The morning after the Accession Day celebrations, the throne room stood hollow and still. A few forgotten banners swayed in the faint draft, their embroidered sigils catching the pale light—the last remnants of the previous night's revelry. The air hung heavy with the ghost of wine and burnt incense, a fading echo of splendor. But the king who had presided over it all was no longer there to claim his glory.
Arthur Tesla sat alone at his study table, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained with ink. Gone was the ceremonial attire—replaced by a plain linen tunic and a furrowed brow. His eyes were fixed on the blank paper before him, quill poised, yet unmoving.
He took a deep breath.
I need steel. Not just any steel. Mass-produced, high-temperature, carbon-treated steel.
A blast furnace.
