Chapter Two : The Rot Beneath

  Some time had passed since the summoning of my serfs—and the subsequent assessment of the realm’s so-called stability, or rather, the gring ck thereof.

  Whoever this Mikhail was before me, he was a complete sadistic twat. And now I had his face. Fantastic.

  I sat cross-legged in the chair of the study—a room that, from the dust and disuse, had likely seen more rats than readers. My back rested against the cold stone wall, parchment spread out across my p like I was some studious little lordling. A farce. The ink bled slightly at the edges—cheap parchment, underused quills, or perhaps just the dampness in the air.

  Eldric stood across from me, arms stiff at his sides, sweat beading at his brow despite the chill. He was doing his best not to shake. He was failing.

  “…This symbol here,” he said, voice tight, “means grain tithe. It’s used when referencing shipments due to the provincial granary.” He pointed with a trembling finger, not daring to touch the parchment itself. “And this one is levy collection. Local tax.” He paused. “You… don’t remember any of this?”

  I blinked slowly, then tilted my head—just enough to make him flinch.

  “No,” I said ftly. My voice was neutral, but sharp enough to cut.

  He nodded quickly. “O-Of course. Yes. Forgive me.”

  I let the silence stretch.

  In truth, I could read some of it already. My brain hadn’t made sense of it at first, but the more I focused, the more familiar it became. It looked like an offshoot of Swedish—archaic and twisted, but readable with effort. Enough to make dangerous assumptions. Enough to see the fingerprints of corruption smudged across the ledgers and supply records.

  But if I revealed that now, they’d wonder what else I remembered—and I wasn’t ready for that conversation.

  So I feigned ignorance. I let him teach me, one broken word at a time.

  Fear was currency here. One of the few the old Mikhail had stockpiled in abundance.

  I tapped the symbol with my finger. “You said this one is levy?”

  He nodded, eyes wide. “Yes, my Lord. It refers to the fourth-quarter extraction rate, which—under your previous ruling decree—was… increased.”

  “Drastically,” I muttered, almost to myself.

  Eldric paled.

  I looked up at him, meeting his eyes for the first time in several minutes.

  “Do you fear me, Eldric?”

  He froze. The question hit him like a hammer. His lips parted, but no words came.

  “I asked you a question,” I said quietly.

  “…Y-Yes, my Lord.”

  “You serve me well—and you will continue to serve until I say otherwise? And congratutions for you promotion.

  “I—Yes. Yes, my Lord.”

  “Good.” I stepped back, brushing off invisible dust from my sleeves. “Now send word to the Master of Coin. Tell him to meet me below.”

  Eldric blinked. “The vaults, my Lord?”

  I smiled without warmth. “Yes. It’s time I inspected how much money I actually have to enact my pns.”

  He bowed deeply. “At once.”

  I turned toward the door, waiting for the Master of Coin to show himself—the weight of the estate sinking behind me with every step.

  The air in the treasury chamber was thick with dust and the scent of cold metal.

  The walls of the underground vault were lined with thick iron bars, the floors reinforced with polished stone, and the torches flickered dimly against the cavernous ceiling. It was a pce built to withstand time—a fortress beneath the estate, meant to safeguard the wealth of a ruler.

  I stood at the entrance, staring at the scene before me.

  Gold. Mountains of it. Chests overflowing with neatly stacked coins. Bars of silver and gold piled high. Crates bursting with jewels and rare gems. Silk bags of exotic currency sat in careful, untouched stacks, and shelves bore artifacts, trinkets, and treasures worth small fortunes.

  It was obscene.

  For a province that was failing—for a region bled dry, where merchants had been robbed and driven away—this vault was an insult to every man, woman, and child who had suffered under its previous ruler.

  And the worst part?

  It was all my fault.

  Not mine—not the man I was before waking up in this body—but the body of the boy I now inhabited and forced to act as.

  The old Mikhail.

