Chapter 586: Everyone Can Hear the Divine Edict, Even the

Roland City, the estate of the Devalu family.

To celebrate the completion of renovations on a three-hundred-year-old royal estate on the city's outskirts, a grand ball—destined to be recorded in court history—is underway.

Massive crystal chandeliers hang like inverted glaciers, refracting dazzling light that bathes the entire hall in daylight. Countless noble men and women in opulent attire dance across the floor, their swirling skirts blooming like tulips.

The court orchestra plays an ancient, melodious composition—a hymn praising the Devalu family's glory—its sweet tones drowning out the occasional gust of cold wind outside and masking the heavy sighs of this ancient kingdom.

King Theoden Devalu sits upon a high dais draped in deep crimson velvet, his aged fingers tapping gently along the rhythm of the music against the armrest.

Though burdensome foreign affairs and domestic duties have deepened his aging, the sight of this scene of music and revelry now brings a faint trace of intoxication and satisfaction to his wrinkled face, offering him some solace from his inner turmoil.

This is his kingdom—a knight in his prime, visibly growing stronger still…

Theoden has no doubt that all of this is due to his own wisdom, having brought those worms corroding the kingdom to heel.

Yet—

The "worms" do not see it that way.

At the edge of the dance floor, hidden in shadow, Lord Harnock, the Kingdom's Minister of Finance, struggles through the throng, too preoccupied to admire the prosperity around him.

His face is as pale as freshly painted plaster; cold sweat beads on his forehead, and no matter how many times he wipes it with his handkerchief, it keeps pouring out.

He moves in haste, nearly knocking over a baroness's champagne flute, yet fails to even apologize, striding straight toward the Economic Minister sipping wine in the corner.

Baron Wickton Wesly swirled his wineglass, admiring the amber liquid clinging to the glass's inner walls, pondering his next step in his career.

Seeing Harnock's face as if the sky had fallen, his brow furrowed slightly.

"... Mind your manners, Lord Harnock. This is the royal estate. Our Your Majesty is in high spirits. No matter how urgent your matter, you must not forget elegance."

Though he had already guessed the lord's purpose, he rebuked him anyway, to prevent the man from blurting out everything loudly without discretion.

"I apologize, my lord, but the news I bring may be more grave than spoiling the Your Majesty 's mood…"

Seeing the minister's tightened brow, Harnock recalled some measure of decorum, leaning close to Wickton's ear and whispering in a trembling voice only the two could hear.

"... After this month's settlement, the royal treasury's ledger shows only eighty thousand gold coins remaining."

Wickton's hand trembled involuntarily, spilling a few precious drops of wine onto his crisply pressed sleeve.

"You said how much?"

He stared fixedly into Harnock's eyes, searching for any trace of jest—but found only a bitter smile.

"Eighty thousand, my lord... I can swear my accountants have not miscalculated."

Looking at the unamused Lord Harnock, Wickton drew a deep breath, trying to draw some coolness from the restless air.

Eighty thousand gold coins!

To an ordinary wealthy merchant, this would be a fortune—enough to clear every obstacle to the palace and gain direct audience with the kingdom's master.

And enough for ten such audiences!

Yet for a vast kingdom, this sum barely covers a single quarter's expenses in the capital of Lyon!

"What about silver?" Wickton asked, clinging to his last hope. "Add up all the silver coins and unsmelted bars—we can still scrape together how much?"

Harnock shook his head in despair, shattering the minister's final illusion.

"It's all included, my lord. The figure I just reported already accounts for all liquid assets. And of those eighty thousand gold coins, silver makes up fully seventy percent."

Wickton's pupils contracted slightly.

The Kingdom of Lyon holds the sole right to mint silver coins; gold coins can only be acquired through trade with the Empire—effectively foreign exchange, and also a store of value.

Silver accounting for seventy percent of the treasury is not a good sign.

