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Chapter 638: The Temptation of the Periodic Table of Elements

Barov said, “Your Majesty, City Hall has no objection to the program as outlined—but do we truly need that many secondary teachers?”

Edith’s impending appointment still sat in him visibly, a tension he was managing rather than resolving. But he was working, and Roland appreciated the discipline.

“They don’t have to become teachers.” Roland ticked off the options. “With a stronger educational foundation, they can become researchers and plant managers. They need to understand the principles behind the machinery, not only how to operate it. They need to know how to train workers, how to maintain and improve equipment. The Ministry of Education’s goal is to turn people into industrial personnel—people who understand the work, not merely perform it. A large population is useless without the capacity for independent thought.”

“Industrial personnel?” Scroll repeated the phrase softly, as if testing its weight. “People engaged in industrial production?”

“Roughly, yes.” Roland leaned forward. “Workers who complete universal education become ordinary workers—junior industrial personnel. Increasing their numbers scales our production. But industrialization isn’t only about scale.” He paused. “City Hall can’t manage everything from the center forever. I want two or three in every hundred people to reach secondary or higher education. Those individuals go into both production and management. Plants should become self-directing organizations, running on the framework City Hall establishes—not requiring constant direct supervision.”

The problem was a familiar one: without education infrastructure, no population dividend would pay out no matter how many people arrived. He couldn’t make secondary and higher education universal yet—the resources and teachers didn’t exist. The scholarship scheme was the acceleration mechanism: identify and train a small cohort now, who would teach the next generation, who would teach the one after. The rest would fill the base of the pyramid: literate enough to take instructions, capable enough to maintain a production line. Like a cog in a machine, in the bluntest terms. He kept that part to himself.

“Understood,” Scroll said.

Roland tapped the table. “One more addition—ideological and moral education in the primary curriculum. I’ll give you a detailed teaching plan later.” He was thinking of the textbook from Zero’s room: structured for children, designed to build civic instincts rather than passive compliance. In this era, shaping how people understood their obligations to each other was as strategically important as building the city’s factories.

He looked around the hall. “To summarize: population expansion, educational deepening, industrial scaling—weighted heavily toward the first two. They determine how far we can reach before the greater threat arrives. I expect everyone’s best.”

“We will do our best for Your Majesty!” The officials rose.

“For yourselves as well.” Roland let the correction stand. “Kyle Sichi—my office.”


The Chief Alchemist fell into step behind him and closed the door.

“Your Majesty,” Kyle said, before Roland had settled into his chair, “if there’s no new product or new problem, I’d prefer to return to the lab.”

“Sit down. You’re too impatient.” Roland lifted his cup and sipped without hurry. He watched Kyle settle with imperfectly concealed restlessness. “How are the King’s City alchemists settling in?”

Kyle frowned. “Fine, I suppose. I don’t spend much time with them outside of practical work. If you want details, ask them directly.”

The short answer confirmed what Roland had suspected. The King’s City contingent had arrived as a coherent group—their own students, their own loyalties, their own quiet internal hierarchy. Useful for production volume. Complicated for everything else, and a source of low-grade friction with Kyle that would eventually require addressing.

He set down his tea. “The acid compounds and smokeless powder are in full production. The current structure can’t absorb the growth. I want to establish an independent Ministry of Chemical Industry.” He paused. “I’d like you to serve as minister.”

Kyle answered immediately. “I believe you’ve asked before. My answer hasn’t changed. I can’t give up my research for management work.”

“Don’t refuse yet.” Roland leaned back. “I know what you’re after. It’s not management and it’s not titles—it’s chemistry itself. The principles, the mysteries.” He let a beat pass. “What if I could give you what you actually want—directly?”

Kyle went still.

Roland opened the desk drawer, took out a folded sheet of paper, and spread it on the table between them.

It was the periodic table of elements. Every element in its position. Every atomic weight and number filled in—including the rows that had always been blank before.

Kyle’s hands moved forward, then stopped. He was afraid to touch it in case it tore.

“You said the blanks couldn’t be filled.” His voice had gone thin.

“My memory has recovered. I also have new material—sections of Intermediate Chemistry I couldn’t recall before. This time the table is complete.” Roland drew the sheet a half-inch back—not to be cruel, but to make the offer legible. “If you become Minister of Chemical Industry, this is yours. I’ll complete Intermediate Chemistry and, when you’re ready, Advanced Chemistry as well.”

The old alchemist stared at the table. Roland had always respected Kyle’s commitment to the discipline, and he understood its limits clearly: confined to this era’s tools and this era’s knowledge, Kyle could not exceed what a modern secondary-school student already took for granted. What Roland held was the equivalent of unlocking every door in the building and handing over all the keys.

There was also the practical calculation. Kyle, whatever his distaste for management, had run the Redwater City Alchemist Workshop. He understood supply chains, personnel, the particular difficulty of directing skilled people who considered themselves independent. He would be adequate at the administrative work, especially as his student base grew and the day-to-day burden distributed itself.

The silence stretched.

“I understand,” Kyle said, and bowed from his chair. “I will serve as your minister.”

Roland folded the periodic table and passed it across the desk. Kyle took it with both hands—the way a person receives something they had stopped believing they would ever hold.

“When your students are numerous enough, your direct workload shrinks,” Roland said. “Consider this a bonus paid in advance.” He meant the next sentence without ceremony. “Do your best, and your name will be in the history of chemistry.”

He said it because it was simply true.

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