Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

Nora clicked her tongue in amazement from the side.

“I’ve long heard that being scolded by a Steam Engine is one of Castel’s unique charms—you just have to experience it yourself. I didn’t expect you to get the honor so soon.”

“It’s… it’s not that bad,” Gwen said, scratching her head sheepishly as she placed a hand on the Steam Engine’s boiler.

But the next instant, two glowing coals shot out of the furnace and struck her hand directly. Startled, Gwen yelped and jerked her hand back.

Nora: “…”

Gwen: “…”

The Stoker nearby stood dumbfounded for a moment, then quickly ducked to avoid a stray flying coal before finally coming back to his senses.

“No, actually, this is an amazing thing! The Machine Soul rarely bothers acknowledging anyone. If it scolds you, it means it’s interested in you! Many mechanical apprentices would kill for that!”

The look he gave Gwen was no longer just admiration—it carried a hint of envy.

Why does the Steam Engine scold only you and not me? I’ve spent more time with it!

Gwen stared blankly at the machine that had now begun spitting coals toward the Stoker. She took a few cautious steps back and whispered to Nora, clutching her arm tightly, “Are all Castel people… this twisted?”

“P-Probably just an isolated case.”

To be fair, the Machine Soul truly seemed to like Gwen. Soon enough, the two were chatting away happily—Gwen talked about the snows of the Northlands, and the Steam Engine roared, belching several jets of flame from its boiler.

Gwen had thought everyone could get along with the Steam Engine that way—or at least Transcendents could—but it seemed the machine wasn’t fond of Nora. Gwen had even hung Nora from the flywheel, spinning her around for half a day, but the Steam Engine didn’t react at all.

It was only when Gwen tried to stuff Nora into the boiler that she got scolded—by both the Steam Engine and Nora.

“Well, maybe it’s because you’ve only come halfway. The Steam Engine thinks you’re being rude,” Gwen said, wiping the soot from her face with a towel as she analyzed the situation.

“I think you’re the rude one.”

“What? You’re asking why the Steam Engine likes me so much? I don’t know, I just make friends easily. Everyone likes Gwen! Don’t be discouraged, Lady Nora—one day, the Steam Engine will scold you too!”

Gwen cheerfully reached out to pat Nora but failed to notice the increasingly frosty look in her eyes. And then—

“Ahhh! Lady Nora, don’t bite me!!!”

The Steam Engine beside them puffed out several more angry coal balls, which the quick-handed Stoker batted back into the furnace with his shovel.

The rest of the journey passed without incident.

After crossing more than half of the Principality of Tis, the train began to slow down.

Gwen was now clad in full armor, including her gauntlets—especially her gauntlets. Through the gaps in her armor, faint bite marks could be seen on her neck.

Holding Nora in one arm like a knight cradling her helmet, Gwen curiously peered out the window.

“So this is Blood Harbor? There are so many people!”

“No, we’re not there yet,” Nora said, glancing out the window. “This is the shanty area near Blood Harbor. It used to be outside the city—technically the outskirts—but as Blood Harbor kept expanding, people started gathering here too.”

Gwen leaned out to look. Most of the residents were refugees. With wars raging across the continent, they had no choice but to wander, scavenging whatever materials they could find to build makeshift shelters that barely kept out the wind and rain.

“I thought Blood Harbor was supposed to be a prosperous place.”

“Every prosperity has its borders. No city can hold everyone in the world. Besides—look closer.”

At Nora’s words, Gwen focused her gaze.

Though the refugees’ clothes were tattered, most of them looked relatively healthy. There were no corpses by the roadside, and even the trash wasn’t piled up too high.

“This may be outside the city, but it’s still under management. There’s basic order here. Many people would rather live in these shanties than leave, because… there’s hope here.”

“Hope…” Gwen murmured. As a refugee of the White Raven, she understood all too well what it meant to live like that.

These people were not abandoned. A closer look showed that most of those present were women and children.

Not because the refugees consisted only of them—refugees with only women and children couldn’t survive. The only explanation was that the able-bodied men had gone to work.

And where there was work, there was food.

Where there was survival, there was hope.

“Look over there.”

Nora shifted slightly in Gwen’s arms, nodding toward something ahead. Gwen followed her gaze and saw a long queue of people. Hooded figures stood on both sides maintaining order, and at the front of the line was a huge pot.

Gwen narrowed her eyes. Her Transcendent physique gave her sharper senses than ordinary mortals—especially her eyesight, though she didn’t quite consider herself a Transcendent.

“Holy Water? Are they distributing Holy Water?”

She was stunned. Holy Water was expensive—so much so that even impoverished nobles had to ration it carefully. How could it be distributed so freely?

Looking closer, she realized the “Holy Water” being ladled into bowls wasn’t as clear as that used by the Church. Instead, it looked thick and cloudy. Gwen sniffed the air and swallowed.

“That’s the refugees’ Holy Water.”

“Rice, mixed with rye, and whatever other grains they can find—boiled with water until it thickens. That’s their Holy Water. It saves lives, fills stomachs, drives away the cold, and brings them hope. There’s nothing more sacred than that.”

Gwen stared blankly at the stall distributing “Holy Water.”

“The new workers in Blood Harbor all revere Hughes as a god. No matter how hard the Imperial Truth tries to suppress it, it’s useless. They can explain ten times over, but nothing outweighs a single bowl of hot porridge.”

A bowl of hot porridge.

Gwen looked at the steaming pot, her throat tightening. When she and her people had first fled their homeland, all they had were rock-hard biscuits. They would grab handfuls of snow, stuff it in their mouths, and swallow it whole.

Back then, if someone had given her a bowl of hot porridge, she would have gone to war for it without hesitation.

Later, even those biscuits ran out. They drew their swords, carving meat from nobles’ bodies instead.

Countless people had been buried beneath the snowstorms of the Northlands.

Cooking porridge didn’t require great skill, nor the incomprehensible books that filled scholars’ shelves. Just a young man who had once bartered for a boatload of goods could, with a few words and some companions, make it happen.

Yet all the great figures of the Northlands combined could not.

Gwen suddenly remembered: after the Resistance captured its first town, they had never starved again.

The lords’ warehouses were always full of grain. If they had been willing to share even a little, the refugees of the White Raven would never have risked their lives to steal.

They hadn’t needed much— just a bowl of hot porridge would have been enough.

Sunlight spilled across the land of Blood Harbor.

No more wind. No more frost from the Northlands.