While the Empire "bleeds" vassal states through gold, the vassals in turn "bleed" the Empire through their "duty-free broad market"—a symbiotic mutual sucking.

Now, with gold reserves nearly exhausted and silver flooding into neighboring states, the kingdom's economy is being crushed under snowfall.

Coupled with the "short-term sweetness" of silver depreciating against gold yet appreciating against copper, this is becoming a bitter pill shared by both commoners and nobles.

"What of the Mint?" Wickton's voice turned sharp. "Can't they find a solution?"

"... My lord, our Mint has never slacked. They've worked tirelessly, but it's like trying to squeeze olive oil from stone or ferment water into wine," Harnock said bitterly. "Unless we instantly discover a silver mine of staggering reserves in the back garden, no amount of effort from the Mint can solve this crisis."

He paused, swallowed hard.

"Unless we debase the silver coinage again—but that requires the Your Majesty 's approval. And... I fear if we debase it further, no one will accept it. Silver is already depreciating against gold, and nobles are clutching their gold tightly. This is not the time to lower silver's purity."

Wickton fell silent.

◆￠o

He knew all the things Harnock had said—and more. Things Harnock did not know, like exactly where the money had gone.

Not fire extinguishers—those cost little, and weren't paid for with the Your Majesty 's money, but with the people's blood and sweat, even counted as income.

What truly tripped up the kingdom's hooves was the "December Coup" in the Duchy of Campbell.

Though the Your Majesty never admitted any connection to that coup, everyone knew where Derek's funds came from.

They weren't donated by serfs—at least not Campbell's serfs.

To support the Campbell nobles, their Your Majesty had poured vast quantities of supplies into the rebels. Yet Edward didn't die—he crushed the rebellion with Leiting force, turning this massive investment into a total loss, without even a sound.

Another hole: the tax shortfall in the Dusk Province, and the Lionheart Knights struggling in that quagmire.

Feeding and maintaining thousands of heavy cavalry is already astronomical. Add greedy local nobles and roving Salvationists blocking supply lines, and the knights were forced to buy supplies locally at triple the price—even purchasing from Campbell merchants.

Those greedy local nobles, corrupt merchants, and stubborn peasants clung to the kingdom's ankles like horseflies, sucking blood beyond reach.

"... The kingdom spends money every day. The Your Majesty 's purse is a leaking wine barrel," Harnock continued, his face etched with worry as he watched his silent superior. "The palace renovations, the knights' pay, these endless banquets—we must increase revenue and cut expenses, or this money won't last long."

And the interest on loans.

Every royal house borrows from nobles and clergy, and repaying loan interest takes up a significant portion of Lyon's fiscal expenditures.

He always felt they should have repaid some of it during times of fiscal surplus, rather than spending it on refurbishing royal estates and further increasing court expenses.

"Give me a number," Wickton said after long silence. "At this rate, how long can we hold out?"

Harnock hesitated.

"I don't know... perhaps six months? If the Lionheart Knights make another major move, or if the Your Majesty decides to build another garden, that time halves again."

Six months.

Wickton felt dizzy, barely holding onto his wineglass, setting it down on the long table beside him.

He couldn't imagine what they'd do if, in six months, they had no money.

He glanced instinctively toward the high dais in the center of the dance floor.

King Theoden smiled, raising his cup to the nobles dancing below, his face glowing with paternal warmth—as if he were the guardian deity of this prosperous land.

Could he walk over now and tell this old man lost in his dream that his kingdom was bankrupt?

Wickton's eyes flickered with struggle.

Though the Wesly family was not illustrious, it had ancient lineage; he had no doubt he was a noble man, like his noble ancestors.

Yet he also knew clearly: if he could not preserve himself, all his political ambitions were empty talk.

If he doused the festivities now, he wouldn't solve the fiscal crisis—he'd lose his position as Economic Minister.

"... I understand."

"Understand? My lord, forgive me, but understanding isn't enough—"

"Shut your mouth, Harnock. Tonight is the Your Majesty 's night. Don't let this stench of copper ruin the royal merriment."