  The spoiled, tyrannical wretch who had taxed his people into the ground, stolen everything he could, and hoarded it here like a greedy dragon atop his hoard and what's worse its not like he did anything with it band based of the records this gold has been sitting here for the better part of two years.

  I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to keep my expression bnk.

  Behind me, the servants stood at attention—silent, still as statues.

  To my right, the Master of Coin—an aging man with gray at his temples, sweat forming on his brow—fidgeted nervously.

  “M-My Lord,” he began, voice quivering slightly, “the treasury, as you can see, remains… intact. As per your previous directives, all collected wealth was stored securely, and the provincial earnings have been—”

  “Enough,” I cut in, my voice ft.

  His mouth snapped shut.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath.

  Then, with all the rage a twelve-year-old could muster, I facepalmed.

  The sound echoed through the chamber.

  A sharp smack, followed by a long, trembling exhale as I resisted the urge to throw something across the room.

  The Master of Coin twitched violently, as if that single motion had nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.

  Slowly, I lowered my hand.

  Then, with every ounce of authority I possessed, I turned to face the older man.

  “Are you telling me,” I said, voice dangerously quiet, “that while this province colpsed, while people starved, while merchants fled, while the city crumbled—this vault sat untouched?”

  He flinched.

  “My… my Lord, y-you yourself ordered that all collected wealth be stored here for the province’s future…”

  I inhaled sharply.

  My fingers curled into fists, nails biting into skin.

  I could feel it—anger. Not just mine, but the deep, simmering resentment that lingered in this body—the echoes of a cruel and selfish child in every muscle, every bone.

  And for the first time, I understood why everyone was so terrified of me and i am surprised no one tried to kill this fucking twat before granted the “accident” people kept mentioning that might have been their breaking point.

  Because if the old Mikhail had been standing here, hearing this…

  Someone would be dead by now.

  I tightened my grip on my emotions. Forced the rage down. Buried it beneath purpose.

  I am not him.

  My jaw clenched.

  Then, in a controlled, measured voice, I gave the order.

  “The treasury is to be emptied.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  The Master of Coin froze.

  The guards at the chamber entrance stiffened.

  Even the servants, trained to remain unseen and unheard, visibly recoiled.

  “M-My Lord?” the old man stammered, looking like he was about to colpse.

  “You heard me,” I said coldly.

  He trembled. “B-But, my Lord—”

  “Are you arguing with me?”

  He paled. “N-No, my Lord!”

  “Then do it.”

  A flurry of movement.

  The scribes and treasury clerks—tasked with maintaining the vault’s records—moved immediately, bowing and scurrying off to retrieve ledgers, assistants, inventory logs.

  The guards, though clearly bewildered, snapped to attention.

  Cassius, though visibly dying inside, swallowed hard and bowed deeply.

  “As… as you command, my Lord,” he whispered.

  I turned my gaze back to the gold-den vault.

  Then, voice crisp and unyielding, I continued.

  “I want a full assessment. Every single coin is to be counted. Every jewel. Every ingot. Every bar of silver. Anything taken from merchants or citizens is to be returned, if possible. What cannot be returned will fund reconstruction.”

  My eyes flicked back to him.

  “And I want reports. Infrastructure assessments. I want to know exactly what needs to be rebuilt—roads, ports, irrigation, everything.”

  The man swallowed thickly and nodded furiously. “Y-Yes, my Lord!”

  I took a slow breath.

  Then, in a softer—but no less firm—tone, I added, “And find me people who can do the job. Not just imperial officials. I want builders. Craftsmen. Merchants who haven’t abandoned us. People who know this nd.”

  He hesitated—then, after a moment, nodded again.

  “As you will, my Lord.”

  I exhaled.

  The work would take time. Weeks. Months.

  But this was the first step.

  Because if I was going to rule this nd—if I was going to carve something great out of this wretched, abandoned province—then I had to fix it first.

