Chapter 608: And the King, While Stabbing the Dagger Into His Own Chest

The lower district of Roland City, capital of the Kingdom of Leyne.

Inside a café named Copper Kettle, the air was thick as stagnant water.

Smoke from cheap tobacco swirled beneath the low ceiling, mingling with the smell of overboiled coffee grounds, making anyone who breathed it frown.

This place was meant to be a retreat for citizens, yet the atmosphere now was unbearably oppressive.

A few citizens, dressed relatively well, sat around.

Newcas judged them "respectable" precisely because each had, at least, a cup of overboiled coffee on their table.

Newcas sat beside a wobbly table in the corner, took out his pocket watch for the third time, then glanced around once more.

"Saint Cis above… can't these bastards be on time?" he grumbled inwardly, then relented, remembering their workshop likely had no clock.

"Boss, I really need a raise."

A muffled, anxious voice came from behind the counter.

Newcas tilted his head slightly and saw the young waiter gripping a filthy rag, glaring resentfully at the shopkeeper as he balanced the accounts.

"Do you know how much a loaf of black bread costs now? Twenty copper coins! Saint Cis above, after an hour of hard work, I can't even afford a cup of coffee I brewed myself, let alone a single loaf!"

"Then go back to work!"

The fat shopkeeper didn't look up, his plump fingers scribbling furiously across the ledger.

"If you think you're underpaid, leave. There are plenty of beggars lining up for this job. If you work hard enough and please the customers, they'll tip you. Don't complain to me—my coffee beans' price went up too!"

The waiter opened his mouth, then bit back his resentment and scrubbed the counter with violent force, as if it were the shopkeeper's greasy head.

Newcas turned his gaze away, but even when he tried to ignore it, the grating voice found its way to him.

"Our treasury is like a wine barrel with a hole in it…"

A low whisper from the next table slipped into Newcas's ears.

Three men in worn wool coats sat there—likely down-on-their-luck clerks or schoolteachers.

One of them, bearded and grim, lowered his voice, his face etched with clear discontent.

"Every drop of tax money that falls in vanishes without a sound, yet three drops of debt leak out."

"That's almost miraculous."

Another man adjusted his spectacles, his tone laced with sarcasm.

"After all, our great Baron Wickton invented a perpetual oil press—so long as our baron keeps cranking out copper coins, our kingdom will keep spinning forever."

It sounded like self-deprecating humor.

But the third man's emotional intelligence was abysmal—like Miss Ma Rui, born without any sense of irony—and his blunt question instantly killed the mood.

"Then what's the fuel?"

The air fell silent.

The three exchanged glances in silence, then the first speaker shrugged and replied uncertainly.

"Maybe… us?"

Newcas, who had been intently eavesdropping, nearly laughed out loud. The Leynese were seriously joking again—even if the joke was a hellish one.

Fortunately, the three men themselves laughed, unaware of the strange expression on the gentleman beside them.

But even if they had noticed, they probably wouldn't have cared.

As he had judged, Roland City had become a powder keg shackled in irons—and the irons were burning hot.

Everyone waited for the fuse to burn out, encouraging the flames in alleyways and corners.

At that moment, the waiter who had been scolded stomped over, slamming a pot of refilled coffee onto the table, splashing liquid across the surface.

His motion carried the weight of daily grievances, though he himself didn't realize it.

In the past, Newcas might have cracked a joke to cheer him—like, "Hey, buddy, my black coffee ended up on your face?"

But now, he said nothing. Instead, in the softest voice, he murmured, "Thank you," though the waiter had already turned away and didn't hear.

Just then, the café's wooden door, hung with bells, swung open, letting in a gust of air thick with lime dust.

Stonemason Barl entered, dusty and weary, wrapped in an ill-fitting coat and wearing a low-crowned cap.

Seeing this clearly destitute man, the shopkeeper behind the counter frowned, staring at him until he sat across from a respectable gentleman, then returned to his ledger, still unable to balance the books.

"You finally showed up…" Newcas glanced at his clothes and whispered, "Next time, let's meet at the beer hall."

"I'm sorry for the trouble," Barl said, his face tense and quiet.

"It's fine."

Newcas shook his head and set down his coffee cup.

Since the two reckless fools had broken into his apartment, he had moved their meeting place here for safety.

But now it seemed these people lacked not only punctuality but even the most basic decency in attire.

Originally, they had agreed to communicate by letter—but Newcas had reluctantly realized that writing was harder for Barl than climbing to heaven.

They weren't completely illiterate—they could read the Encyclopedia, after all.

But language wasn't just about writing. Some could explain ten things in one sentence; Barl, even after ten sentences, couldn't clarify one—and sometimes his right brain dragged his left along with it.

That wasn't the worst part.

Worse was their complete lack of awareness about how dangerous their actions were. To save a postage stamp, they always insisted on delivering letters in person.

Saint Cis above—if Miss Ma Rui saw him, she might believe they were construction workers. But if Sir Skedgin, a commoner himself, found out, they'd be finished!