Without allowing further argument, the king's minister wiped the wine stain from his sleeve and clapped the lord's shoulder.

"After the ball, I will report directly to the Your Majesty. For now..."

Wickton gazed at the endlessly spinning dance floor, a deep weariness flashing in his eyes.

"Let the music play a little longer."

…

As the last carriage vanished beyond the end of the kerosene lamps, the noisy ball finally ended, and the estate sank back into the quiet of midnight.

In the king's study, the hearth fire flickered like wild grass by the roadside, stubbornly licking at the charred wood.

Theoden Devalu sat behind a large walnut desk, his wrinkled eyelids drooping, as if he might fall asleep at any moment.

Had not the annoying Baron Wickton disturbed him with word of urgent business, he would already have been asleep under his maid's care.

Now, however, he was forced to sit in a high-backed chair before the hearth, wearing his expensive silk shirt, listening to this tedious man drone on.

Baron Wickton Wesly stood before the desk, trembling hands offering the thin financial report.

The figures on paper were even more shocking than Harnock's oral report—he'd only received this after the ball ended.

The king took the report casually, glancing over it at first as if reading an unimportant menu.

But as his gaze moved downward, his cloudy eyes slowly narrowed, like an eagle awakening from a dream.

"Crack!"

The report was slammed hard onto Wickton's face, pages scattering across the floor.

"Eighty thousand gold coins? Is this your answer?"

Theoden leapt to his feet, sleep vanished from his face, his voice twisted and hoarse with rage, leaving Baron Wickton too terrified to speak.

"The Kingdom of Lyon boasts vast golden plains and tens of millions of hardworking subjects, raised on sturdy dairy cows, feasting on plump berries and potatoes—and you tell me... such a mighty kingdom has only eighty thousand gold coins! Do you think I can't count?!"

The Kingdom of Lyon's population is over twenty million, its territory 1.2 million square kilometers.

Even excluding the war-torn Dusk Province, it still holds nearly 700,000 square kilometers and over ten million "recorded citizens" in its core regions.

With so many people, even if each donated one hundred copper coins, that would total over one hundred thousand gold coins!

How could they possibly not have eighty thousand?

Theoden's arithmetic was sound—but this accounting was clearly wrong. Even ignoring the complex relationship between GDP and taxation, and losses in currency circulation, the eighty thousand gold coins represented the accumulated surplus after income minus expenditures—and that surplus was shrinking.

What he should have focused on were not the eighty thousand coins themselves, but the true deadlines: the dates of default on Geji debts.

But Baron Wickton dared not remind him now—he could only remain silent, head bowed, praying the Your Majesty 's fury would pass quickly.

The king paced the study like an enraged old lion, muttering curses under his breath.

By Saint Sis, this band of traitorous parasites, thieves siphoning the kingdom's wealth—everyone is scheming for my money! And you, Wickton, I just praised you, yet you hand me such a report! Even a pig sitting in your seat couldn't have managed my treasury this badly!

Theoden felt disbelief, but mostly fury at betrayal.

In this kingdom, everyone demanded something from him, calculating their own interests.

By Saint Sis, why is every person in his court a refined selfishness, and is there truly not one selfless good soul?

Where have all the good people gone?

Facing the king's roar, Baron Wickton dropped to one knee, daring neither to defend himself nor to point out the real problem.

If not for repairing this royal estate, if not for that money-losing December Coup, if not for all those unforeseen expenditures… their finances might have been tight, but not this tight.

The Kingdom of Lyne was like a giant tightening his belt, and their belt was a taut harp string, requiring careful control of breath to keep it from snapping.

Yet no one knew who had given Their Majesty this illusion—that in an age where transcendent beings could not act at will, they were the one-in-a-million exception.

But now, talking about this was meaningless.

As an old fox who had spent years crawling through court politics, Wickton knew the truth was never what mattered. If he didn't immediately shift the blame, the king would pin it squarely on his head.

