Chapter 611

In Roland City, at the only fire company's office, Newcas sat at his desk flipping through the Roland City newspaper.

His patron, Minister Wickton, had finally solved the baker's problem of not being able to afford flour—though now the pressure had shifted to the millers.

This kitchen knife was cutting deeper and deeper, gradually reaching the edge of the plate.

Beyond this point, even Baron Wickton couldn't touch it—he truly feared this six-armed minister might slice off his own fingers.

Probably… not that far.

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

He turned a page of the newspaper without looking up.

"Come in."

The door opened, and in walked his assistant, energetic Ryan.

This usually clumsy young man was different today—he had combed his hair neatly and sat with his back rigidly straight.

"Sir, I've brought your letter."

"Just leave it on the cabinet."

"Got it. Uh… there's one more thing."

"Hmm?"

"You asked me to find answers in the black market—I think…" Ryan set down the documents, scratched his head, and blushed, "I might've found them."

At those words, Newcas's heart jolted; he involuntarily lifted his head and fixed his gaze on his assistant.

"What… answers?"

Fear and anticipation stirred in him, but mostly confusion and blankness—truthfully, it had been so long he'd nearly forgotten.

Yet Ryan clearly took it seriously. He stared solemnly at his boss and recounted in detail what he'd witnessed that afternoon in Roland City.

"We have too many devils among us. That girl… she was selling her body in an alley. No wonder I always felt Saint Sis was punishing us."

Newcas stared at Ryan, until he confirmed the young man was serious.

He felt both relief and a strange mix of amusement and bewilderment—unable to tell whether to laugh or cry.

There were simply too many absurdities.

Perhaps this was one of Theoden's talents—he taught Roland City's citizens to laugh at funerals and cry at weddings, successfully confusing the audience into forgetting who was the actor.

And Newcas grew even more pessimistic about Bar's republic.

Though the stonemason lacked education, he and his coworkers clearly knew what they lacked—and how to make up for it.

They'd even found a priest with a conscience—no matter what the man might be doing, at least he hadn't betrayed those poor fellows.

But this Ryan, educated at a church school, had completed a logical loop in a fantasy world.

It was like… madness.

"Alright, I'm glad you found an answer, though I doubt our Saint Sis is that idle… anything else?"

Ryan scratched his head again, blushing.

"Uh… could you pay my salary next month in silver pounds?"

Last night, that girl had given herself to him for free, then poured out her heart—telling him she was forced into it; her parents were sick, her brother was a gambler, and her younger brother wanted to attend church school.

Ryan immediately broke down. He felt as a knight, he ought to do something—even if only to save one person.

The tragedy of a confused mind lies precisely here.

One moment he could clearly see the devil walking down the alley; the next, he surrendered his head, mistaking the devil for a fallen angel.

Not to deceive this fool would make even a liar feel ashamed of his profession.

"No problem."

Newcas no longer cared to inquire—he agreed to Ryan's request in a single second. So much so that Ryan found it unbelievable, muttering two thanks before leaving.

Newcas leaned back in his chair, pressing his index finger against his brow, temporarily suppressing his sympathy for the Leins, and decided to focus on work.

Though the Leins were earnestly humorous, he couldn't truly risk his life playing along with them…

…

Effective immediately, all millers in Roland City must adhere to royal price guidelines for flour; private price hikes are strictly prohibited.

—Roland City Times

At Granston Castle's town hall, before municipal staff officially moved in, the royal summer hunt continued.

Such large-scale events typically last half a month; only a week had passed.

Those who could hunt had gone to the royal grounds; those who couldn't, after embarrassing themselves in the first two days, usually waited in the estate for hunters to return with game—and for the "Hunt Banquet" to begin.

That was the true arena of fame and fortune—everyone had rehearsed their speeches, preparing separate sets for Their Majesty and the Prince.

Horace was no exception.

While killing time before the banquet, he discovered one thing cheaper here than in Leiming City: newspapers from Roland City.

The price difference was nearly double!

