The journey back to Copenhagen was different. As Christian watched the green landscapes of Funen give way to the ferry port, he reflected on the events of the past weeks. The Grain Riots had been his first true test not as a strategist or an industrialist, but as a ruler. He had learned that controlling a nation was not like designing a machine. A machine did not have fear. It did not have hope. It did not have centuries of tradition convincing it that a new way was the wrong way.
He had faced the people, and through a precise application of force, empathy, and overwhelming self-interest, he had bent them to his will. It was a new, intoxicating, and deeply sobering form of power.
His return to the capital was not met with cheering crowds, but with something far more valuable: quiet, profound respect in the circles of power. At the committee headquarters, Admiral Løvenskiold and Baron Fievé greeted him not just as an ally, but as their undisputed leader.
"The reports from Odense have been… illuminating," Fievé said, forgoing pleasantries. "You faced down a mob and turned them into a workforce. Ahlefeldt's faction is in disarray. They have no cause to rally the people around now that you have painted yourself as their provider."
"You showed courage that shames men twice your age, Count," the Admiral added, his voice filled with sincere admiration. "You went into the fire and emerged unscathed."
Christian was summoned to the palace that afternoon. He found King Christian IX not in a formal audience chamber, but in a private study, the report from Major Brandt open on his desk. The King looked up, and for the first time, Christian saw not a suspicious monarch, but a profoundly weary man who had been spared a crisis he did not know how to solve.
"Major Brandt reports that you faced down a mob with little more than words, Count," the King said, his voice holding a note of awe. "You have a gift for managing the people that my ministers sorely lack."
He stood and walked to the window. "I am a soldier, not a banker or a farmer. I do not understand these new forces you are unleashing—this industry, these economic shifts. But I understand results. You have delivered them. The unrest is over."
He turned back, his decision made. "I am issuing a new directive. Henceforth, all matters pertaining to the kingdom's internal economic development, infrastructure, and the maintenance of civil order through employment shall fall under the exclusive purview of your committee. You will report directly to me. Let the Prime Minister handle foreign pleasantries. You, Count Eskildsen, will handle the building of the new Denmark."
He paused, his eyes locking with Christian's. "See to it that I do not have to worry about my people raising arms against their King again." It was not an abdication. It was a command, a transfer of immense responsibility, and a burden of trust so heavy it was its own kind of crown.
Christian, unaware of the clandestine meeting where his rival, Count Ahlefeldt, was plotting sabotage, was already facing his next great hurdle. He was meeting with the chief engineer for the National Steel Foundry project, a brilliant but perpetually worried man named Hansen.
"My lord," Hansen began, unrolling a set of massive blueprints. "The primary construction proceeds ahead of schedule. But we have encountered a fundamental materials problem." He pointed to the design for the Bessemer converter, the lynchpin of modern steel production.
"The converter requires a lining of refractory bricks, capable of withstanding immense temperatures. The clay we can source domestically is of insufficient quality. The bricks will crack and fail after only a handful of uses, rendering the entire process inefficient and dangerous."
"Source better bricks from abroad, then," Fievé, also present, suggested impatiently.
"That is only a temporary solution, Baron," Christian said, his mind already leaping ahead. He understood the implications instantly.
Hansen nodded grimly. "The Count is correct. To be truly efficient, we need our own supply. The finest deposits of high-alumina clay, the kind needed for these bricks, are found in places like England… and, according to some older geological surveys, in certain regions of West Africa."
Christian stared at the engineer's report. Here it was. The next link in the imperial chain. His political power was absolute. His industrial vision was clear. But to build the engine of his new state, he needed a specific type of dirt, and it was located in another part of the world.
He walked over to the great world map on his wall, the one he had looked at with such ambition just weeks before. It was no longer an abstract dream of conquest. It was now a resource map, a practical tool.
His finger traced the coastline of West Africa. The Royal Colonial Office, which until now had been a name on a decree, a shell of a ministry, suddenly had its first, critical mission. It would not be a glorious quest for gold or prestige. It would be a desperate, practical search for clay, the essential ingredient to forge the steel that would build the cannons, that would arm the ships, that would defend the empire he intended to build.
His authority at home was secure. Now, he had to project that power abroad, not for glory, but out of sheer industrial necessity. The game was expanding once more.