Lakeheart Town, Lord's Office.
Wells handed over the report, his fingertips trembling slightly, but he couldn't hide his smugness. Behind him, on a wooden shelf, were several ceramic jars, their mouths sealed tightly with wax, and the labels seemed to have some kind of serial number on them.
" Lord Glaeman!" His voice boomed, as if he were releasing a long-suppressed achievement in one breath. "We've succeeded! This new explosive, made primarily of picric acid, has been nitrated and purified, and its power far surpasses that of black powder. In actual testing, just three pounds of it was enough to collapse a granite test wall, an effect far beyond what black powder can achieve."
He stared intently at Paul: "If used for blasting the Rocky Mountains tunnels, even the deepest underground fortifications of the dwarves wouldn't withstand two detonations."
Paul took the report, flipped through a few pages, his brows furrowed at first, then suddenly lifted, a glint of disbelief flashing in his eyes.
He suddenly stood up, walked around the desk, and slammed his hand heavily on Wells' shoulder.
" Professor Wells, this…this is simply a miracle!" His voice was filled with just the right amount of awe. "I never imagined that I would see such powerful explosives in my lifetime! You have not only solved the problem of mountain assault, but also turned a new page in the history of warfare! Amazing, truly amazing!"
Wells straightened his back, his chest almost reaching its limit, and his mouth stretched almost to his ears. The chemical researchers accompanying him also raised their heads, unable to hide the joy on their faces.
Gunpowder, invented by Lord Paul Greiman, was the black powder that ignited Alda's rise to power.
Firearms replaced longbows, cannons blasted down city walls, pirates scattered, and Orc Cavalry howled in agony amidst a hail of bullets. The very backbone of the Northwest Legion today is forged from gunpowder.
And now, he, Wells, has created something even more powerful than that.
It's not an improvement, not an optimization, but a transcendence! A true "explosive" capable of tearing apart mountains and collapsing the earth's veins.
He could almost imagine the entire mountain range trembling the moment the yellow crystals were filled into tunnels deep in the Rocky Mountains and the fuse was lit.
He glanced instinctively at Hoffman and Tennyson beside him; they were equally exhausted yet excited, with sunken eyes and nitric acid burn marks on their fingers.
Yes, this is the result of the collective effort, but he was the leader. He persisted in adjusting the nitration process after countless failures, and he was the first to propose purifying picric acid crystals to military-grade purity. He deserves this honor.
He straightened his back once more, accepting Paul's praise, his heart surging with indescribable pride. He had not only participated in the greatest cause of this era, but had also personally propelled it to new heights.
Deson, standing to the side, bowed slightly and said something like, "Congratulations, Professor Wells, you deserve it," with a polite smile on his face.
But when his gaze fell on Paul's "shocked" expression, a barely perceptible smile flickered across his heart.
He knew it; he knew it better than anyone else.
This explosive, called "picric acid," existed over a hundred years ago in the world of the lord's memories. Initially, it was used only as a yellow dye. Its explosive properties were later discovered by chance, leading to its brief military application, only to be quickly replaced by more stable and efficient explosives. In the vast sea of "Earth's history," it was merely a fleeting ripple in the long river of military technology.
Wells's coveted breakthrough, in the depths of Glaeman's soul, may simply be a few words in a textbook.
Deson lowered his eyes, concealing the complexity in them.
He didn't say it out loud, nor could he say it out loud, but in this world, it was indeed a powerful weapon capable of changing the course of the battle.
He simply stood quietly, watching Wells revel in the praise, while Paul maintained his ecstatic expression as he spoke with Wells, seemingly utterly awestruck by this "epoch-making" invention.
Finally, Paul announced that, in recognition of the achievements of the Chemistry Department at Weiss Academy, their funding would be doubled next year. Wells, Hoffman, and the others were overjoyed, thanked Paul profusely, and then took their leave.
The office door closed gently behind Wells and the others, and the footsteps in the corridor gradually faded away.
Paul's excitement faded like the tide, and he returned to his usual calm. He walked to the window and gazed thoughtfully at the newly planted sycamore trees in the backyard.
Deson hesitated for a moment before speaking: "Sir, since you know how to make this yellow explosive, and even... the more powerful TNT, why not just tell them? It would save you six months of trial and error, saving you so much money and manpower."
Paul turned around and tapped lightly on the window frame with his fingertips. "Do you know what it means to try to help seedlings grow by pulling them up?"
Deson paused, then shook his head.
"This is a story," Paul said. "Once upon a time, there was a farmer who thought his seedlings were growing too slowly, so he squatted in the field and pulled each one up a bit. That evening, he went to check on them with great joy, only to find that all the seedlings had withered and died."
He paused, his gaze falling on Deson's face: "If I were to write down the formula directly, I would be like the farmer who pulled up the seedlings. With Wells and Hoffman's abilities, they could quickly figure out how to make explosives, but they would stop thinking. They would assume that all the answers came from me, not from experiments, calculations, and reasoning. Over time, Weiss Academy would become a copy room, not a place of research."
He walked to the table, picked up the report, and gently stroked the edge of the pages. "What the world needs is not prophets, my dear Deson. What it needs is methodology—observation, hypothesis, experimentation, and verification. Only in this way can they continue to move forward when I'm not around. Even if it's slower, if they take detours, and if they stumble a few times, those are still their own footprints. Science must grow on its own; it can't fall from the sky."
After a long silence, Deson finally whispered, "I understand."
Paul picked up another intelligence briefing from the front lines, his tone turning somber: " The Stonemason Clan has been quite restless lately."
He handed the briefing to Deson, "The news from Mountain Throat Fortress is that the dwarves have begun to frequently harass the eastern outposts. Small groups of three to five men, they shoot and run. Sometimes they shoot a few arrows, sometimes they push down a few rocks, their goal is clear—to lure our army into the mountains."
Deson took the briefing, his brow furrowing slightly. "Luring the enemy in deep?"
"Obviously," Paul nodded. "The mountain terrain is complex, and the tunnels dug by the dwarves are interconnected. They know the terrain well, so setting up an ambush would be incredibly easy for them. Once our soldiers chase them in, they may never come out again."
A sneer crept across his lips: "The dwarves have probably been hiding in the mountains for thousands of years and haven't fought much with the outside world. This trick is too old-fashioned. " Derrick judged it to be a trap and strictly ordered his troops not to cross the border to pursue, but to strengthen defenses only at the passes and known passageways.