  I turned away from the vault, my mind already racing with calcutions, strategies, pns.

  “Move quickly,” I ordered. “I expect results.”

  And with that, I strode out of the chamber, leaving the stunned officials scrambling behind me.

  The chamber was stifling.

  The vaults had been assessed, the coin counted, and now the Master of Coin and my other advisors stood before me, hands trembling slightly as they held stacks of reports. The heavy wooden table between us was already covered in parchment—ink-stained calcutions, hastily prepared summaries of the province’s current state.

  I sat back in the chair, arms resting on the armrests, fingers drumming lightly against the wood. My golden eyes scanned between the two of them—sharp, expectant.

  The Master of Coin, an aging man with a face carved by stress, swallowed visibly. His scribe, a thin, balding man with ink-smudged sleeves, kept his head low, as if avoiding my gaze would spare him from judgment.

  They had been speaking for nearly an hour—listing the province’s woes, reciting numbers, statistics, and logistical nightmares—but not once had they offered a solution.

  And it was pissing me off.

  I leaned forward slightly, voice low and measured.

  “You’ve given me problems,” I said. “Now give me solutions.”

  Both men stiffened.

  Cassius opened his mouth slightly, then closed it, paling further. The scribe shifted in pce, like he wanted to melt into the stone.

  My patience—already paper-thin—snapped.

  “Speak,” I ordered, voice sharp as a bde.

  Cassius flinched violently, gncing toward his scribe like he might find divine salvation there.

  I inhaled slowly through my nose.

  I knew why they hesitated.

  The old Mikhail—the brat I had repced—had likely never asked for advice. He had ordered. Demanded. And when he didn’t like an answer, he’d thrown a tantrum. Or had someone flogged or whipped.

  But that was then.

  I had no patience for their fear now.

  I tilted my head, tapped my finger once on the table.

  “Let me make this clear,” I said, my tone quiet but dangerous. “You will speak. You will give me honest opinions. You will tell me what needs to be done. Or—”

  I let the word hang there, just long enough for them to imagine their own endings.

  Cassius swallowed hard, then nodded in submission.

  “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

  I gestured zily.

  “Then start.”

  The old man took a steadying breath, gncing at his scribe, who fumbled through a stack of notes before clearing his throat.

  “My Lord,” the scribe began cautiously, voice thin but steady, “the province is in… dire condition. As you already know, taxation has strangled the economy. Trade is nonexistent. Infrastructure is crumbling. Many roads connecting our settlements to the port have fallen into disrepair. Travel is dangerous—both from natural obstacles and from… banditry.”

  My fingers stilled.

  “Banditry?” I repeated, tone neutral.

  The scribe flinched. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

  I turned toward the Master of Coin, one brow raised.

  “You’re telling me we have armed criminals freely operating in my province?”

  He let out a shallow breath. “M-My Lord, the issue has… persisted for some time. With trade dead and no guards to escort caravans, desperate men have taken to the roads. There are no goods, no coin, and the garrisons that remain are too few—underfunded, undersupplied.”

  My jaw clenched.

  So the previous Mikhail hadn’t just colpsed the economy—he’d effectively created the perfect conditions for chaos. No work. No order. No w. Just desperation turned into bloodshed.

  Fucking fantastic.

  I ran a hand through my hair and sighed.

  “Continue.”

  The scribe gnced down at his notes, nodding quickly.

  “The mines remain functional—barely. Without trade routes, the iron and salt produced here have no stable buyers. A few independent traders still come through, but they avoid the main roads, which means we lose revenue. And the infrastructure—warehouses, markets, the port…”

  He hesitated.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Is?”

  “Deteriorating, my Lord.”

  The Master of Coin stepped in quickly, trying to soften the blow. “The port is still usable, but years of neglect have left it underdeveloped. Many warehouses are damaged, docks need repair, and the local administration has no funds to maintain it.”

  I absorbed it in silence.

  It was salvageable.

