Right, let's make some bows, Arin thought as he slipped away from the chaos of the meeting hall and headed deeper into the forest. The constant arguing of the elders had already given him a headache, and he wanted nothing more than the familiar scent of wood shavings and hot metal. The workshop stood among the trees like an old fortress, hidden beneath thick branches and covered in ivy. It was one of the most important places in the Sonneberg domain. Their bows were born here, their arrows shaped here, and beside the woodworking section stood the forge where the blacksmiths crafted blades and fittings for the guild. Even before the System arrived, this place had been treated almost like sacred ground.
Arin still regretted losing his old bow to the goblins. Every time he remembered it, his chest tightened in irritation. The weapon had been crude compared to the masterpieces the elders wielded, yet it had been his first true bow. The replacement he carried now felt lifeless in comparison, made from poor-quality wood and rushed craftsmanship. Unfortunately, he could not simply carve another from the ancient yew tree near the cultivation grounds. That tree regenerated painfully slowly, and the branch he had taken previously had already pushed it to its limit. Killing such a valuable resource would earn him the hatred of the entire family. So instead, Arin had settled for oak wood, which honestly suited a recurve bow better anyway. It was durable, flexible, and far easier to shape properly.
The workshop was lively despite the heavy mood hanging over the estate. Young craftsmen sat at long tables carving limbs and polishing grips while older members supervised with critical eyes. The rhythmic sounds of scraping knives and tapping hammers echoed through the hall like a strange kind of music. Arin sat near the back, carefully shaving down the bow limbs while occasionally testing the bend with experienced hands. He had spent enough years around the craftsmen to know that impatience ruined more bows than lack of talent. The wood had to be convinced to bend, not forced.
"Hey, Arin. How's the bow coming along?" Johny asked as he entered the workshop carrying several large pots in his arms. The moment he stepped inside, nearly everyone glanced toward him curiously. Those pots clearly contained plants, and there were only a handful of people in the family insane enough to drag valuable plants into a woodworking shop.
"It's coming along well," Arin replied while smoothing the edge of a limb. "Almost done shaping it. What do you need?"
"Grandpa ordered us to start stockpiling proper handmade bows," Johny explained with a grim smile. "Both for ourselves and for selling later. We've got six months trapped here, so apparently we're going to spend every waking hour working."
A collective groan spread through the workshop. Nobody argued because they all knew it made sense. Modern weapons were unreliable now, ammunition was expensive, and handcrafted equipment held cultural energy that made it resistant to mana decay. Bows had suddenly become one of the most valuable weapons on Earth. Still, hearing they would spend half a year trapped in workshops was enough to crush anyone's spirit.
Arin finally looked toward the pots Johny carried and frowned. "Then what exactly are those?"
Johny puffed out his chest proudly. "Grandpa's contribution to the family rearmament effort."
One of the elders immediately burst out laughing. "Bullshit. I know my brother. There's no way he willingly gave up his precious plants. He loves those things more than half the family. What kind of blackmail did you use?"
"You think I'm suicidal?" Johny shot back instantly. "Touching Grandpa's plants is basically signing your own death warrant."
The room erupted into laughter, because everyone knew it was true. The patriarch treated his collection like treasured children. Some of those plants had been cultivated by the family for centuries and were considered irreplaceable heirlooms.
"No," Johny continued while grinning viciously, "this was Grandma's doing. She's still furious that Grandpa hid important information from her. So apparently she decided that if he wants everyone to sacrifice for the clan, then he should lead by example and donate part of his plant collection."
Several elders suddenly looked horrified.
"She even confiscated his yearly tea allocation," Johny added cheerfully. "I heard he's been in a terrible mood ever since. Apparently he started conducting random discipline inspections around the estate."
At those words, three elders immediately stood up and excused themselves from the workshop with expressions full of panic. The younger craftsmen burst into laughter watching them leave.
"That's evil," Arin muttered while shaking his head. "You know Grandpa is absolutely going to use this situation as an excuse to confiscate everyone else's tea too."
"Exactly," Johny replied. "And they know it too. That's why they're running home right now to hide their supplies before he starts sniffing around."
Tea inside the Sonneberg family was treated almost like liquid gold. Outsiders would never understand it, but the family's tea plants carried over three hundred years of history. Their ancestors had obtained the seeds long ago during the era when tea cultivation was leaving China and spreading toward Europe. A few plants had been secretly brought back to the forest, and over generations the family carefully refined them. The plants barely survived Dutch winters, making every harvest precious.
Unfortunately, the harsh climate meant there were only twenty surviving plants in total. Together they produced barely two kilograms of tea leaves per year. That tiny amount was divided according to strict family tradition. Two hundred grams were reserved for honored guests, every child received one hundred grams upon reaching adulthood, and the remainder belonged to the elders as compensation for managing the clan.
Naturally, this created endless resentment among the younger generation.
"Be happy you even got a full cup," Johny complained bitterly. "I got one sip before my parents confiscated the rest for 'safekeeping.' I haven't seen a single leaf since."
"Same here," another craftsman muttered. "Apparently we're too immature to appreciate it properly."
Arin sighed deeply. "I got a hundred grams during my coming-of-age ceremony. Dad and Grandpa took it away within the hour because I supposedly lacked respect for my elders by not offering it to them first."
The entire workshop nodded sympathetically. Every single person there had experienced the same tragedy. The tea itself probably was not objectively the best in the world, but it belonged to them. They had nurtured those plants for centuries with their own hands, protecting them through wars and disasters. That emotional attachment alone made it priceless in the eyes of the family.
Slowly, a dangerous smile spread across Arin's face.
The moment Johny saw it, he immediately stepped backward. "No. Absolutely not. I know that look. What terrible idea just entered your head?"
Arin leaned back calmly. "Isn't it obvious? As loyal children and grandchildren of the family, we should support Grandma in disciplining the elders. Therefore, I propose we voluntarily hand over all tea leaves currently owned by our parents and grandparents for proper safekeeping."
Silence filled the workshop.
Several craftsmen stared at him in horror.
One elder actually looked ready to faint.
"Arin," Johny whispered carefully, "do you understand that half the family will declare war on us if we do that?"
Arin shrugged lazily. "And? It's not like I have any tea left to lose. You begged, threatened, and negotiated for years and still never got his share back. At this point, I've accepted reality."
A few younger members slowly began grinning.
The older craftsmen, meanwhile, suddenly looked extremely nervous. Because the most terrifying part of Arin's plan was not the younger generation supporting it.
No, the real danger was that the wives and mothers of the family absolutely would.