Three months in, and FIMROB is fully operational—three divisions, daily reports, and a growing pile of logistical headaches.
Karl, now head of the Intelligence & Data Procurement Division (or 'Intel' as we call it), handles the fieldwork. His jolly face and bottomless appetite somehow make him the perfect census officer. The villagers adore him. Unfortunately, so does every goat and fruit stand within a ten-mile radius.
At first, I assumed his reports were lazy—just food, livestock, more food. I scolded him for treating this job like a buffet. But then I realized: that is the entire economy. Every household is a farm. Every tax report reads like a farmer's journal.
"Where are the artisans? The merchants?" I asked.
Gerhart simply grinned. "I asked the Crown to send me farmers. That way, we'll never go hungry."
I stared at him.
We have no blacksmiths, no tailors, no traders, no schools, no medicine men—just cabbages and swordsmen on pensions.
We are an overgrown granary with PTSD.
Great.
With our fiscal foundation barely holding and revenue projections as flat as our terrain, I summoned Franz—now the head of Financial Planning & Treasury Operations—to draft our Economic Diversification Plan.
Just as Franz and I began sketching the fragile beginnings of a sustainable future for Tharros Vale, the door burst open. Ziegler had arrived.
I had recently appointed him as Head of Revenue Collection and Compliance, partly because he had the face of a debt collector and partly because he threatened to collect taxes anyway, title or not.
"Before we continue with this business of savings and schemes," he said, stone-faced, "I must raise a most pressing issue."
My mind raced—tax fraud? Enforcer misconduct? Peasant revolts?
"What EXACTLY do we call ourselves here? I want to sound important. And cool."
Franz nodded solemnly. Karl gave an eager thumbs up. Even Gerhart smiled like a proud father.
I'm surrounded by armed children in adult armor.
"Call yourselves whatever you like," I muttered.
"Excellent! I shall be Second."
"But I wanted to be Second!" Karl whined.
Franz unsheathed his sword. "Trial by combat, then."
Ziegler grinned, lifting a massive, blood-rusted war axe that looked more tetanus than weapon. Karl twirled his ball-and-chain like it was a toy.
My cabinet, ladies and gentlemen. A playground of war criminals. A band of overgrown toddlers fighting over who gets to sit behind the driver.
"INTERRUPTION!!!"
The room froze as if time itself took a gasp.
Ziegler stopped mid-lunge, his war axe inches from Franz's blade. Karl halted the momentum of his flailing ball-and-chain, looking like a startled cat. Even Gerhart blinked, momentarily taken aback by the sheer volume of my voice. Apparently, I could yell louder in this world than I ever did in the old one.
I pointed at them like a disappointed babysitter catching toddlers mid-chaos.
"Ziegler, you are Marshal. Karl, Chancellor. Franz, Steward. Nobody's a Second, or Third, or Fourth or... whatever whimsical ranking you're fighting over!"
Their weapons lowered like scolded children returning crayons. Heads nodded. Feet shuffled. Eyes avoided mine. Everyone lowered their weapons and stood at attention like chastised schoolboys.
Then, under his breath, Ziegler muttered, "So… if Karl is Chancellor, does that mean he handles treaties and pastries?"
Franz didn't blink. "Only if the pastry is weaponized." Then he raised his eyebrows and asked, "Steward? Sounds like a waiter at a five-star tavern."
Karl perked up. "Wait, do we have a tavern? Because if not, I motion we build one immediately."
Then Gerhart raised his hand and waved them about like an attention deficit kindergartener.
"But… Leo? Why are there no Seconds?" he asked, genuinely puzzled. "It's always been that way. First, Second, Third. It's how realms work."
I took a deep breath and tried not to explode again.
"Because, sir…" I walked toward the center of the room, my voice calm but firm. "We. Are. All. Equals."
I paused for effect.
"Our titles don't define our worth, only our responsibilities. You, as Count, are tasked with governing. A farmer grows food. A blacksmith tempers steel. A child learns. A soldier protects. I shout at people until they do things properly. Everyone has a job, and all jobs are part of the same world. Nobody stands above another."
I realized I was pacing now, hands clenched, voice rising.
"This is how we build your utopia, sir. A realm where power doesn't come from birth or blood or sword—but from purpose. From contribution. From the dream that everyone matters."
Silence.
Even Franz, ever-stoic Franz, looked shaken. His knees visibly trembled.
Karl leaned toward Ziegler and whispered, "He's doing the thing again."
Ziegler nodded solemnly. "Yeah. The speech thing."
Then—
Laughter.
Gerhart's laughter.
He burst out in glee like a child hearing the ending of a fairytale he didn't know he needed.
I... blinked. Honestly, I wasn't sure what reaction I expected. But this?
He leapt forward, clasping my shoulder like a comrade in arms. "We'll build this realm together! Equal titles, fair tasks, shared burdens!"
Then he hugged me. A full, lifting hug. My feet briefly left the ground.
"Put me down, Gerhart," I muttered.
Behind him, the overgrown man-babies gave me awkward thumbs-ups. Ziegler sheathed his axe. Franz quietly resheathed his sword, probably ashamed. Karl gave me a big goofy smile while spinning his ball-and-chain like a yo-yo.
Then suddenly, Franz asked, "Even the Beastmen, Leo?"
Beastmen?
Wait—we have Beastmen here too?
The destitute. The forgotten. The broken backs and silent mouths. Those cast aside by systems of power too rigid to see value in the outliers.
Or—seen from my perspective—
A manageable population. One that can be organized. Trained. Uplifted. Turned into a productive force for the good of the realm.
I felt my heart quicken.
This wasn't just a question of morality anymore. This was an opportunity.