Industrial Cthulhu: Starting as an Island Lord

The drill had begun?

Hadn’t it already ended?

A dreadful suspicion suddenly rose from the depths of his heart. He vaguely sensed something, but his reason refused to accept it, as if it were one of those blasphemous tomes riddled with pollution—just leafing through would drag him into another world.

But unfortunately, he was only an audience member sitting below the stage. The already opened curtain would not halt even a moment for his current rejection, just like the countless insects crushed under the wheels of the era.

Galahad stared blankly at the training field ahead, like a believer undergoing a trial, like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

It was raining.

Raindrops of steel pelted down from the sky, and crimson splashes burst from the ground.

Sharp whistling sounds connected into a stream, and on the darkened earth, a sun rose.

Galahad felt as if everything around his ears fell silent—everything shifted into slow motion.

He had never seen the face of destruction so clearly before. Pale words could not depict what he saw now. The towering knight felt his entire body, from head to toe, from every sweat pore of his soul, tremble.

As if he had crossed the high wall for the first time and seen the Sea of Unawareness, seen the knowledge and truth floating upon it.

No, the firelight before him was the real truth.

Galahad stood dazed, his face reddened by the ever-blooming flames.

He lowered his head, looked at his own hands, looked at his armor, looked at his longsword.

Since childhood he had honed his martial skills and riding techniques. Coupled with noble blood and unwavering will, he had surpassed the high wall of the mundane world while still young, touching the extraordinary. He had the best armor, the best sword. He was the strongest knight of the Empire.

From childhood to now, whether in duels or on battlefields, he had been ever-victorious.

He could slice bullets with his longsword. Opponents who tried to gain an edge in duels using firearms always fell in their own blood. He stood, accepting the crowd’s cheers, using his blood-dripping sword to declare to them: the times had not changed.

He always believed he was one of the strongest in the mortal realm.

But all this combined—could it withstand even a moment of bombing?

Galahad was lost.

He was the most stubborn reactionary, one who would not admit defeat even with the era’s wheels crushing his face. But now, those wheels truly rolled over him.

Bombs rained down overhead like water, with thunderous roars and firelight right before his eyes. Even if he were a Don Quixote who stubbornly refused to open his eyes, he should now know—he could not defeat the windmill.

He just stood there, blank-faced and pale, as if attending his own funeral.

On the other side, the watching workers, the Holy Guard, and the Banshees—people of all different roles—now wore the same look of excitement.

Explosions merged into a wave. Everyone on the island was intoxicated—this was the miracle of industry, the crystallization of everyone’s combined efforts.

Every piece of explosive was from ore they personally mined, explosive materials they personally mixed, steel they personally cast, fuses they personally lit.

They were not afraid of the airships above. They were not afraid of the whistling of falling bombs. Lord Hughes had personally explained the function of every component to them. Steel and firelight were the extension of their will.

The unknown bred fear. Misinterpretation brought cognitive interference. But reason and knowledge gave rise to a will as strong as steel.

And that will acted like anchors, firmly pinning the chaotic and turbulent world in place, making the laws of physics unbreakable.

Erroneous cognition interfered with the world. Correct cognition anchored the world. Hughes had long noticed—chaos brought by failed experiments from researchers was decreasing. Though slow, the process was moving forward steadily.

The more knowledge people possessed, the smaller the range of world shifting and instability. All of Castel Island seemed to have formed some sort of “field.” With the island as the center, physical laws were gradually solidifying.

No, perhaps they were stabilizing in a certain direction.

Hughes folded his arms and rubbed his chin.

Were previous explosions ever this intense, ever this powerful? Those Holy Guard members kept preaching about yields and explosions every day, and now it seemed the power of bombs really was growing?

Was this truly a good thing?

If the collective will could really pry open a corner of the world…

Tch—

Hughes’s expression suddenly froze. He remembered that underground newspaper Nini secretly distributed had a massive readership too.

No, he had to shut down her underground press quickly—at least take down that ridiculous love triangle story involving him and Monica!

What if cognitive interference actually brought the Sea God back to life?

Thinking this way, even Chloe, hanging on the memorial stele, seemed dangerous now. She was worshipped constantly—what if she suddenly “came to life” again?

Hughes suddenly frowned.

If things followed this logic, then those cults worshipping Heretical Gods, or the Church of Candlelight with its believers spread across the entire continent, should often be able to use believers’ willpower to achieve things—yet there were no such rumors.

Was Castel Island just that special?

Hughes shook his head and decided to explore that later. He looked toward Galahad.

This guest from Blood Harbor—what would his reaction be?

Hughes naturally understood how much impact such a scene would have on a knight like him. But he had no intention of hiding it.

This was just the beginning. This was merely watching from a distance—it wasn’t like they were asking him to charge tanks with cavalry.

Besides, the Crown Prince had sent his own deputy here. Clearly, Castel Island was being taken seriously. So let him see the real Castel Island.

Heretical Gods, technology, the Church, industry, steam engines—Castel lacked none. If he could accept them, then they could do free trade. If he couldn’t, then let the Holy Guard preach the Imperial Truth to him.

If even pirates could be taxed at sea, then in the vast Storm Ocean, if pirates could go, why couldn’t Hughes?

In any case, Hughes was busy developing technology and farming. He had no time to play intrigue and political games with the Crown Prince.

Worshipping explosive yield wasn’t a good thing, but this kind of problem really could be solved with explosive yield—or perhaps it didn’t even need that much. Judging from Galahad’s reaction, Hughes knew this drill hadn’t been in vain.

One could tell from the expressions on people’s faces.

The bombs exploded by the shore, but ripples were spreading in the hearts of every spectator.

Willpower could interfere with the material world, and in turn, events occurring in the material world could reshape willpower.

And Galahad, this knight clad in bright armor, now exuded a completely different air.

Although he had fainted embarrassingly the moment he arrived on the island, he was after all a long-standing noble who had served the Crown Prince for years, and had weathered many storms. Most of the time, he was able to maintain composure.

He spoke with neither arrogance nor servility, treated others with grace, was capable and eloquent, and was even an extraordinary being. One had to admit—he was indeed an excellent deputy.

But now, that calm demeanor was gone.

He looked like an earthworm that had accidentally crawled onto the road in the rain, unable to find familiar soil again—just staring dazedly at the unfamiliar world.