His mind raced.

There were no political enemies left to eliminate—he could only find a more nebulous opponent. It was almost instinct.

"Your Majesty, calm yourself… please, calm down," Wickton raised his head, his face filled with loyalty and dread. "Undoubtedly, someone has stolen your money—but I believe it is not any one individual, but rather a massive flaw in our… 'revenue structure.'"

He carefully chose his meticulously crafted terminology, appending an incomprehensible phrase after a word the king could understand.

Theoden's eyes narrowed, and his anger slightly subsided.

Revenue?

It sounded interesting. He decided to hear out his minister's explanation.

Seeing the king stop pacing, Baron Wickton swallowed hard and began laying the groundwork for his carefully prepared strategy.

"In our kingdom, the clergy hold the most land and wealth. They are the first estate, occupying the most fertile church lands, reaping the offerings of believers, yet answerable only to the gods above—not a single copper coin of tax to you. Worse, they even tax your commoners! This is utterly unreasonable!"

"Next come the nobles. They are the second estate, possessing fiefs and privileges, yet when it comes to taxes, they delay and evade. Every war demands you lavish gold to keep them loyal, and they even demand interest on loans from you! They are like dragons hoarding treasure—only taking, never giving. This is precisely why our silver coins depreciate against gold!"

"Finally, our sole source of tax revenue—the cunning commoners and merchants. They are no better. These fools would rather hide their coins in wall cracks than spend them to feed the soldiers who protect them."

Wickton wore an expression of heartbroken anguish—and it wasn't entirely feigned. Undoubtedly, he truly loved this kingdom; his family's honor was bound with the Devalu house.

Otherwise, he would never have genuinely devised strategies for his king.

"But Your Majesty, with natural disasters and years of war, compounded by Cengcengboxue from every level of lordship, this sheep has been completely shorn. Even if we threw them into an oil press, not a drop of oil would come out. We must find a way to make the nobles and clergy shoulder their forgotten duties."

Theoden sat back down, his anger lessened, replaced by eyes that flickered with uncertainty.

Wickton was right.

It was like he had raised a herd of fat pigs, yet bound by some ancient rule, he could only watch them grow fat—never tasting a single bite.

"Baron Wickton, my minister, it seems I misjudged you. As you say, we have too many villains around us… do you have any good ideas?"

"Of course I do!"

Baron Wickton lifted his head, eyes gleaming with dangerous cunning, lowering his voice to continue.

"Ancient pacts limit the taxes we can extract from the nobles. If we forcibly seize, we'll be branded tyrants. But if we levy taxes for the kingdom's survival, I believe they'll oppose, yet won't dare let their greatest 'debtor' go bankrupt."

Theoden's face lit with interest; he leaned forward slightly from his chair.

"You mean?"

Wickton revealed his dagger, presenting his carefully prepared "middle strategy."

"I propose you issue a decree, unprecedentedly summoning representatives from all three estates to your castle for a meeting! We will make the commoners understand how much they've sacrificed for our kingdom, then use their fury to pressure the nobles and clergy—make the first and second estates realize how much they owe us! Then we will renegotiate our tax system, squeezing gold from the hands of nobles and clergy!"

Theoden froze.

He mentally simulated the plan—and the more he thought, the more brilliant it seemed, almost identical to his maneuver in Dusk Province.

Leveraging others' strength was precisely what he excelled at!

Making the lofty clergy and nobles publicly Taoqian for their honor before the kingdom's subjects—could there be anything more exquisite?

If they refuse, they betray the crown. If they agree, the treasury crisis vanishes!

It was a genius idea!

The king's face broke into a satisfied smile; his cloudy eyes reignited with light, as if stepping into his comfort zone.

"Excellent, Baron Wickton. I knew there were still good people among my subjects—they merely needed a chance to prove their loyalty."

Baron Wickton, kneeling on one knee, bowed respectfully, right hand pressed to his chest.

