Two weeks passed. The work on the estate fell into a new, strenuous rhythm. The long, precise trenches of the drainage system snaked their way across the north pasture, a testament to Soren's diligent management and the grudging labor of the tenants. From the smithy, the sounds of Stig's hammering were often accompanied by loud, creative curses as he wrestled with the alien geometry of the new plow. A tense anticipation hung over the fields as they awaited the foreign seeds, a shipment Christian tracked mentally with the obsession of a modern-day logistics manager.
But as Christian observed the work, he saw a deeper inefficiency, one that better tools alone could not fix. He saw men waiting for instruction, work crews using guesswork instead of measurement, and a chain of command that relied on shouted orders across a muddy field. The barony had a new mind, but it was still operating with an ancient nervous system.
One morning, he put an end to it.
"From now on," he announced to his four key foremen—Soren, Stig, Klaus, and Erik—as they stood awkwardly in his study, "we will meet here, in this room, every morning at the sixth hour. You will report on yesterday's progress, the materials used, and any problems encountered. We will then set the goals for the day. Clear, measurable goals. Do you understand?"
The men exchanged bewildered glances. A meeting? Every day? It was nonsensical.
Christian ignored their confusion, handing each man a stiff-backed ledger and a pencil. "You will each keep a daily record. Soren, you will track meters of ditches dug and pipes laid. Klaus, you will track hours spent on pier reinforcement. Erik, you will track fodder consumption for the livestock. Stig, you will track hours and materials used on the prototype. I will review these ledgers every week."
This was met with even greater consternation. Stig the blacksmith squinted at the ledger as if it were a venomous snake. "My lord… I am a blacksmith, not a clerk. My records are kept here," he said, tapping his temple.
"A man's memory is fallible, Stig," Christian said calmly. "Ink is not. This is not a request. This is the Eskildsgård Method. It is how we will measure our success and eliminate waste."
His imposition of 21st-century management techniques on 19th-century farm labor was only the beginning. That afternoon, he realized the deeper problem: his foremen, the pillars of his new system, were all functionally illiterate and possessed only the most rudimentary arithmetic skills. They could count their wages and tell the time, but the calculations required to manage inventory or understand an engineering schematic were beyond them.
His revolution was being bottlenecked by human capital.
That evening, the same four men were summoned back to the study. They found a large slate blackboard had been erected near the desk.
"Take a seat," Christian said, gesturing to the chairs he had arranged. "Class is in session."
They stared at him, dumbfounded.
"My lord?" Erik, the head groom, finally managed to ask. "Class?"
"To run this estate efficiently requires more than strong backs," Christian explained, picking up a piece of chalk. "It requires sharp minds. I am going to teach you what you need to know. Tonight's lesson: arithmetic."
Stig let out a groan. "With respect, my lord, I am fifty-two years old. My schooling days are long behind me."
"And for fifty-two years, you have guessed how much iron to order," Christian countered without heat. "Imagine knowing precisely how much you need, with no waste. Imagine being able to calculate the precise structural load a beam can bear. That is not schooling, Stig. That is power. That is mastery over your craft."
He turned to the blackboard and wrote a simple equation. "Soren. We are about to plant the west field in wheat. It is two hundred meters long and one hundred meters wide. How much land is that in square meters?"
The tenant farmer's face went blank. He shuffled his feet, his lips moving silently, before shaking his head in defeat.
Christian calmly worked through the multiplication on the board. "Twenty thousand square meters. Now, if the new seed drill I am designing requires exactly ten grams of seed per square meter, you will know that you need two hundred kilograms of seed to plant that field perfectly. No more, no less. No waste. That is profit. That is the difference between a good year and a great one."
He saw a flicker of understanding in Soren's eyes. The abstract numbers were suddenly connected to the soil, to the grain, to the coins in his pocket.
For the next hour, Christian drilled them. He walked them through calculating area and volume, through fractions and percentages, always tying the abstract math to a practical problem they faced every day—fodder rations, lumber measurements, supply logistics. It was slow, awkward, and exhausting.
When he finally dismissed them, the men shuffled out in a daze, their heads full of strange new concepts. Christian slumped into his chair, the mental and emotional effort of teaching far more draining than simply commanding. He looked at the simple equations chalked onto the blackboard, stark white against the dark slate.
He had come here to build an empire. He had thought that meant redesigning tools, restructuring economies, and raising armies. He now understood the first, most fundamental step. It was far more difficult.
An empire is not built of decrees, but of shared knowledge, he realized. Before I can teach a nation to conquer, I must first teach its foremen how to multiply.