  Trade was dead, yes—but not beyond resurrection. The infrastructure was crumbling, but not beyond repair. The mines were cut off, but they still produced.

  The key wasn’t here—it was the coastline.

  If I could rebuild the port, I could force trade to return. If merchants could bypass the Great Desert and use Velos as a shortcut between the Empire and the Eastern Kingdoms, I wouldn’t just stabilize this pce—I’d turn it into a titan.

  But to make money, I had to spend it.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose.

  “Prioritize infrastructure,” I said firmly. “The port, the roads, and the town itself. I want a full assessment of damages. What can be salvaged. What must be repced.”

  The Master of Coin nodded quickly. “Y-Yes, my Lord.”

  I turned to the scribe.

  “How many workers do we have?”

  He hesitated. “Most borers left, my Lord. Many abandoned the province after the colpse. The few who remain work in the mines… or have taken to other means.”

  I scowled.

  No workers. No guards. No functioning economy.

  Fine.

  Then I’d build one.

  I tapped the table again, leaning back. My golden eyes narrowed.

  “Then we hire workers. Spread word through whatever channels still exist. The province is offering pay for bor. Good pay.”

  The Master of Coin shifted nervously. “That will require—”

  “Yes,” I cut in, exasperated. “It will require money. Which is why I emptied the treasury.”

  The old man flinched. “O-Of course, my Lord.”

  I took a breath to steady myself.

  “Also—our military presence. I want a full breakdown. Numbers. Locations. If we’re to secure the roads and wipe out the bandits, I need to know exactly what we have to work with.”

  The Master of Coin scribbled furiously.

  I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly.

  This was going to be a nightmare.

  But it was my nightmare now.

  My nd. My problem.

  And if I had to drag this God forsaken half beaten corpse of a province by inch by bloody inch out of the mud myself, so be it.

  I rolled my shoulders, giving one final order.

  “You will bring me an updated report in one week,” I said. “I expect progress.”

  The two men scrambled to their feet and bowed deeply.

  “Y-Yes, my Lord!”

  I waved a hand in dismissal, the weight of it all beginning to settle on my shoulders.

  “Then get to work.”

  And with that, the real headache for me began. As my mind dived into the bullshit i now found myself in.

  Some time had passed since my time in the treasury i found myself sitting alone in my study as,the candlelight flickers, casting long shadows over the stacks of parchment scattered across my desk. The hour is te—far too te for someone of my supposed status to still be awake. And yet, I remain hunched over the reports, my eyes scanning line after line detailing expenses, trade agreements, infrastructure costs, and military expenditures.

  My head throbs. My hands tremble slightly from exhaustion.

  But I don’t stop.

  I can’t stop.

  Just a few weeks ago, I couldn’t even read these pages. I had to rely on Eldric to read every single report aloud—like a blind king ruling by someone else’s voice.

  Eldric—God bless his frazzled, miserable soul—eventually managed to teach me the basics of the nguage. I picked it up faster than he expected. Far faster.

  The script, for reasons I still don’t understand, is eerily simir to an offshoot of Swedish. Some letters are twisted yes. The grammar’s clumsy. But the bones are there. And once I saw the pattern, it all clicked into pce.

  Maybe fate was zy. Maybe some God decided I’d suffered enough. Either way, I learned.

  And now? Now I read faster than most scribes. And I use it like a weapon.

  Because for months now, I’ve been fighting—not with swords or armies, but with ink, paper, and numbers. Each decision is a battle. Each investment a gamble. I am pying a game where the stakes are the survival of my province… and or poverty a peasant revolt not that they could barely surviving as they are.

  The work never ends.

  The roads are being repaired—slowly, but steadily. The docks are reinforced. Warehouses rebuilt(somewhat). The garrisons resupplied, barely. And trade? Trade is finally beginning to trickle back in.

  It’s not much.

  Not yet.

  But it’s enough.

