Building a Viking Empire with Modern Industry-Chapter 120: To the next station!

In front of Ragnar was a small settlement within the borders of the newly acquired "Winchester Logistics Zone."

It was one of the many small villages throughout Wessex that had been rezoned.

Around this village, which housed a few hundred "Probationary Employees" (formerly serfs), were not wooden palisades, but low, angled earthworks reinforced with railway ties and red brick.

Throughout his audit of England, Princess Elfwynn did not disappoint the Directorate.

As the newly appointed Chief Operations Officer of the South, she had overseen the conversion of these feudal hamlets into "Station Towns," and after many weeks, the prototype was complete.

The value of these logistical hubs could not be underestimated. After all, information traveled faster than knights.

Beside Ragnar was the young architect herself. Elfwynn held a waterproofed clipboard, gazing at the structure with a proud, albeit nervous, gleam in her eyes.

As such, she could not prevent herself from commenting on the efficiency of such a small and seemingly insignificant depot.

"It is... symmetrical, is it not, Director?"

Ragnar nodded with approval as he took in the sight of the structure. While the village itself was protected by the earthworks, which a platoon of "Iron Gear" marksmen garrisoned, the agricultural fields were organized into perfect grids outside the walls, creating a beautiful scene of maximized crop yield.

"Symmetry is the mother of speed, Elfwynn," Ragnar corrected gently, adjusting his conductor’s cap. "But yes. It is magnificent."

Ragnar’s ambitions did not end with City Titan; he intended to construct these "Station Towns" along every mile of the Grand Trunk Line, forming the muddy countryside into the spine of his future Iron Empire.

The expense would be astronomical, but with the assets he had seized from the Church and the plethora of coal deposits he had surveyed, he could afford to build it. Ragnar rode into the town.

It was a small agricultural town, yet its layout made it seem like a military base disguised as a farm.

The locals peacefully coexisted with the Viking security force tasked with defending them, oftentimes offering them warm bread and pickled eggs as they stood guard near the water tower.

When the local villagers noticed that the man stepping off the handcar was the Iron Director himself, they instantly cleared a path for him.

Many young women began to gossip among themselves as they witnessed the sharp, clean-shaven appearance of the infamous Ragnar.

Among the population of the South, Ragnar had become quite the legend.

His hostile takeover and defiance of the corrupt Bishop Heahmund had begun being spread by "Company Newsletters" (town criers paid by the Directorate).

Though these reports greatly exaggerated his height and the shininess of his teeth, they quickly captured the imagination of the common populace, acting as a source of motivation to meet their quotas.

However, despite the good light in which he was depicted in the quarterly reports, few were bold enough to approach Ragnar.

He was a man of great importance and "Deadlines," and to delay him would surely mean a "Performance Review," or so they believed.

Ragnar noticed this trend, and for the first time, began to realize that a sense of Brand Loyalty had been fostered among his workforce.

Still, it existed alongside an intense feeling of anxiety regarding his "Torsion Spikes." The two emotions co-existed perfectly to create a harmonious balance within the minds of his employees.

To be both feared and efficient was a balance few CEOs had ever achieved in life.

After reaching the Town Depot, Ragnar walked over to the local "Shift Supervisor" - a wizened Saxon elder named Wulfric, who wore a grey armband over his tunic.

"Director!" Wulfric straightened up, saluting with a shovel. "The drainage ditches are digging at 110% capacity!"

Ragnar smiled, handing the old man a tin of snuff.

"Excellent work, Wulfric. But tell me, how is the morale regarding the Frankish news?"

Wulfric’s face darkened. "The people are angry, Director. We heard about the boy in Sandwich. Killed for a toy. They say the Franks hate our machines."

"They do," Ragnar confirmed, his voice loud enough for the nearby workers to hear. "They hate that you have warm houses. They hate that you have clean water. They want to drag you back to the mud."

Ragnar looked around the environment. Despite having a garrison of only 50 men and a single "Spicy Mix" mortar, the earthworks were designed so that such a small force could create a "Kill Zone" for any charging knights.

Though it might take years to pave the whole island, one day England would be filled with such fortifications, making it virtually impossible for the backward armies of the continent to devalue Ragnar’s assets.

Ragnar knew that the more territory he acquired, the more he would have to spend time and effort introducing his Standard Operating Procedures.

In his lifetime, he would be lucky to industrialize the entirety of the British Isles; in fact, the likelihood was that he would leave behind a legacy of steam for his son Magnus to inherit.

Nevertheless, Ragnar would make sure that in this life, he would unite the tribes into a single Market and conquer enough market share to secure Viking hegemony for centuries to come.

As Ragnar gazed upon this beautiful, grid-patterned town, which was just one of many along the line, he realized something.

It may not have seemed like a fortress, but the Logistics that surrounded this village were stronger than stone.

"Elfwynn," Ragnar said, breaking his silence.

"Yes, Director?" The princess looked up from her clipboard.

"I want more villages like this. But I want them upgraded."

Ragnar pointed to the gentle slope of the earthworks.

"The Franks are bringing heavy cavalry. Their horses are strong, but they are arrogant. They will charge in a straight line."

Ragnar walked over to a stack of railway ties.

"I want ’Bunker Pattern Beta’ implemented immediately. Dig the cellars deeper. Reinforce the roofs with iron beams. And facing the south..."

Ragnar mimed a firing slit with his hands.

"...I want ports for the Standardized Crossbows. I want every farmhouse to be a pillbox. I want every barn to be a trap."

Elfwynn looked at Ragnar as if he was a madman; the expense to retrofit every station like this was no minor sum; to build these across the Southern coast would easily cost a fortune in iron and labor.

"Director," she stammered. "The budget... we are already stretching the coal reserves. To turn every farm into a fortress? It will cost us the entire Q3 profit margin!"

Nevertheless, Ragnar was adamant. He had seen the smoke rising from Sandwich in his mind’s eye.

This war was bound to be brutal, and where there is war, there is a need for Asset Protection.

With the new blast furnaces in Winchester nearing completion, Ragnar would have double the steel production and could supply all the "Franchise Garrisons" with the girders necessary to withstand a crusade.

"Elfwynn," Ragnar said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Grandmaster Roland killed a child because he played with a clockwork toy.."

Ragnar looked south, toward the coast where the enemy was gathering.

"I do not care about the profit margin for Q3. I care about making the Franks pay a ’Late Fee’ written in blood. Just make sure you do not cut any corners on the structural integrity."

After seeing the daring expression in Ragnar’s eye Elfwynn gulped the saliva which had accumulated in her mouth. She clutched her clipboard tighter.

"Your Excellency... I will draft the blueprints immediately. We will turn the coast into a wall of iron."

"Good," Ragnar nodded. "And Elfwynn?"

"Yes?"

"Install the ’Steam-Cooker’ traps in the ditches. I want the Frankish horses to have a warm welcome."

With this, Ragnar’s plans to transform the entirety of the Southern Coast into an impenetrable industrial meat-grinder had begun.

Though it would take weeks of sleepless nights and double shifts to complete, by the end of this ambitious initiative, the people of Wessex would live in the most defensible real estate in the world.

Ragnar climbed back onto the handcar.

"Mush!" he ordered the interns. "To the next station! We have a Crusade to bankrupt!"