Over the next three days, with the backing of Knight King Ryan, Vladimir, the acting mayor of Erengrad, faced no meaningful opposition in the public referendum. Winning a landslide victory with 87% of the vote, he was officially instated as the Grand Duke and Mayor of Erengrad.
Placing his hand on the Kislevite legal codex, Vladimir took his oath of office on stage. Addressing the crowd, he proclaimed, "Give me twenty years, and I'll give you a miraculous Kislev."
Effectively, this made him a de facto lifetime ruler.
Once in power, Vladimir wasted no time and made sweeping changes. His first order of business was to overhaul the bureaucratic system with Ryan's assistance. He dismissed all surviving members of the old Duma and the remaining bureaucrats from Erengrad's previous administration. Announcing a complete restructuring of the bureaucratic system, Vladimir took the opportunity to elevate previously overlooked lower-level technocrats, junior officers, and capable civilians into positions of power. A new Duma assembly was formed, the once-bloated and inefficient bureaucracy was streamlined, and the system became leaner but far more effective. Those among the old officials who were deemed competent after thorough vetting were reinstated, while others were retired.
His second initiative was to reorganize the Shiravik faction. Declaring a national policy of land acquisition, Vladimir cracked down on factionalism within the military. With Ryan's support, the Shiravik faction underwent a thorough purge, promoting officers and boyars who had shown bravery and loyalty during the defense of Erengrad and the Bagration Campaign. Those deemed incompetent were summarily removed.
The boyars celebrated with exuberant Kossar dances. A new golden era had arrived.
The third step was formalizing a loan agreement and a free trade treaty with the Kingdom of Bretonnia and Nuln. The contracts were signed in the presence of three deities: Ursun, Verena the Just, and the Lady of the Lake.
With these reforms, the city experienced a rapid transformation, seemingly reborn overnight.
Meanwhile, efforts to clear the Chaos remnants in the Grovod Forest continued. The Imperial generals from Nuln and Marshal Earlstein had meticulously prepared artillery support plans, ready for any resistance. The Old Guard and Nuln Ironclad troops were also primed for battle.
Yet, the cleanup operation proceeded without major incidents. The human coalition faced minimal resistance as the Chaos forces were systematically eradicated from the vicinity of Erengrad. As spring approached, the weather began to warm, signaling that it was time for Ryan to prepare his troops for withdrawal.
That afternoon in Erengrad, Ryan strolled through the city alongside Talleyrand.
"I've always hated dealing with bureaucrats," Ryan remarked casually. "But I hate the post-war cleanup even more. Still, I know that wars aren't fought in isolation. Often, what happens after the war is even more important than the battles themselves."
Ryan was acutely aware that war was an extension of politics. Take Julius Caesar and Napoleon Bonaparte as examples.
In terms of military command and tactical skill, Caesar was clearly inferior to Napoleon. Caesar made numerous mistakes during the Gallic Wars and the subsequent Roman Civil War. Napoleon, on the other hand, never faltered in tactical execution. Yet, their fates were vastly different.
Caesar turned every victory into political capital, using his military successes to amass wealth, diplomatic leverage, and political power, eventually ruling all of Rome. Napoleon, despite his continuous military triumphs, became increasingly isolated due to his overinflated ambitions and poor diplomacy. His First French Empire ended up as the enemy of all Europe—a single nation pitted against an entire continent.
Talleyrand chuckled softly, leaning on his cane. The early April air in Erengrad was slightly warmer, but the ground remained frozen solid. The elf deliberately slowed his pace to match Ryan's. "Your Majesty, bureaucracies are indeed tedious. But this system is the culmination of thousands of years of societal evolution—it's the best method we've found to govern an orderly society. What's the alternative? Feudalism? Tribal slavery? Or perhaps a return to brute force and savagery? If you think about it, undead governance is the most efficient. Everyone is a tool, there's no exploitation or oppression—true democracy and freedom."
"Ha!" Ryan burst into laughter. "By that logic, Nagash is the ultimate beacon of liberty and democracy! After all, he controls all undead, making him a one-man democracy."
"Your Majesty, you truly are an extraordinary ruler," Talleyrand said with a sly grin, seizing the moment to flatter Ryan. "You understand the limits of your kingdom. You know how to manage bureaucracies. You have the power to dismantle them and rebuild them anew. You're like the sun, and I, Talleyrand, am your humble servant. You warm the earth, and I… I praise the sun!"