"To serve you is my honor…"

The king nodded approvingly, tapping his finger lightly on the table, then spoke after brief thought.

"I think you should preside over this… hmm, 'Three Estates Assembly.' What do you think of the name?"

Baron Wickton was unsurprised—the king would inevitably hand him this difficult task, after all, His Majesty had done this before.

But this time was different. The fire wasn't in the slums—it was in the kingdom's treasury. He believed, for the sake of gold, the king wouldn't let him fight alone.

"I think… this name is simply brilliant."

…

Unlike the quiet suburbs of Roland City, the night in Lyne City's new industrial district was always shrouded in the stench of boiler water and cheap alcohol.

Inside a cheap tavern named "Hammer and Mug," the noise nearly tore off the low roof.

Old Abel the "Shoe-Dropper" huddled beside a table with one broken leg, Mianqian only a cup of free water.

A few months ago, such a pauper who only occupied a seat without spending would have been thrown out like trash.

At the very least, the staff would have harassed him repeatedly.

But today, the tavern's notoriously snobbish owner showed rare gentlemanly grace—not only did he not evict him, he personally ordered the waiter to refill Abel's water—

"Let this gentleman stay. Everyone has hard times. I believe when he emerges from his low point, he'll remember to come drink here."

Those were the owner's exact words.

And he said them, of course, not because he was a good man.

Old Abel knew well—these Lyne City citizens never truly respected peasants like him; the man was hypocritical through and through.

Yet times had changed. This fellow had been dragged into the Duke's council chamber by a crowd of drunkards, now sitting at the council table sipping tea and smoking cigars. Overnight, yesterday's mud-stained peasants had become respectable folk, suddenly caring for their cloaks.

Though Abel found it blasphemous—what right did a beer seller have to be a councilman? Did he have even a drop of holy blood in his veins?

Even Baron Geth was better!

At least his servants could whip silver-pine villagers like spinning tops with a single lash. What did a tavern owner know besides selling beer?

Yet Abel didn't refuse this false kindness. He wasn't short of money for beer—he had four children to feed, his entire family depended on his wages, every copper had to be split in half.

Sitting in the beer hall listening to the workers' boasts was one of his few pleasures—he'd done the same back in Silverpine Village.

There, the owner was truly kind. He wouldn't pour Abel a cup of water, but never looked down on him from the bottom of his heart.

Because they lived in the same village, neighbors who saw each other daily.

Gazing at the wooden cup full of water, listening to the incomprehensible shouts, Old Abel sighed, mourning the lost golden days.

If the steam engine hadn't devoured the fields beyond Silverpine Village, if Lord Geth hadn't suddenly turned farmland into pasture, last winter he might have had another child, adding a little hope to his small family.

No other reason.

A hand had five fingers—he felt he should have five children. Only then would this miserable life be complete.

What if the fifth child was a genius?

Then he'd win the lottery!

Everyone was drunk, but sober Old Abel had drunk only water.

Even the most merciful god couldn't bless every faithful believer—he was clearly the one Saint Sis had overlooked.

A sudden urge to urinate rose in him. As he pondered whether to leave, a cry came from the tavern's corner.

"Hey, look at this! It's insane!"

"What? Has the King of Lyne done another stupid thing?"

"No, it's not about our neighbor! It's about Lyne City University—they say there's new progress!" A worker with coal dust on his head jabbed a crumpled paper, spitting excitedly, "It says Lyne City University doesn't care about birth or bloodline—just pass the entrance exam, and you can study!"

It was Lyne City University's admission notice, torn from some newspaper.

Old Abel couldn't read, but he'd heard of this—workers at the factory had already discussed it during the day.

"What's the point of studying?" muttered a gaunt laborer bitterly. "We can't eat if we don't work. Are we supposed to beg while attending lectures? Years without wages—our whole family will starve!"

A chorus of sighs echoed through the tavern.