  The first breakthrough came when I personally welcomed a group of merchants to the port.

  They hadn’t come by choice.

  They came because they had nowhere else to go.

  Smugglers. Independent traders. Desperate men taking a gamble on a port that had once been synonymous with death.

  I stood at the docks, arms folded, watching as they disembarked with wary eyes and guarded postures. They scanned the area like they expected armed men to leap out from the crates and slit their throats.

  Honestly, I didn’t bme them.

  This pce had been a trap for years—where ships were seized, cargo stolen, crews detained, or worse.

  But that ended with me.

  So I greeted them not as a prince demanding tribute, but as a man offering opportunity.

  “There will be no tariffs,” I told them, standing before a crowd that smelled of sea salt and suspicion. “Docking is free. Warehouses are free. And I will personally guarantee your safety while you trade here.”

  They looked at one another like I’d grown a second head.

  No noble in the Empire gave away anything for free.

  So I gave more.

  From my coat, I pulled out small, sealed slips of parchment—carefully written deeds of privilege.

  “If you return,” I said, handing one to each of them, “you will have priority docking. Priority storage. And my protection.”

  The only price I asked?

  “Spread the word,” I told them. “Tell others what you found here.”

  It was a gamble.

  A desperate, ridiculous gamble.

  But it worked.

  Weeks ter, more merchants came. And then more. And then more.

  The trickle became a steady flow.

  And with it, the first spark of something I hadn’t seen since waking in this body—hope.

  My servants have started to notice.

  They don’t say it out loud. Not at first. They’re still too afraid. Still waiting for me to snap—to scream, or strike, or return to the cruelty that once defined this face.

  So they serve me in silence, pcing dishes before me like offerings to a fickle god.

  Roasted meats. Fresh bread. Stews rich with spice and root vegetables. Meals fit for a prince.

  I barely touch them.

  I eat only enough to function.

  The rest of my time is spent moving—reviewing reports, inspecting construction, overseeing the docks, riding to the farmnds to check irrigation canals with my own eyes.

  The old Mikhail demanded everything be brought to him.

  This Mikhail?

  I go to the problem.

  I stand in the dust and heat while borers y stone for new roads. I wade through salt-crusted dockyards to verify manifests myself. I walk the market stalls, speaking with traders and craftsmen, asking what they need.

  And they look at me like I’m something alien.

  Not because I’m cruel.

  But because I don’t stop.

  The boy they once feared for his rage is now feared for his obsession.

  One evening, while reviewing expense ledgers, a servant lingers in the doorway.

  I don’t look up. I’m too far gone in numbers, ink, and fatigue.

  Then the voice: hesitant.

  “My Lord… your supper has gone cold.”

  I blink.

  I gnce down.

  The pte beside me is untouched. The stew is cold sludge. The bread is a brick.

  It’s been there for hours.

  I rub at my temples.

  “I’ll eat ter,” I mutter.

  The servant doesn’t move.

  A few months ago, that hesitation would have earned a sp. A shout. A thrown goblet.

  Now?

  He stays. Quiet. Braver than he should be.

  “You haven’t eaten much these past weeks, my Lord,” he says, softer.

  I freeze.

  I could snap at him. Part of me wants to.

  But he’s not speaking out of fear.

  He’s speaking from concern.

  And somehow… that makes it worse.

  “I’ll eat ter,” I say again. But this time, my voice is quieter.

  He bows and retreats.

  And I—reluctantly—take a bite of the meal. It’s cold. Tasteless.

  But the servant leaves looking slightly less afraid.

  That’s a victory, I guess.

  The report arrives at the end of the month.

  I don’t read it immediately. My eyes are too tired. My head feels like it’s packed with lead.

  The Cassius reads it aloud, voice measured, careful.

  And for the first time in months—there’s good news.

  “My Lord,” he says, voice unsteady, “our current operating deficit has been reduced to… Seventy percent.”

