Howard, with purposeful strides, advanced toward the scorched workshop near the Magnito Steelworks' intake zone, his voice resounding with commanding clarity.
"For each work cycle, operations shall be divided into two shifts, each enduring sixteen hours."
"For each work cycle, one hour shall be allocated for maintenance, with a rotating shift system implemented."
He proceeded to the second coke oven, continuing his exposition with unwavering authority.
"The initial stage of steelmaking is coking, whereby coking coal is blended, pulverized, and introduced into the coking furnace. Through the process of dry distillation, this yields hot coke and crude coke oven gas."
"Coke Oven One comprises fifty-three chambers, Coke Oven Two comprises fifty-three chambers, and Coke Oven Three comprises thirty-one chambers, totaling one hundred thirty-seven chambers. The coke-pushing sequence shall adhere to the 5-4 standard."
"Coal charging shall require sixteen minutes, with each coke-pushing operation lasting eleven minutes."
The coke-pushing sequence refers to the ordered progression of charging and discharging coal across the furnace's carbonization chambers.
Technicians from House Finder, through rigorous study, had refined this process, reducing idle time dramatically, slashing the coke-pushing duration from twenty-six minutes to a mere eleven. At Howard's behest, they demonstrated this optimization before the assembled workers.
"For each furnace, the coking time shall span fifteen hours, with quenching and screening requiring thirty-four minutes."
"The total operational time for the furnaces shall be sixteen hours. For each cycle, the two shifts shall each complete one full operation, yielding a production of one hundred thirty-seven furnaces. The standard coke output for each shift per work cycle shall be two thousand thirteen tons."
The workers collectively turned their gazes toward a foreman, a veteran who had once served as a workshop overseer in the coking facility of the neighboring Katowice dome.
The bald foreman scratched his head, nodding slightly in acknowledgment.
Though the schedule was stringent, a well-coordinated shift, exerting maximum effort, could indeed achieve the target.
Thereafter, Howard meticulously detailed the standards for each subsequent process. The workers, initially skeptical, began to recognize that while the benchmarks were challenging, they were attainable, gradually lending credence to his assurances.
The golden-haired noble returned to the elevated platform, his voice imbued with resolute conviction.
"This production cycle marks the Magnito Steelworks' first since resuming operations. I grant you this opportunity: should you meet the quotas before the next Hour of Nyke, you shall receive a ration of corpse-starch."
"The first shift to complete its quota shall be rewarded with tuna, bread, and water."
"My own meal consists of such fare, a delicacy unattainable by eighty percent of the Upper Hive's denizens."
"Those who partake may one day boast of having savored fare superior to that of the Upper Hive's elite."
The bald foreman was the first to react, striking his head with a forceful slap.
"What are we waiting for? True or false, we'll know once we try!"
"That fish—what's it called again?"
Howard, smiling warmly, replied, "Tuna."
"Those craving tuna, get moving with this old man!"
"You, you, and you—the three sturdiest among you—you're the coal-charging and coke-pushing crew. Get to it now!"
"Remember: charge fully, levelly, solidly, and uniformly."
With four hours remaining until the Hour of Nyke, the bald foreman bellowed triumphantly.
"Done!"
He released the pushcart, striding swiftly toward the platform. All workers halted their tasks, their eyes fixed upon the dais.
Howard gestured to the guard captain, summoning the soot-streaked foreman of the coking shift.
"No rush—your reward is secure. I'll have the cook warm it for you."
"No need," the foreman interjected hastily, "Cold is fine."
Under the envious gazes of his peers, he accepted the meal tin and water flask.
"Thank you, lord! Praise to you, lord…"
He babbled gratitude, clutching his prize tightly before descending the platform.
Simultaneously, workers in other manufactories gaped, their jaws nearly dropping as they watched the foreman distribute the food among his crew, swallowing with evident relish. A singular thought rippled through their minds:
[The noble spoke the truth.]
Howard shook his head, resolute in honoring his pledge.
