12: Chapter 12 Orc Warband Attack

The parts list for the lathe was copied into three versions: one was posted on the wall of the workshop, one was placed in the drawer of Lin Mo's Archon desk, and one was stuffed by Old Tom into the pocket of the leather apron he carried with him.

Old Tom called this "just in case"—in his experience, every time he thought everything was ready, some part would always break exactly when he needed it the most.

Three days later, the first lathe spindle was finished. Old Tom installed it onto the wooden bed, turned it by hand to test the concentricity, and then, under the gaze of the apprentices, said: "It's still far from enough."

But when he said this, the corners of his mouth curved up just a fraction more than before.

The gaps in the supply list were laid out on the table during the morning meeting. Lin Mo used a charcoal pencil to mark three timelines: the short-term path was to raid the Mining City's reserves, the medium-term plan was to wait for Kahn's caravan, and the long-term plan was to organize a local mining team.

Locke finally broke the silence: "I'll lead the team to the Mining City." As he said this, he tapped his fingers on the table twice, his knuckles thick—the mark left by ten years of working in the frontier mines.

Under the kerosene lamp, Lin Mo opened his notebook. From the very first day he transmigrated, he had recorded every thing he deemed important: the weaknesses of the Orcs, the bureaucratic structure of the Empire, the fluctuation frequency of the underground energy, and the temperature changes of the octagram pendant.

These records appeared chaotic—but in his mind, they were slowly forming a web. Every piece of information was a thread in this web. He believed that one day, when enough threads were interwoven, he would see the complete picture of this web. He added what happened today to it as well. Then he closed the notebook and locked it in his desk drawer.

The supply issue was laid out on the table at the morning meeting. Lin Mo drew three circles next to the numbers with a charcoal pencil—representing three plans: raid the Mining City, wait for the caravan, and mine it himself.

Wang Defu glanced at the circles, was silent for a few seconds, and then said something very plain: "No matter which plan, we have to be fed first. The wheat in the granary is only enough for half a month."

Lin Mo drew a line under the third circle. The plan he chose was ostensibly to raid the Mining City, but in reality, he was gambling—gambling that the supplies in that Mining City could solve both the tool shortage and the food gap. This was not the optimal solution. This was the only solution.

When Locke stood up, he pushed his chair back. He stood at the door and looked back at Lin Mo: "Three days. If I don't return within three days, proceed with your Plan B." He didn't wait for Lin Mo's reply and turned into the morning mist.

The gaps in the supply list were laid out on the morning meeting table the next day. Lin Mo used a charcoal pencil to draw three circles on the paper, writing a number in each circle—corresponding to three plans: raid the Mining City's reserves, wait for Kahn's next shipment, or organize a local mining team for self-extraction. Each of the three plans was marked with time and risk. Lin Mo finished his analysis, then fell silent, leaving the choice to those present.

Locke was the first to break the silence: "I'll lead the team to the Mining City." As he said this, he tapped his fingers on the table twice—his knuckles thick, the mark left by ten years of working in the frontier mines.

The starlight from afar shone on this ruin, casting mottled shadows. He didn't know how long he had been on this planet—time had lost its meaning in the flames of war, leaving only instinct: survive today.

Wang Defu did not speak. He looked down at the paper, at every number and risk point Lin Mo had marked, his lips pressed into a line. After the meeting, he was the last to leave, and as he passed Lin Mo, he whispered: "You chose the Mining City. Don't let Locke die there."

Lin Mo watched Wang Defu's hunched back as he walked out the door. He didn't answer—because he had already made all the preparations he could. The rest was up to Locke.

In this sea of stars, every inhabited planet is an isolated island. The Empire does not save isolated islands; the Empire only records their coordinates after they fall. Lin Mo didn't know if this counted as cold-blooded, but he knew that if he wanted to survive, he couldn't count on any reinforcements from the other side of the star sea.

The gaps in the supply list were laid out on the morning meeting table the next day. After the expedition plan to the Mining City was confirmed, Locke did not show a hint of hesitation. He simply checked the equipment list in his hand, confirmed that the ammunition was sufficient, then stood up, pushed back his chair, and walked towards the door.

Before he stepped across the threshold, Lin Mo called out to him. Locke stopped in his tracks, and Lin Mo handed him a note with a coordinate and a line of text written on it: "There is an abandoned transport tunnel in the southeast corner of the Mining City that leads directly to the warehouse area. This was mentioned in Old Tom's last batch of STC data—perhaps it's still there."