With that, Talleyrand theatrically set down his cane and struck a "Y" pose. Far from inspiring any sense of holiness, the gesture was utterly comical.
Ryan couldn't help but laugh. In the wake of his numerous military victories and the political and economic windfalls they had brought, the knight-king was feeling slightly inflated. He was already pondering how to organize a triumphant celebration back home. After hearing Talleyrand's flattery, Ryan chuckled, "Talleyrand, you should save these compliments for Finubar or perhaps your beloved Tyrion."
"Your Majesty, that's far too harsh," Talleyrand replied with a wry smile. "I've only made a name for myself in the Old World because of luck and opportunity. In Ulthuan, I'm nothing but a small fish. Lord Tyrion has no shortage of sycophants, but what he needs are warriors, men who can fight and charge into battle. Do I look like a warrior to you? As for King Finubar, staying by his side isn't a wise move. There are… things I'd rather not talk about. Let's just say that beyond my humble origins, which make it difficult to rise in Ulthuan, I simply dislike that environment. It's been stagnant and decayed for thousands of years."
"Oh?" Ryan's curiosity was piqued. He gestured for Talleyrand to elaborate. "Tell me more. I know little about how Finubar runs his court."
"Hmm…" Talleyrand tapped his cane against the frozen ground. "Let me share two jokes from the Asur court, Your Majesty. They're quite revealing."
"The first joke: Everyone knows that Phoenix King Finubar loves Bretonnian desserts, especially almond macarons. He's particularly fond of them. So when trade routes with the Old World reopened and Bretonnians began appearing in the foreigner districts, Finubar ordered his courtiers to procure some macarons."
"The official responsible for this task was my distant relative, Minister Charles. Taking the request very seriously, he spent days conducting research. Eventually, Charles submitted a report—a three-volume, twelve-foot-long parchment titled Recommendations for Establishing a New Dessert Management System for the Phoenix King's Court."
"Finubar reviewed the report. The gist was simple: if macarons were to be served in the royal court, the palace would need to import raw ingredients, hire specialized chefs, construct a dedicated kitchen, and create an entirely new culinary department. The initial cost was estimated at 900 Asur gold sovereigns (roughly 6,000 Bretonnian gold crowns), with an annual maintenance fee of 150 gold sovereigns. Minister Charles requested the King approve the budget."
"Finubar balked at the exorbitant cost. He pointed out that macarons could be bought for just a silver coin per dozen in the foreigner district. Why was the court's price two hundred times higher?"
"Finubar then suggested simply ordering macarons directly from the Bretonnian dessert shop. Problem solved."
"But the next day, Minister Charles informed the Phoenix King that the dessert shop had mysteriously stopped selling macarons. And that was the end of the matter."
Ryan smirked coldly but remained silent, prompting Talleyrand to continue.
"The second joke: One day, Prince Teclis returned from the Old World with some premium Thuringian honey-glazed sausages from the Empire. He presented them as a gift for Finubar. However, the court ministers fiercely objected to the sausages being served. Their reasons were simple: what if the Witch King or the Witch Queen had poisoned them? Even if they weren't poisoned, what if Finubar got food poisoning?"
"And even if there was no food poisoning, what if the Phoenix King loved the sausages so much that he demanded more one day? Where would they find such delicacies on short notice? Wouldn't that reflect poorly on their competence?"
"Despite the resistance, Lord Tyrion eventually insisted on serving the sausages. Finubar enjoyed them immensely. But when the ministers informed him that each sausage cost a gold sovereign, the Phoenix King, feeling guilty about the cost, never requested them again."
Talleyrand finished his tales and turned to Ryan with a sly smile. "So, what do you think?"
"I understand now." Ryan burst into laughter. "Safety first, above all else. Most people would criticize the Phoenix King's court for its corruption, but that's not the real issue. Finubar knows the prices in the Old World. He's traveled there. But he has no choice. He needs safety. The ministers need safety. All of Ulthuan needs the Phoenix King to be 'safe.'"
Ryan took a few steps forward, his expression growing serious. "So they create a 'system' to ensure safety and avoid accountability. From sourcing ingredients to
serving the final dish, there can be no mistakes. I wouldn't be surprised if Finubar's court tries to serve him the exact same meal every single day."