Speaking of Sir Skedgin—he was a curious fellow.

Ever since he learned Newcas and Miss Ma Rui were close, he kept dropping by unannounced, always "forgetting" valuable items at his place.

Sometimes Newcas couldn't tell who was really paying whom in this firefighting business—couldn't they just split the profits by contract?

He should've hired a local to do his job from the start!

Newcas didn't know that, by accident, he had discovered the "scientific method," and then unintentionally grasped the essence of "multinational enterprise."

But Stonemason Barl didn't care about any of that. He and his fellow stonemasons cared only about saving their homes.

"Did you bring it…?"

Barl lowered his voice, his weathered face filled with tension and hope, his hands nervously rubbing beneath the tablecloth.

The bookstore where they had bought the Encyclopedia had been sealed by the Royal Guard, along with newspapers from Leyming City and other publications.

Once, they occasionally saw Leyming's newspapers; now, even fishmongers dared not use them to wrap goods.

Newcas was Barl's only channel—only this powerful Campbell merchant could bring the voice of "Republic."

Unfortunately, Newcas had no idea what Barl was thinking—or he'd have laughed and cried at once.

Powerful…

Well, given that Sir Skedgin was the highest-ranking person these stonemasons had ever met, it wasn't entirely wrong.

Newcas glanced left and right, confirmed no one was watching, then, like a thief, unbuttoned his coat and pulled out several books tightly wrapped in copies of the Roland City Times.

They were abridged editions of the Encyclopedia, their covers deliberately worn, looking like ordinary ledgers.

"Take them."

He shoved the books into Barl's arms and muttered,

"Don't ever get me into this kind of trouble again… Saint Cis above, I tell you, this stuff is useless to you."

"How can it be useless, sir?" Barl clutched the books tightly, defending their Professor Ferguson, "Only by understanding what feudalism is can we find the republic we long for!"

Ha…

Newcas sipped his coffee, studied the man reeking of plaster dust, and said nothing.

He held no contempt for them—but clearly, they had read the Encyclopedia only at face value.

Still, perhaps Barl was right—it wasn't entirely useless. After all… if you measure carefully with a ruler, you'll always find two legs are unequal.

He had tested it yesterday. It was true.

But Newcas couldn't help thinking of what had happened in Dusk Province—a group of fools who didn't even know what Holy Light was, inventing a child called the "Son of God" for Saint Cis.

"You're right, Mr. Barl. I retract my last words. I apologize." He set down his cup, mindful of the man's feelings.

What if they won?

Though he didn't know who ran this casino, he knew his chips had to be in it…

Who knew? It might save his life.

"You don't need to apologize! We're the ones who should thank you, Mr. Newcas! By the way, we recently found a sympathetic priest who taught us… wait, don't leave yet! He's a good man, really! And at least take the money!"

As Newcas rose to leave, Barl grabbed his arm and frantically fished into his pocket, pulling out a grimy silver coin.

The coin was stained with dirt and sweat, its edges worn smooth, unmistakably the infamous "Leyne Iron."

"This is payment for the books… I heard the Leyming Encyclopedia costs one silver pound. I know you don't need this, but it's our token of gratitude! We can't let you fund our cause out of your own pocket!"

Barl shoved the coin into Newcas's palm, speaking in a restrained tone.

Newcas stared at the low-grade "silver coin," forcing down his fear, reluctantly sitting back down, glancing around.

Seeing no one was watching, he exhaled and, face stern, pushed the coin back into Barl's hand.

"Listen, Barl—I'm not doing this for money, and I don't need any repayment. This is for my… conscience."

The Encyclopedia cost one silver pound. One silver coin couldn't buy it.

The "Leyne Iron" and the silver pound no longer had an official exchange rate—even Leyne merchants avoided collecting those crude iron pieces. They'd rather carry goods farther, spend more time, and trade for coins with higher silver content.

And…

The risk he bore was far greater than this.

Seeing Newcas refuse his money, Barl grew frantic, stubbornly trying to push the coin back.

"Sir, I know you're a merchant—you don't need our pittance. But this represents our gratitude. We can't take advantage of a friend!"

"Then consider it my gift—or… Newcas's investment. Enough. If you must, call it a loan!"

Newcas blocked his hand again, this time with a bit more force. Though his strength couldn't match Bahr's, he made his resolve clear.

"But—"

"No more 'buts.' I don't want anyone thinking there's something between us. Don't forget this is a public place!"

Bahr froze, clearly not understanding the Camberian's humor.

But seeing how firmly this gentleman stood his ground, he could only awkwardly retract the silver coin, lest attention gather on them both.

"Then… I'll thank you on behalf of my fellow workers!"

He stood, bowed deeply to Newcas with profuse thanks, then clutched the book tightly to his chest and hurried out of the café, vanishing into the dim streets of the Lower District.

Newcas watched his retreating back, sighed helplessly, drained the last sip of coffee, and left a few copper coins as tip on the table.

"Absolutely mad."

…

"……Absolutely mad."

In the central district of the same city, in the Office of the Economic Minister, Baron Wickton finished reading the newspaper and muttered an oath under his breath.