For them, leaving work to study was unimaginable luxury—this university sounded more like a pastime for young masters.

"That just shows your ignorance, old friend."

The foreman at the next table grinned smugly, as if the school were his own. "Duke Edward and the unfathomable Prince Colin already considered this. I read it clearly in the paper—Lyne City University will institute a 'scholarship' system!"

The laborer blinked, then asked instinctively.

"What's that?"

The foreman replied.

"Something that lets your child study without working! If your child's truly gifted, tuition is free—and they get a monthly stipend!"

The tavern erupted. People exchanged disbelieving glances, as if seeing ghosts.

Studying and getting paid?

Such a thing existed?

"Bullshit!" the laborer blurted. "I don't doubt the king's wisdom, but what's in it for him?"

"That's not your concern. I trust His Majesty has his reasons! Besides, the money isn't all from the Duke—he's called on the city's gentry to donate, endowing scholarships with their family names—"

"Pfft! Who'd waste money on this?"

"You wouldn't—you're a pauper. Poverty limits your imagination. How much does it cost to educate a few students? It's free advertising! A perfect chance to openly buy the loyalty of parents with children. If I were the Andes family, I wouldn't hesitate to spend a few coins!"

The argument turned into a quarrel.

Old Abel's heart jolted as he listened, entranced; just moments ago he had been stunned by the duke's generosity, but now, hearing these words, he snapped back to reality—he had once again been tricked by a villain.

For a single second, he had actually thought that if such a generous gentleman truly existed, he would vote for him someday if given the chance.

Saint Cis above, how vile these profit-driven devils are!

In this corrupt age, is there not a single selfless good soul?

His Majesty Theoden, whose glory was unmatched, did not know that on this obscure night, he had somehow resonated with an old farmer from Campbell.

Though for entirely unrelated reasons, their minds had aligned.

At that moment, someone scratched his head and asked.

"So… what do they teach at this school?"

Someone quickly answered with a laugh.

"They teach a lot!"

"I heard they teach not only those unattainable magics, but also 'Magic Theory,' 'Engineering,' 'Arithmetic,' 'Alchemy,' along with poetry and art… that's all I remember."

Hearing this, Old Abel's heart leapt again.

He knew nothing of magic, nor did he expect a noble soul to be reborn in his family as the fifth child of the "Shoe-Dropper."

Yet the word "Arithmetic" shone like a light upon his barren soul.

Not because he understood it, but because he had heard that a fellow at the Horace Textile Mill named Elsie had risen from bookkeeper to factory manager simply by calculating faster than anyone else!

Old Abel was a simple man, but he had his own shrewdness.

Though he could not fathom the intricate politics and social maneuvering within the factory's management, he still grasped simple, clear truths—

Arithmetic meant accounting, and accounting meant factory manager!

If his child could master this skill, wouldn't he never again have to bow and scrape before a foreman for a few pitiful silver pounds?

Old Abel suddenly realized.

If he had a son who became a factory manager, wouldn't that be worth ten sons?!

Investing in education… seemed far more sensible than having more children.

The tavern's discussion grew louder, but the topic soon shifted from the University of Lei Ming City back to more stirring subjects.

Not everyone had a family; among those who wasted their nights in taverns, most were still bachelors.

Yet though they quickly changed the subject, some hearts remained agitated—like Old Abel, sitting in the corner of the bar.

He drained his glass of cold water, yet a restless fire burned in his chest.

Saint Cis above, even these ragged, patched-up fellows were discussing the future of Lei Ming City—perhaps the "Shoe-Dropper" of Silver Pine Town ought to make some changes too.

For instance—

Adopting a respectable "surname," like the fashionable citizens of Lei Ming City?

After all, his child would be a future factory manager, and would someday need to fill out scholarship applications—he couldn't let others look down on him even before he stepped into university.

Old Abel felt that Saint Cis had not truly abandoned this unlucky wretch—he had indeed granted him guidance in his moment of confusion…

(End of Chapter)