"Stability is paramount, Your Majesty," Talleyrand agreed. "The more critical something is, the more it must be systematized and institutionalized to ensure safety—and to protect those involved from liability."
"That explains the dessert incident," Ryan mused. "The court didn't want Finubar eating Bretonnian sweets. But they couldn't say that outright. So they priced the macarons so high that Finubar backed off. If he had insisted, they could've used the 900 sovereigns to spread the wealth across the entire court, making the risk worthwhile. And if anyone investigated, everything would look perfectly above board."
"Exactly," Talleyrand said with a nod. "Few people will take risks for actions that don't benefit them personally, even if it's in the best interest of the state. That's human nature."
Ryan stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And as for the dessert shop suddenly stopping production… the ministers likely intervened. Ordering cheap desserts from outside posed too many risks—poisoning, sabotage, and no personal rewards or credit if successful. It was a high-risk, low-reward situation. So they simply shut it down."
"Finubar knows all this, but he tolerates it because he needs 'safety' and 'loyalty.' The Phoenix King doesn't trust his own capabilities enough to overhaul the court. And even if he did, he wouldn't, because he also needs his own sense of 'security.'"
Ryan nodded slowly. Memories of Finubar's vacant, dazed expression on the throne flashed through his mind.
"Tragic. Finubar, truly tragic."
"In fact, Lord Tyrion and Prince Teclis have inadvertently become Finubar's lifeline," Ryan realized. "Their presence offers him the occasional chance to breathe fresh air and glimpse beyond his gilded cage."
Talleyrand gave a knowing smile but remained silent.
"Still, why are you telling me all this, Talleyrand?" Ryan asked.
The elf's expression turned serious. "Your Majesty, the bureaucratic system is a peculiar beast. It's slow to react but possesses terrifying mobilization power and unparalleled efficiency. Today, you might kick it in the backside, and it'll take one or two years to say, 'Ow, that hurt.' Then it'll take another year or two to retaliate. But when it does, the backlash will be ferocious and ruthless."
Talleyrand paused before continuing. "Take Katarin, for instance. Her diplomatic skills are decent, but her domestic and military governance is abysmal. Yet, no one has stopped to ask why. Is it incompetence? Hardly—she's a Saint-level mage."
"The root of the issue lies with her father, Red Tsar Boris. His sweeping reforms and centralization disrupted too many people's 'desserts'—the local boyars, the Ice Witch Sisterhood, the court ministers, and the Duma alike."
"Everyone knew Boris was formidable and couldn't be deceived. But together, they could deceive Katarin. Boris's prolonged absences for military campaigns meant he neglected his daughter's education. She grew up surrounded by these schemers, unaware of the real problems."
"Likewise, Boris left behind a formidable military legacy. The army he bequeathed to his daughter was nearly invincible. But the same courtiers could orchestrate events to ensure she banished and imprisoned them herself."
Ryan let out a long sigh, fully grasping the tragic reality. "Katarin will inevitably launch a northern expedition. And she and her army are doomed."
Meanwhile, in Bekafen, inside Katarin's private chambers...
The Tsarina sat in a silent fury, clutching the parchment Arakcheyev had brought back. Her face was ashen as she slammed it onto the table.
The demands from the Shiravik faction, led by Vladimir, were utterly outrageous. Katarin barely skimmed the conditions before understanding the implications. If she agreed, she would become nothing more than a puppet in Erengrad.
But if she refused, Erengrad would essentially declare de facto independence.
In a fit of rage, Katarin tore the parchment to shreds.
"Guards!" she shouted.
A Romanov Guard entered swiftly. "Your Majesty?"
"Summon the Duma, the generals, and the boyars. Convene an emergency council immediately!"
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Taking deep breaths to calm herself, Katarin prepared to tackle another matter before the council.
The 3,000 gold ducats and 5,000 silver denars she had received from the Empire's Ostermark division had finally reached her hands. Moved by the hardships of the White Guard, she had immediately allocated 800 gold ducats to Finance Minister Demilov to improve their rations.
However, earlier that day, she had received a secret note smuggled in by a desperate White Guard logistics officer.
According to the note, the soldiers' "improved" rations amounted to half a bottle of Imperial beer, a bowl of buckwheat porridge with scraps of meat, and a barley loaf per person. The total cost? Less than 120 gold ducats.
Where had the rest of the money gone?
Katarin's face twisted in rage as realization struck. She had been played—likely for a long time.
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