Chapter 81: The Storm (End) _3
The two militiamen seemed at a loss, and the messenger didn't offer any help either. Fuller stood for a moment, then bent his rotund body to grab the scorched corpse by the shoulders and drag it out of the ruins.
Unexpectedly, while the upper body of the scorched corpse moved, its lower half remained in place, and the contents of its abdominal cavity spilled onto the ground.
The two militiamen couldn't bear it and rushed out to the courtyard to vomit.
The messenger turned away in disgust and kindly suggested, "Why not leave the corpse here for now? It won't delay your search for your things."
"No way," Fuller gritted his teeth. "This workshop was left to me by my father and grandfather. How can I let a thief use it as a burial ground?"
The messenger said no more and bent down to help Fuller. After some effort, the two finally managed to move the corpse outside the workshop.
Fuller gratefully reached out to the messenger, but the messenger simply waved him off, covering his nose.
The cleanup of the ruins continued. They moved aside a horizontal beam, and this time, Fuller let out a cry — a cry of joy.
With the others watching, the white, pudgy Forge Master dropped to his knees, completely disregarding his dignity, and began digging through the ash pile.
Soon, Fuller unearthed a firearm. Though the barrel was bent and the stock was charred, it was unmistakably a firearm.
Emboldened by this find, Fuller continued digging, revealing more stacked firearms buried under the rubble.
The messenger surveyed the dilapidated walls, estimating the house's original layout. Stroking his chin, he analyzed, "Looks like the roof collapsed quickly, which might've been a good thing? If the stuff near the door is intact, the things inside should be fine too."
Upon hearing this, Fuller collapsed to the ground. Before long, he began quietly sobbing.
The two militiamen exchanged looks, while the messenger acted as though he hadn't seen anything, continuing on his own: "Judging from this, one carriage won't be enough. We'll need more people to clear the debris. But no worries, Steelburg might lack everything right now, but it doesn't lack manpower... Hey, you! What's your name again? Never mind. Go back and find Captain Huth. Tell him to send three more tent crews and say we've found an intact warehouse."
The militiaman saluted and ran back toward the camp.
The messenger pulled Fuller up, dusting the ashes off him without offering any comforting words. Fuller wiped away his tears but kept expressing his gratitude.
It should be noted that Forge Masters like Fuller usually wouldn't give regular soldiers the time of day. Such a scene was rare.
Overwhelmed, Fuller cried and laughed alternately, while in the distance, a single-horse carriage approached from the east.
An elderly man with a gray-white beard on the carriage squinted as he assessed the group in the ruins. After a moment, he suddenly stood up and called out loudly, "Ernest? Is that you?"
Fuller hastily wiped his face and walked toward the main road to respond.
The man greeting Fuller was another Forge Master, named Georg. Georg belonged to the same generation as Fuller's father but had rarely interacted with Fuller's family in the past.
However, in the wake of the recent calamity that struck Steelburg's Forge Masters, their previous estrangement and prejudices had faded, leaving a shared sense of mourning and misfortune.
Georg took a water pouch from the carriage and handed it to Fuller. "How's the situation with your workshop?"
Fuller was about to answer but suddenly remembered the glimmer of hope he had found, and his thinking became sharp.
He accepted the water pouch, took a sip, and shook his head lightly without speaking.
Georg spat angrily into the peat by the roadside, his beard trembling with fury. "Thieves, fire, and those damn legions tearing down everything they can! What a cursed mess!"
"What about your workshop?" Fuller asked.
The old Georg slapped his thigh and cursed furiously. "The workshop was blown up by the legion's gunpowder! Half the warehouse remains, but what good is that? Perfect sword blanks, all ruined by the fire. The ones not warped by the flames still need to be re-hardened, but where can I find a hardening craftsman now? And after hardening, who can I even sell them to?"
Fuller's mind raced, and he nodded repeatedly.
"I've heard some workshops on the North Shore are still intact. Damn it, why didn't I set up my forge on the North Shore back then?" The old man grew more despondent. "And I've heard the warehouses in the South City's dock district are undamaged. If I'd known, I would've moved my goods there instead. Who could've known? Who could've foreseen such a disaster?"
Fuller consoled the old man with a few words before tentatively asking, "Uncle Georg, what do you plan to do with the goods you've got left?"
Once he said this, the once-despairing old man perked up immediately. "What? You've got connections?"
Fuller evaded directly answering, "You'll need to be prepared for the fact that no matter what, sword blanks and blade blanks that've been through fire won't fetch their original prices."
Old Georg stared at Fuller for a long time before asking suspiciously, "I remember your father never hired external hardening craftsmen. You've got heat-treating furnaces at your place?"
"Our workshop only deals with gun barrels, not blade blanks."
"Stop lying!" Old Georg slammed his thigh again, spitting all over Fuller's face. "You plan to buy my blade blanks cheap, re-harden them yourself, and then sell them as brand-new ones! You sly brat — when did you become so cunning? You're even worse than the Venetians!"
Fuller initially wanted to explain that he was merely acting as the middleman. But then he remembered the buyer's request — to hide their true identity as much as possible.