At that moment, the paper in his hand was the *Thundering City Daily*, its headline a news item from several days prior—

【Andes Bank, in conjunction with multiple banks along Queen Street and the Camberian Royal Mint, has jointly established the "Central Bank" to issue copper pounds as a stable subsidiary currency to the silver pound!】

Though the king's capable advisors had recognized the corrosion spreading from the lower reaches of the Flowing River and deployed troops to block all written materials from that region, for a man of his own caliber, obtaining a few torn newspapers was no great feat.

And so, Baron Wickton was the first to feel the bone-chilling cold creeping upstream along the Flowing River.

Though the article mentioned not a single word about Duke Edward's plan to strip the minor nobles of their minting rights, Wickton, as an economic expert, sensed the chilling implication from just one phrase: "issuing copper pounds as a subsidiary currency."

The Andes Bank, which had previously issued silver pounds to undermine silver coinage, now aimed its gun another inch downward—at the nobles' copper coins!

They no longer permit nobles to freely plunder the sweat of commoners!

Then what will everyone eat?!

Baron Wickton felt an unprecedented level of difficulty.

Clearly, Duke Edward had a true master at his side, directing Camberians to build a dam across the flood zone of the Kingdom of Rayne.

Was it Prince Corin?

Or Sak Windrider from the ancient Kingdom of Gutauf?

Or perhaps… Jan Andes himself?

He felt lost in a fog; his past experience was no longer enough to solve this dire problem, and everyone behind him waited for him to act swiftly.

At that moment, a knock came at the office door.

He set down the newspaper and called out.

"Enter."

The door opened, and in walked Sir Hanock, the Director of Finance.

In his arms he carried a thick stack of documents; his face, usually clouded with worry, now held a faint flush, though the swelling beneath it was still plainly visible.

He had either drunk too much last night or hadn't slept at all.

"My lord, here is the spring financial report."

Hanock placed the documents on the desk, wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, and reported in hurried tones.

"Thanks to the progress you achieved in the Third Council, the king's treasury will now last until next June. Though the problem isn't solved, at least there's a turning point… perhaps things will improve by then."

He spoke as lightly as he could, highlighting the baron's achievements, yet could not hide the faint unease in his brow.

Wickton opened the report and carefully studied every punctuation mark.

The deficit on paper was shrinking at an astonishing rate; the massive debts that had once crushed the kingdom had, in just three months, miraculously evaporated by a third—especially copper coin debts, which had shrunk by half!

The reason was simple: copper coin debts were citizens' debts—IOUs written by the royal steward to tavern owners. Though they would eventually be repaid, strictly speaking, they weren't true debts.

They were more like a tax collected by nobles through the "hand of time."

This brilliant idea had sprung from Baron Wickton's mind in desperation, pushed into a corner by the nobles.

If the king hadn't pressured him, he never would've known he was so capable.

Simply lowering the king's baseline slightly, mobilizing nobles to ramp up copper coin production, would cause copper coins to rapidly devalue against silver—so that one silver coin in a noble's hand could buy twice as much, while one gold coin in the king's hand could buy three or even four times as much!

Silver coin debts could be resolved through deals with the nobles.

For instance, if the king lowered copper coin standards and permitted nobles to plunder citizens of Roland City, the nobles wouldn't mind surrendering some debt interest in exchange.

For both nobles and the king, this was clearly a win-win. As for who would pay for this feast, the answer wasn't hard to guess.

Since ancient times, the audience has always paid for the performance.

But Baron Wickton knew this came at a cost. After the trial of the "Winter Fire," it was time to test the people of Rayne's tolerance for hunger.

As expected, Sir Hanock, standing before the desk, twisted his hands nervously; the excitement in his voice faded.

In its place came unmistakable tension.

"My lord… though the most severe crisis has been resolved, I must warn you—we may have planted an even greater danger."

Wickton clearly guessed what he was about to say. He didn't look up, merely flipped through the documents and cut straight to the point.

"How much for a loaf of bread?"

"Twenty copper coins…"

"I asked for black bread, not the one you ate this morning."

"I'm talking about black bread—the cheapest kind, sir. I worried my servant was lying to me, so I went to the market myself this morning. I can vouch for you: a one-kilogram loaf of black bread costs twenty copper coins! But tomorrow it might be more, since all other bread is rising in price. Soon, everyone but us will have to eat that stuff."

Wickton's turning finger froze; his chest tightened sharply.

Twenty copper coins!

Even in famine years, this price was enough to shock the heart. Just three months ago, it had never exceeded ten!

The farmland of the Kingdom of Rayne had not declined in yield.

Yet famine had struck.

The peasants hadn't slacked off; merchants hadn't hoarded; river barges hadn't decreased. Yet citizens couldn't afford it…

What was going wrong?!

Even if copper coins contained no copper at all, they were still metal, weren't they?!

Baron Wickton removed his spectacles from his nose, picked up the cleaning cloth, and wiped them again and again, trying to calm himself and think clearly.