Kaen had originally planned to acquire the vast arsenal of weapons and armor from the blacksmiths behind Tifa. But now, that option had completely fallen through.

So many weapons—if he couldn't buy them, he would have to forge them himself.

As for purchasing them from other kingdoms?

What a joke. In this age of swords and shields, no sane kingdom would sell another over five thousand full sets of armor. Not unless they'd lost their minds.

Even the Dwarves wouldn't be that generous.

…

In Middle-earth, when it came to craftsmanship, none could rival the Dwarves.

They were born smiths—strong, enduring, and capable of working long hours without food or rest. Dwarves had a unique mastery over the fusion of rare metals and runic magic, and their creations were famed for their strength, precision, and practicality.

However, if one were to speak of the highest artistry in forging, that title undoubtedly belonged to the Noldor—one of the four great Elven clans.

The Noldor were celebrated for their wisdom, skill, and unrelenting thirst for exploration and creation. Their forging was a spiritual act—blending their inner emotions and nature's essence into every blade and ornament, creating items that were both beautiful and imbued with magic.

Human forging traditions were originally inherited from both Dwarves and Elves. Sadly, due to their limited affinity with the elements and lack of magical knowledge, human-crafted equipment could never hope to match the enchantment or power of the originals.

Why were Elves so formidable?

Because every piece of their gear was blessed with elemental augmentation. This enchantment could make armor stronger, spears sharper. While the advantage might not be obvious on an individual level—

Imagine this:

One hundred elite Elven warriors versus one hundred elite human soldiers. Who would prevail?

The Elves, without question.

Even if the base stats were equal, the gear would tip the balance—their weapons and armor bore magical bonuses.

That was why—

If Kaen were to forge equipment himself, he would forge only the best.

He summoned Alante—the same master craftsman who had forged Courage and Glory, for him not long ago. Alante was known as the finest human blacksmith in Rivendell, and now he had pledged loyalty to Kaen.

Kaen handed him the long equipment list and got straight to the point:

"If I give you three hundred smiths, three thousand laborers, and an abundant supply of iron ore, how long would it take you to forge everything on this list?"

Alante pondered for a moment and replied, "The fastest would be… one year."

"That's too long," Kaen shook his head. Then, after a moment of thought, he asked again, "What if I give you five hundred smiths and five thousand laborers?"

This time, Alante thought for a while longer before saying, "If the materials are sufficient, I could complete it all in six months."

"Good. Six months it is."

Kaen didn't hesitate. "From this day forward, you are the Royal Chief Smith. I'll build a weapons factory, and you'll lead the craftsmen to forge new and refined Elven-style equipment for the kingdom."

Alante's eyes gleamed, his expression solemn as he declared:

"Rest assured, my lord. For you and for Eowenría, I shall raise my hammer and forge the blade of victory!"

That very day, Kaen issued an official decree:

—All blacksmiths within the kingdom and its neighboring villages were to be summoned. Each smith who worked at the city's new weapons manufactory would receive eight silver coins a month.

—Regardless of age or gender, anyone strong and willing to work hard could find employment in the soon-to-be-built factory. Monthly wages were three silver coins, with food and lodging included. Military families would be given priority.

Once the news spread, not only did the smiths from Elariel and Azure Spring come rushing in—even villages outside the kingdom's jurisdiction sent their craftsmen.

After all, eight silver coins a month was astronomical. A village blacksmith working honestly for a whole year—after food, clothing, and supplies—might not even save that much.

This was Kaen's tactic: spending gold to earn a name. A thousand gold for a steed's bones—a proverb that held true here. By throwing money at craftsmanship, he would eventually build a reputation.

And once word got out across northern Westland that the smiths of Eowenría enjoyed the best treatment in the realm, skilled labor would flock to him without the need for recruitment campaigns.

And so it was.

In less than half a month, Kaen had gathered five thousand factory workers and five hundred smiths.

Of course—

Building a full-fledged weapons manufactory had cost him two or three hundred thousand gold coins. For the first time since arriving in this world, he'd spent such a large fortune in one go—and honestly, it felt addictive.

…

With the weapon and armor issue resolved, Kaen now had to face the matter of warhorses.

One thousand light cavalry, five hundred heavy cavalry—at minimum, he'd need three times that number in horses, to account for rotations and spare mounts.

That meant 4,500 warhorses. Add to that a reserve stock, and the total easily doubled.

And once again—he only wanted the best.

Ordinary horses in Middle-earth would cower before the Wargs of the Orcs, refusing to charge. Only the steeds of the Riddermark—the warhorses of Rohan—could overcome that instinctive fear.

The Kingdom of Rohan, built by the Rohirrim, had its origins in a mythical steed: Mearas, the divine horses. Their ancestors had once tamed these sacred beasts, who were said to descend from Nahar, the mount of Oromë—one of the fourteen Valar, the Huntsman of the Valar.

In The Lord of the Rings, Gandalf's horse Shadowfax was a Mearas—intelligent as a man, swift as the wind, and possessing a touch of the divine.

Kaen summoned Will.

He said, "The kingdom needs warhorses. I want you to personally journey to Rohan and establish diplomatic relations with the Rohirrim. We'll use gold to buy ten thousand of their steeds."

Will frowned. "My lord, I will travel to the ends of Arda for you, but… as I understand it, the Rohirrim treat their horses like kin."

"Though the Rohirrim do sell some horses each year, such a vast number of fine mounts—they're unlikely to agree."

"They will agree," Kaen smiled calmly and handed Will a small item.

He continued, "Bring this with you. When the King of Rohan sees it, he will suppress all opposition and sell us the horses."

Will took the item. It was silver in color, glimmering with a metallic sheen—yet almost weightless in his hand.

"My lord," he asked, puzzled, "forgive my ignorance, but what is this?"

Kaen explained, "That is mithril. A hundred times more valuable than gold. Even kings will be moved by it. That one lump in your hand is worth several thousand gold coins."

Will's fingers tightened, and the mithril suddenly felt as heavy as a mountain.

Kaen went on, "I will give you an entire box of mithril. Take it to Rohan and use it to purchase the warhorses our kingdom needs."

"Tell the King of Rohan—once the horses have been delivered, I will gift him another box."

Will nodded solemnly and bowed deeply.

"My lord, I may not be able to charge into battle on your behalf—but I will return with a thunder of hooves!"