  I let out a short huff of ughter.

  He flinches. Poor bastard.

  It’s not mocking. Not cruel.

  It's a relief.

  We’re still losing money, yes—but before, we were bleeding out. Ninety percent losses. Total colpse. A fiscal grave.

  Now?

  Seventy percent.

  Bad, but survivable, given current reserves .

  I lean back in my chair, golden eyes burning through the fatigue.

  “That means trade is stabilizing,” I mutter.

  The Master of Coin nods, more confidently this time. “Yes, my Lord. Merchant activity has increased steadily. The waiving of tariffs and storage fees has incentivized independent traders. Some are even returning more than once.”

  I allow myself a small, exhausted smile.

  “Of course they are.”

  He still watches me cautiously, expecting the old Mikhail to cw his way back out.

  But instead, I just rub my temples and speak.

  “Good. Expand the docks if needed. Make it easier for them to come here. And keep tracking the deficit. Weekly reports.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” he says, and bows.

  When he leaves, I lean back further and stare at the ceiling.

  I am exhausted.

  Worn thin. Starving. Sore.

  But for the first time since I woke up in this cursed body…

  I’m winning.

  And for that?

  Every sleepless night is worth it.

  The midday sun filters through the high windows of the council chamber, casting golden light across the long wooden table—now buried under a mountain of reports, ledgers, and annotated maps of my province.

  The scent of old parchment and iron-rich ink clings to the air, mingling with the cooling aroma of herbal tea I’d long since forgotten about. My cup sits untouched, the surface of the tea still, thin skin forming at the edges. I don’t even remember when it was poured.

  I haven’t slept properly in over three months. Meals go half-eaten. My coat hangs a little looser on my frame. But none of that matters.

  Because I am winning.

  Slowly. Painfully. Methodically.

  And now, it’s time to secure that victory.

  I lean back in my chair, my spine aching with the motion. My fingers ce together as I look across the table at the two men seated before me.

  To my left: Eldric, my ancient scribe. Somehow still alive. His hands tremble slightly as they scribble notes, but the tremors are slower now. Not from fear—just age. He still stammers sometimes when I enter a room, but the look in his eyes has changed. Less terror. More… guarded curiosity.

  To my right: Cassius Varro, Master of Coin. When I arrived, he was little more than a dusty relic, a bureaucrat clinging to protocols and fear like armor. A man who’d survived by obeying blindly. Now?

  Now I’ve dragged him, inch by inch, into competency.

  And he hates it.

  Not because he’s zy—but because, for the first time in years, he’s had to think.

  He hasn’t spoken yet. Just watches me, pale and tense, as I tap one finger slowly on the table. He knows I’m about to do something he won’t like.

  “Now that trade has stabilized,” I begin, my voice low, “we implement a docking fee.”

  Cassius blinks. “A fee, my Lord?”

  I nod. “Nothing excessive. A reasonable sum. Enough to begin filling the treasury again without driving merchants away.”

  Then I raise a finger.

  “But… those who took the initial risk—the ones who returned when this port was still considered cursed—will have their docking fees permanently reduced by fifty percent.”

  Eldric murmurs as his quill scratches paper. “A reward for loyalty.”

  “Exactly,” I say, gncing his way. “And not just that. All storage fees will be waived entirely for them.”

  I lean forward.

  “I want a list of every merchant who docked here in the first three months after we lifted tariffs. Names. Goods. Routes. I want it on my desk by the end of the week.”

  Eldric nods without hesitation.

  Cassius, meanwhile, shifts uncomfortably. “And… the new merchants, my Lord? Won’t they object to such favoritism?”

  I smirk.

  “Some might. Which is why we offer them a path to simir benefits.”

  I watch Cassius straighten, the faintest flicker of interest lighting in his sunken eyes.

  “For every five successful dockings and recorded high-value transactions, a merchant earns one-time free storage and dock repair assistance. Publicly announced. Transparent.”