Locke read the note, folded it, put it in his pocket, didn't say thank you, nodded, and walked into the night. Lin Mo stood at the door for a while, listening to Locke's footsteps fading away. He will return safely—Lin Mo repeated to himself.

After the expedition plan to the Mining City was confirmed, Locke did not leave immediately. He stood at the door, looked back at Lin Mo, and said something completely different from his usual style: "If I don't come back—" He didn't finish, because Lin Mo interrupted him. "You will come back." His voice was not loud, but it was steady. Locke looked into his eyes, nodded after a few seconds, and turned to leave. No agreement, no guarantee—but that nod was heavier than any promise.

**Chapter Type: Industrial Construction Chapter**

The day the simple lathe was assembled in Old Tom's smithy, everyone in Blackstone Village heard that shrill metallic screeching.

Old Tom stood in front of the "lathe" made of a wooden frame, iron shafts, and a hand crank, as if he were sizing up a distant relative he wasn't quite sure was good or bad.

Lin Mo crouched beside the machine and adjusted the bearing clearance—the sound of the gears meshing turned from shrill to dull, and then from dull to uniform.

Old Tom took the first gun barrel blank handed to him by an apprentice, fixed it on the chuck, and gripped the crank handle. One turn. Two turns. Iron filings curled down like snowflakes. After three turns, a uniform, shallow rifling pattern appeared on the inner wall of the barrel.

Old Tom stopped, held the barrel up to the light, and squinted one eye at it. "It's done."

It took him three days to fully tame this machine. The first day, he produced five defective pieces—the rifling depth was uneven, and two of them cracked directly during the turning process.

Old Tom threw the cracked barrels on the ground, cursed, and then spent the night adjusting the feed angle of the cutter head. The batch produced on the second day was usable. By the third day, daily production exceeded three units. The simple lathe was like the larva of some new life, accelerating its growth through iron and fire.

Under Marcus's guidance, Lin Mo drew a partial star map of the Eastern Star Sector. Marcus couldn't draw star maps—he hadn't received navigation training—but he could state the general direction from memory.

"Hope Star is in that direction," he pointed to the northern sky, "if you take a transport ship, it would probably take four or five days to fly there. A dusty little planet with an abandoned Imperial communication station on it."

He didn't tell him that upon hearing the words "communication station," he had already deduced three paths for obtaining supplies and technical blueprints in his mind.

The rations for over five hundred people had kept Wang Defu's brows furrowed. Lin Mo compressed the food rations, changing "two meals of dry rice and one meal of thin porridge a day" to "one meal of dry rice and two meals of thin porridge a day." This was the limit of what he could do. But even so, the reserves would only last another ten days or so.

"What about after ten days?" Wang Defu asked.

"Within ten days, we either find a new food source, or we fight our way out," Lin Mo said.

Late that night, Old Tom delivered the first batch of mass-produced flintlock muskets. Twenty of them were arranged on the wooden rack, the barrels gleaming with a dull iron-gray luster, the trigger mechanisms tight, and the feel of holding the stock was steadier than any of the previously trial-produced ones.

Lin Mo checked them one by one—the accuracy was qualified, the loading was smooth, and there was no risk of any of them exploding. Looking at the spiral rifling patterns inside those barrels, he felt as if he were looking at an engine accelerating.

But no matter how fast the engine was, it couldn't solve another problem.

After everyone dispersed, Wang Defu pulled him aside, his voice very low: "When Old Zhou was patrolling outside the village this morning, he saw something. Something he didn't want to say what it was. He only said one thing—'Those footprints are twice as big as the ones before.'"

The Empire's border is a constantly retreating line, but some people are not on this line. They are outside the line—in the gray zone where neither the Empire nor Chaos has had time to write their names, they gave themselves a name.

The Empire's border is a constantly retreating line, —Lin Mo, the night the population of Blackstone Village exceeded two hundred.

On the other side of the star sea, a pitch-black warship was changing course. Its target—was in the exact same direction as his.

[The dark clouds of Qinghai obscure the snow-capped mountains, from the isolated city one gazes afar at the Jade Gate Pass.] —Wang Changling, "Song of the Army." The memory fragments sealed within the mirror of the emperor quietly emerged in the darkness.

When checking his weapons before bed, Locke discovered something he hadn't reported—on the captured pig iron axe, a set of numbers was carved. It wasn't Orc craftsmanship. It was human handwriting.