following the blueprints and the same products by following the operating instructions—this power is more terrifying than any magic because it spreads like wildfire.
Moonlight streamed through the stained glass, casting blue dapples on the steam engine sketch at the end of the report. The king gazed at the monster of pistons and connecting rods, as if he could hear the long wail of a steam whistle from a thousand miles away.
According to the description, this machine is far more powerful than a horse, capable of pulling a dozen large carriages, and it doesn't need feed; it only needs to be fed coal—the kind of black stone used for heating.
This was absolutely a great or even terrifying tool. Rodney XVIII already had a picture in his mind: a long steam train carrying an entire army and countless supplies, projecting the kingdom's military power thousands of miles away.
Candle wax slowly accumulated on the bronze lampstand, and Rodney XVIII rubbed his sore eyes. The parchment report from the Lakeheart Town academic conference was spread out on the oak desk, the mathematical expressions of Newton's three laws gleaming coldly in the candlelight.
There was a soft knock on the study door.
"Come in," the king said without looking up, his gaze still fixed on the neat squares on the periodic table.
Count Merlin slipped into the room like a shadow, his black cloak still damp with night dew. In his hands he carried an oak box inlaid with iron, the clasp on its edge reflecting a cold light.
"Your Majesty, the preliminary interrogation report of the prisoners of war in the Southern Territory." The Minister of Intelligence's voice was like the scratching of dry parchment, "There are several special cases."
Rodney XVIII finally looked up and noticed that Merlin, unusually, did not immediately unroll the scroll. Beneath Old Earl's gray eyebrows, his eyes were curiously fixed on the steam locomotive diagram spread out on the table.
"Get straight to the point, Lord Merlin."
"We've discovered a special group of prisoners among Giles's henchmen." Merlin unlocked the box and took out a scroll of paper bound with red rope. "They call themselves…they call themselves mages, Your Majesty."
The old clock in the corner suddenly made a clicking sound, and the king's hand froze in mid-air.
"How many people?" the king finally asked, his voice as calm as a frozen lake.
"Seven confirmed cases, and more than twenty suspected accomplices." Merlin stepped forward, fully revealing the documents in the box to the candlelight. "The leader is a man named Dirk Doyle, who claims to be Giles ' chief—"
Merlin's fingers unconsciously rubbed the iron edge of the oak box, waiting for the king to reach out and take the heavy list.
Rodney XVIII took it and examined it carefully. He tapped his fingers lightly three times on the table, then looked up at Merlin.
"I want to meet these so-called monks."
Count Merlin's knuckles suddenly tightened, making a slight creak on the iron edge of the oak box. "Your Majesty," the interrogator reported, his Adam's apple bobbing, "though these mages are in shackles, the interrogator reported that some of them can extinguish candles without warning while bound—this is to prove their identity. But please consider carefully, who knows what other mysterious powers they may be hiding? Is it possible that they were deliberately taken prisoner to infiltrate Aldor's central command and cause sabotage?"
The king thought for a moment, then pushed back his chair and stood up. "I still want to see them. Are there any security measures in place?"
Count Merlin sighed. "There's a stone called the magic detection stone. It's usually white, but it turns black when it senses magic. This used to be just a legend, but since we learned that the kingdom's civil war was related to wizards, we've started to focus on gathering intelligence related to magic. It was precisely because of these wizard prisoners that we were able to verify this property of the magic detection stone."
He took out a small velvet pouch from the inside of his cloak and poured out a milky white stone the size of a pigeon egg, which appeared very smooth in the candlelight.
Count Merlin said, "As soon as the stone begins to change color, have the firearms shoot them dead. I don't think they can outrun a bullet, no matter how fast they cast their spells. What do you think?"
The king nodded; he thought the plan was quite feasible.
...
Water droplets seeped through the stone walls of the interrogation room, refracting the torchlight into distorted ripples. Rodney XVIII sat at the iron-clad oak table, watching two guards escort a staggering figure into the room.
Dirk Doyle's prison uniform hung loosely on his body, revealing the shadows of his collarbone. His bald head had an unhealthy sallow hue, and his eye sockets were sunken like two bruised pits.
The guards placed the magic detection stone on the table between the king and Doyle. The milky-white crystal swayed slightly within the wizard's breathing range. Six firearms stood in the shadows, their flintlock muskets all cocked and ready to fire, their barrels pointed at the dangerous individuals being brought in.
Dirk Doyle, his hands and feet shackled, was forced to sit in a chair, his features blurred in the shadows. But when his gaze fell on the royal insignia on the king's chest, he suddenly broke into an exaggerated smile.
"Homage to Aldor's Morning Star!"
The wizard's voice was like a dull knife scraping through bone, yet it carried an eerie joy.
" That megalomaniac Giles has finally fallen into your hands. Congratulations, Your Majesty the Great Rodney XVIII!"