The honor of House Finder far outweighed the value of tuna and purified water. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he surveyed the crowd below.
Through his spiritual vision, he perceived their auras ablaze with the crimson fervor of enthusiasm and the white radiance of optimism.
Deactivating his spiritual vision, the golden-haired noble stood atop the platform, observing the workers. Despite their exhaustion, they moved with vigor and alacrity, as though infused with a stimulant.
[Is this what my lord meant by igniting the workers' zeal?]
He nodded with satisfaction, addressing the guard captain.
"Remain here to distribute the corpse-starch, ensuring strict adherence to the standards."
Thereafter, Howard made his way to the recently expanded rest chamber, once Nimrod's abode.
Closing the door, the golden-haired noble yawned expansively. Unlike Bukayo, he was no "Sleepless" Beyonder, and nearly two work cycles without rest had left him weary.
While Howard achieved his breakthrough in Hanliman's dome, Nimrod, in the shantytown beyond Lukov's hive, met Thierry Viera.
Thierry, aged twenty-three or twenty-four, possessed a tall, well-proportioned frame, his muscles flowing with elegant strength. His cropped golden hair accentuated the sharp angles of his face.
His eyes, deep and luminous, widened in astonishment as they beheld the giant wielding a power halberd.
Instinctively, Thierry's hand tightened around the heirloom longsword at his waist, his voice low and measured.
"You are the new king of Tetzvok, Nimrod."
"I shall be the king of all Vostonia, and you shall swear fealty to me."
Nimrod advanced, and Thierry felt an oppressive weight descend upon him. The giant's words carried an unshakable certainty, as though his declarations were immutable truths.
"For millennia, countless kings—hundreds, thousands—have sought to conquer Vostonia, yet none have succeeded."
"How will you prevail, with fewer than three thousand at your back? You cannot even seize Lukov."
"You are mistaken," Nimrod intoned gravely. "My confidence springs from my strength. I hear you are hailed as Vostonia's foremost swordmaster. Let us see the measure of your skill."
Thierry's lips curved into a confident smile. "Combat is not determined by stature."
"If I emerge victorious, will you, the so-called king of Vostonia, swear fealty to me?"
"Since you brim with such assurance, let the vanquished serve the victor in perpetuity. What say you?"
At Nimrod's audacious wager, Thierry's mind raced.
[I have slain a dozen ogryns. Nimrod is merely taller. I can defeat him.
If I gain control of Tetzvok, my vengeance is within reach. Unlike his reckless arrogance, I would continue guerrilla tactics, build an army, and surely topple Puhach.
Should he somehow best me, he might slay Puhach. In that case, serving him would not be unconscionable—but that is impossible.]
"My king, permit me to face him first."
Rawlslev, his eyes locked on Thierry, spoke with fervent battle-lust.
Thierry glanced at the swarthy, burly man, his skin darkened by years of toil.
[A worker's origins?]
Thierry's brow furrowed slightly. Nimrod, the giant, at least appeared formidable, yet this man, merely robust, dared challenge him.
"He speaks for you?"
"No one speaks for my king."
Rawlslev's voice boomed as he drew a laspistol from his waist.
"This laspistol, a masterwork of House Boleslav, is yours if you defeat me."
"A fine weapon indeed," Thierry nodded approvingly. "I'll face you first."
He unsheathed his power sword, activating its disruption field with a press of the hilt's control.
Rawlslev, in turn, ignited his chainsword, and the two advanced toward each other.
A cold glint flashed in Thierry's eyes as he lunged forward, executing the simplest thrust of the "Osberh-Vaya" doctrine—a blazing serpent of fire streaking toward Rawlslev's chest.
....
A/N: If you wish to verify this chapter's production figures, please use the parameters I've provided. The calculated coke output should be reasonably accurate. I conducted research at a steel mill and learned that current coke-pushing sequences include 9-2, 5-2, and 2-1, but not 5-4. Coking times are also significantly shorter today. The data reflects a reasonable enhancement based on real-world production capabilities.