  Cassius opens his mouth to protest the cost, but I hold up a hand.

  “It’s an investment, Cassius. One that ensures repeat business.”

  He exhales through his nose. Still skeptical. But learning.

  “Additionally,” I continue, “from this point forward, new merchants must dock ten times before qualifying for anything—and even then, they’ll only get storage and repair assistance. The fifty percent docking fee cut is exclusive to the originals.”

  Cassius knows it’s a bold move. Possibly too generous.

  But he also knows—it’s working.

  The test financial reports don’t lie. The deficit has been shrinking. Slowly. Month after month. From seventy percent losses to fifty. Then forty. Last week, thirty-two.

  So instead of objecting, he inclines his head.

  “As you command, my Lord.”

  By the end of the week, Eldric has them all gathered in the refurbished council hall.

  The floor still smells faintly of fresh wood stain. The banners haven’t arrived yet. The windows are newly fitted, but they creak in the wind. Still—compared to what it used to be, it’s a temple.

  And they arrive. The first merchants.

  They walk in guarded, wary. Scarred men. Cynical men. Men who’d lost ships, cargo, and trust under the old regime. But they came back.

  And now they stand before me like gamblers who bet on the apocalypse—and somehow won.

  I let the silence stretch as I study their faces. Weather-beaten. Hard-eyed. Sharp.

  "You took a risk coming here," I say, voice even. "And you profited because of it."

  A few shift in their boots. Others hold their ground.

  "And now, I reward risk."

  Eldric steps forward, reading aloud their newly drawn contracts.

  —Fifty percent reduction in docking fees.—Permanent exemption from all storage charges.—Guaranteed repair aid.—Priority access to infrastructure, resources, and housing projects for staff.

  It’s not a bribe. It’s a decration.I see them exchange looks. A few of them are waiting for the catch. One speaks—Darius. The grizzled one. “What do you want in return, Your Highness?”

  I smile faintly.

  “Nothing,” I say. “Except that you keep doing what you’re already doing. Trade. Grow. And tell others what you saw here.”

  Another asks, “What of the ones who come ter?”

  “They’ll get rewards, too,” I say. “But they’ll never catch up to you. You earned this.”

  Slowly, one by one—they nod.

  And I know, in that moment: I own them.

  Not with threats. Not with soldiers.

  With mutual gain.

  Weeks turn into months.

  We add minor tariffs—grain, livestock, certain metals. Nothing outrageous. Just enough to regute flow and start rebuilding stockpiles.

  Cassius adapts. Begrudgingly, but with more efficiency than I expected. He begins anticipating my strategies instead of just reacting to them. Start suggesting things before I even ask.

  Eldric begins addressing me without flinching. Even chuckles now and then when I mutter sarcastic remarks under my breath.

  The servants bring food more regurly. I actually eat now. Not because I care—but because passing out from starvation would slow things down.

  The roads are halfway finished. The docks have doubled in size. Two new warehouses stand where there used to be rubble. The soldiers are few, but better equipped but only barely . But more professional. I even sleep, sometimes.

  And most importantly—the deficit is down to thirty percent.

  Thirty .

  That night, as I review the test reports under the dim glow of a hanging ntern, Eldric approaches.

  He stands by the door for a moment, holding a fresh scroll. Then clears his throat.

  "My Lord… may I ask something?"

  I gnce up from my parchment. "If you must."

  “…Why such generosity? With the merchants. The tax breaks. The repairs. You’re giving them what no prince ever would.”

  I sit back, fingers steepling beneath my chin.

  I think for a moment.

  Then I answer.

  “Because i want repeat business my dear scribe

  My eyes meet his, gleaming in the low light.

  “I’m making sure of that ”

  Eldric stares for a long moment—then bows, lower than he ever has before.

  And I return to my work, already drafting the next decree.

  I really need a break but i know i can’t stop Fuck this is not like the other isekai stories i read man.