Yet more astonishing than the staggering price gap was the content of the newspaper.

"Saint Sis above…"

He admitted his vision was narrow—he'd once blasphemously considered advising the Lein monarch to fire this man and save a salary.

Now he believed the genius behind this idea must be a man of the Duke's!

If so, not only must this genius not be fired—he must be given a separate salary account on Queen Street.

Otherwise, he wouldn't deserve his genius!

Horace wasn't the only one who couldn't hunt.

Several other newly rich country bumpkins sat in the garden, sipping tea, reading newspapers, and chatting while holding unlit cigars.

"Saint Sis above… has their monarch gone mad?"

"No—he must have a sage behind him! Only recently did I realize: the Lein Kingdom's economic backbone is the manor; the millers dependent on manor lords are the wealthiest class."

"Class… that term sounds so fresh. I think I saw it in an encyclopedia."

"I read it there too—and that word gave me the idea! If we force millers to take on royal debt, we can squeeze out even more profit."

"Huh… but what if the millers get squeezed dry too?"

"That's the problem—the bread supply chain is too short. Between the baker and the noble lies only the miller, who, dependent on nobles, probably doesn't understand investment—only hoarding. If the millers are bled dry, the snake will bite its own tail."

"And then?"

Watching his friend think deeply, the man in the hat replied with a teasing tone.

"No one knows what tomorrow holds. I've never seen a snake bold enough to bite its own tail, nor one that starved itself to death… perhaps Saint Sis will send angels to help them—they always claim to be the purest."

"Hah!"

These factory owners didn't realize their conversation echoed Adam Smith's critique of the "Bread Act" in The Wealth of Nations—in another world.

And the transmission of debt pressure along the economic chain mirrored David Ricardo's "theory of rent" and class transmission in On the Principles of Political Economy and Taxation.

The Campbell Duchy had no scholars yet who had distilled these insights from history—everyone was still in the midst of history, holding newspapers printed only days ago.

Yet like monkeys who learned to throw stones, these shrewd industrialists instantly used their experience and limited theory to pierce through the fog before them.

If Baron Wickton planned to cut their grass, they could at least see where the knife had cut—and how long before it reached them.

This was the power of knowledge and logic.

Listening to the factory owners' grand talk, Horace's face was filled with astonishment—he suddenly realized how far behind he'd fallen.

When had these guys become so cultured?

Though he'd never liked reading, perhaps he should buy an encyclopedia and study its contents…

…

Near Granston's new town hall, an ancient oak forest stood lush and dense, its thick canopy casting dappled sunlight across the afternoon ground.

Two horses rode side by side along a forest path, their hooves sinking silently into the soft humus.

Occasional birdcalls broke the forest's silence, yet didn't disturb the two hunters' search.

Riding the hunting trail, Duke Edward carried no traditional bow—instead, he held a long, modern rifle.

The stock was crafted from premium walnut, repeatedly soaked and polished in tung oil, glowing with a warm reddish sheen, sharply contrasting the cold barrel.

Beside him, Luo Yan held an identical weapon.

It was the latest masterpiece from Punk Armory, named by Luo Yan the "Luo Ke 1054 Rifle."

Honestly, he just didn't feel like naming it.

Suddenly, Edward pulled his reins—he'd heard movement in the forest.

Luo Yan followed his gaze: thirty meters away, a gray-brown hare peered cautiously from a thicket, utterly unaware of death's approach.

Three hundred meters.

For traditional smoothbore muskets, this was a distance of pure chance—by the time the "Brownian-motion" bullet arrived, it would've strayed far beyond the target.

Yet Edward didn't hesitate.

He raised the rifle smoothly, pressed the stock firmly into his shoulder, and pulled the trigger without pause.

Bang—!

A cloud of white smoke erupted from the muzzle, startling birds into flight.

Almost simultaneously, the hare shuddered violently and collapsed motionless into the grass.

"Fine gun!"

Edward didn't rush to retrieve the kill—he lovingly caressed the still-warm barrel, especially the intricate bolt mechanism.