Chapter 326: Angry Iron Beast

The Kingdom of Belfast had seen plenty of incredible machines over the years.

There were giant locomotives barreling across the countryside, electrical generators lighting up whole city blocks, and sleek motorcars carrying wealthy merchants through paved streets. More recently, heavy trucks had started hauling tons of freight without needing a single horse.

Yet, on the opening morning of the Royal Agricultural Exhibition, the machine drawing the biggest crowd was neither elegant nor fast.

It had massive steel wheels, an engine completely out in the open, a tall exhaust pipe, a canvas roof, and a driver’s seat that looked brutally uncomfortable.

A little boy stared at it for a long time, tugged his father’s sleeve, and pointed.

"Papa?"

"Yes, son?"

"Why does that motorcar look so angry?"

His father blinked at the heavy iron beast. "I haven’t the slightest idea."

A few paces away, Hollen burst out laughing so loudly that half the people nearby turned around.

Underneath the machine, Ernest Teucher was lying flat on his back, inspecting the rear axle. Arthur Pendelton stood beside him with a clipboard, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Ernest."

"Hmm?" came a muffled reply from the grease.

"Get out from under the tractor."

"Just checking something."

"We hired engineers for that," Arthur said flatly. "And mechanics. And three different inspectors who already signed off on the certificate."

Ernest slid out, dusting gray grime off his coat. "Four, actually."

"Then why are you down there?"

"Because there are about two thousand farmers out there who’d love nothing more than to watch us make fools of ourselves."

Hollen walked over, grinning. "He’s not wrong, Arthur."

Arthur sighed, closing his eyes. "I really should have stayed in the office."

The Royal Agricultural Exhibition was one of Belfast’s biggest annual festivals. For decades, it had been a mix of a county fair and a trade show. Prize cattle stood under banners, horses were brushed until they shone, and vendors sold everything from improved plows to meat pies.

This year, Teucher Industrial Works had set up a massive banner at the eastern edge:

THE FIELDMASTER AGRICULTURAL TRACTOR: Mechanical Power for the Modern Farm.

Underneath stood two machines. One was beat-up and scratched from months of real field trials. The other was freshly painted in dark green, boasting black steel wheels and polished brass fittings.

Ernest wanted folks to see both. He didn’t want them thinking this was just some showroom toy that had never seen dirt.

Surrounding them were tables covered with spare parts, gears, and operating records. Arthur had fought tooth and nail against laying out maintenance logs, claiming nobody came to a festival to read paperwork.

Ernest’s answer had been simple: A farmer thinking about spending sixty thousand riels will.

When the gates opened at ten, a crowd swarmed the booth. Some were curious, but most were skeptical.

An old farmer circled the machine, tapped the steel rim with his boot, and scoffed. "That thing will tear a good field to shreds."

Hollen turned around. "Depends on the soil."

"And who are you supposed to be?"

"Hollen,"

The old man froze, blinking. "Hollen? The one with the Teucher Company?"

"That’s me."

"Then you ought to know better than dumping this much dead iron onto farmland."

Hollen just grinned. "Tell me why you think so."

The farmer did—at great length. To Hollen’s delight, the man’s complaints were dead-on. The machine was heavy. It could chew up dirt roads. The steel lugs might slip in clay, and an idiot driver could pack the soil down too hard if it rained.

Instead of getting defensive, Hollen nodded along. He explained how they designed removable weights and swappable lugs, and openly admitted the tractor wasn’t built for every type of farm.

The farmer stared, caught off guard. "You’re telling me it has flaws?"

"Of course it does."

"Then why are you trying to sell it?"

"Because it has strengths, too," Hollen said smoothly.

The old man went quiet for a second, then gave a rough nod. "Fair enough."

Meanwhile, Ernest was getting worn down. He had answered the same question nearly twenty times: How much does it cost?

"Around sixty-one thousand riels once full production starts," Ernest told a prospective buyer.

The man’s jaw dropped. "Sixty-one thousand? That’s almost what you charge for a freight truck! And this can’t even haul two tons or outrun a horse!"

"That’s right," Ernest replied calmly. "A truck carries freight down roads. This pulls plows through dirt. You wouldn’t use a train locomotive to turn a field, would you?"

"Of course not."

"Why?"

"Because it needs tracks!"

"Exactly," Ernest smiled. "Different tools for different jobs."

The man frowned, thought about it, and finally smirked. "All right, Lord Teucher. Let’s see it actually do the work."

The demonstration field sat just beyond the livestock pens. Ministry officials had prepared three test strips: one light and dry, one firm, and one heavy and wet from recent rain. Ernest had explicitly asked them not to smooth the field out. A fake test would fool nobody.

Around the wooden fence, hundreds of estate owners, farmers, and journalists jostled for a good view. Eleanor stood near the front in a pale blue dress, giving Ernest a quick, encouraging wave.

At eleven-thirty, a ministry official cleared his throat into a megaphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, today we present the Teucher Fieldmaster. It is still an experimental design, but today’s trial will show both what it can do—and where its limits lie."

Ernest nodded. Perfect. No wild promises. No nonsense about replacing horses overnight.

"Start her up!"

The engine roared to life with a deep, choppy cough.

CHUFF—CHUFF—CHUFF!

A puff of dark smoke rose from the stack. Children squealed and pointed, while half the horses in the nearby pens pricked their ears up. George Whitfield, their lead test driver, eased into the seat, pushed the heavy clutch, and slammed the lever into first gear.

The massive rear wheels dug in. The steel teeth gripped the dirt.

Whitfield backed up to a heavy two-furrow plow, locked the hitch, and got the signal flag.

The engine note dropped an octave as the blades sliced into the earth. Dark soil peeled back on both sides, rolling over in clean, even ribbons.

Ten yards. Twenty yards. Thirty yards.

The tractor kept a steady, tireless pace. By the time it reached the far fence, the crowd was clapping, and a few younger farmers let out whistles.

Whitfield turned it around and made a second pass, then a third. The machine handled it without a hitch.

By the fourth pass, the crowd had stopped staring at the engine. They were staring at the dirt—the depth of the trench, the neatness of the cut, the steady speed. Real farmers didn’t care about shiny paint. They cared about results.

Then came the third plot: heavy, wet clay.

The second the blades sank into the mud, the engine groaned. The exhaust note turned into a harsh bark. The rear wheels spun, spraying wet clods into the air, and the machine shuddered to a dead stop.

The crowd muttered.

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, brilliant."

Hollen leaned over the rail, watching intently, but Ernest didn’t flinch.

Out on the field, Whitfield didn’t panic either. He stepped down, checked the hitch, and raised the plow blades an inch to lighten the load. He climbed back up, engaged the clutch, and gave it throttle.

The engine roared, working hard, and the wheels slipped once or twice, but the Fieldmaster pushed forward, steadily carving through the mud until it cleared the strip.

The applause this time was quieter, but far more respectful. They had seen it struggle, adapt, and finish the job.

A journalist quickly cornered Ernest. "Lord Teucher! Does this mean the machine fails in wet soil?"

"It means working capacity depends on ground conditions and depth," Ernest answered cleanly. "No machine performs miracles. In heavy clay, you run shallower passes or wait for better weather. It’s a tool, not magic."

The journalist scribbled fast. "Would you recommend this for every farm in the kingdom?"

"Absolutely not. If your fields are too steep, too rocky, or tiny, this isn’t for you. It’s built for medium and large farms, or for smaller neighbors willing to share one."

The reporter looked surprised by the blunt honesty, thanked him, and hurried off.

Next came the harrow test, smoothing out the plowed ground. With less resistance, the tractor glided across the dirt with ease. After that, they hitched it to a wagon stacked high with grain sacks. The tractor pulled it along a bumpy dirt track without breaking a sweat.

"Look at that," an estate manager muttered to his friend nearby. "If it can haul like that right after plowing, I could cut half my draft team."

"Assuming it doesn’t break down every Tuesday," his friend grunted.

"And assuming it doesn’t cost an arm and a leg," a third chimed in.

Arthur, hovering within earshot, stepped right in with a practiced salesman’s smile. "Gentlemen, might I show you our operating cost sheets?"

For the grand finale, Whitfield drove the tractor alongside a stationary threshing machine.

He shifted into neutral, set the brake, and linked a wide leather belt from the tractor’s side pulley to the thresher’s drive wheel. When the engine revved, the belt spun into a blur, and the threshing machine began clattering away, chewing through stalks of wheat and spitting out clean grain.

The crowd went completely silent.

Plowing was one thing, but this? A mobile powerhouse that could run pumps, grinders, and threshers anywhere on a farm?

Suddenly, the Fieldmaster wasn’t just an iron novelty anymore. It was an entire work crew rolled into a single machine.