Days have passed since my heart-to-heart with Count Gerhart. To my relief, he's returned to his usual self: naïve, hopeful, and bursting with enthusiasm. The man now walks around as if every sunrise brings a miracle. He still peppers me with questions about my former world—mostly trivial things like the divine oracle he insists is named Ghugel, or his baffled wonder at the idea of "talking paintings" called television.
We've reached a compromise of sorts. He insists I call him by his name. I insist on calling him sir—at least in public. He urges me to implement sweeping reforms immediately. I remind him that GCG is a slow process, a system designed to build itself brick by brick. He once asked what Gishigi means. I tried to explain. Halfway through, I gave up and told him to trust the process. He nodded sagely, as if I'd imparted a great truth.
In truth, I suspect all this enthusiasm is his way of punishing me for not telling him sooner.
As for the county—it is thriving.
Problems still arise, of course. Workers lacking skill? We don't replace them. We revise the SOP, add quality control, and tighten supervision. Franz dislikes it, says it's not cost-efficient. But time proves otherwise. Projects run smoother, faster, better.
Spoilage in the public granary? A simple restructuring fixes it: better airflow, improved storage layout, sunlight where it matters. No need for overhauls—just common sense. Teen delinquents loitering? We draft them into the militias. Let them sweat. Discipline, training, and civic duty have a way of burning off rebellion.
What was once a patchwork of poverty is shaping into a real county. Villages are connecting. Roads are paved—not with fancy stones, but compacted gravel and reinforced ditches. The city grows busier by the week: humans, Bovinids, even a few traveling wood elves walk the same streets. Trade flows in from the harbors of Tilenburg. Schools open, clinics serve, and homes rise from empty lots. The dirt roads are clean. The buildings are sturdy. But above all… people smile. And in this land, that alone is worth everything.
With progress comes visitors. Merchants, smiths, and artisans now arrive in droves. Many freeze in disbelief the first time they see Bovinids roaming freely, carrying crates, trading coin, or chatting with city guards. It takes time, but most learn quickly that here in Tharros Vale, things are different. The laws protect all races. Opportunity is earned, not hoarded. And a Bovinid child deserves a future just as much as a human one.
They might have horns, fur, and foreign customs—but in the rhythm of this land, they've become essential notes in a new melody. A new order. One worth building.
Of course, Gerhart thinks we're just getting started.
And truth be told… I do too.
However, just when things seem to be going smoothly, a new kind of trouble arises—the kind that comes from a bloated, incompetent hierarchy known as nobility. All thirsty for recognition, all allergic to merit.
Duke Morton—Moron, if I recall correctly—sends his envoy to Tharros Vale. A full entourage of self-important clowns, supposedly representing the will of the Duchy.
My eternal headache. My bane. In the old world, and now in this one too.
The representative steps into the castle of Tharros Vale. Feathered hat perched atop his head, felt boots clicking against stone, eyes narrowed as if he's either constipated or offended by oxygen. Behind him trail the usual suspects: a rotund military officer, a clergyman drowning in ermine and gems, and several others I neither recognize nor care to describe.
"Greetings, Count Gerhart of Tharros Vale," he begins with a voice so dry it could start a forest fire. "I am Chancellor Khun, servant to Duke Morton of the House von Klobenturd, Duke of Luthenwald. I come bearing his words and commands."
"I await the command of Duke Morton," Gerhart replies curtly, already bored.
"First: taxation. The contribution to the Duchy's treasury shall be increased—threefold. Your recent growth indicates your responsibility must grow as well."
Gerhart remains unfazed. Our economy has grown tenfold. But Franz clenches his jaw, visibly fuming.
"We're being punished for governing properly," he mutters.
I nudge him discreetly to hold his tongue.
"Second," the envoy continues, "your dealings with Tilenburg. You formed an alliance without consulting the Duchy."
"Which cannot be bothered to manage its own realm," Gerhart snaps.
The envoy coughs, visibly flustered, but regains his posture.
"Such an alliance poses a threat to the Duchy. You are hereby commanded to dissolve the unlawful pact immediately."
Karl, ever the jovial Chancellor, steps forward. "Our alliance with Count Merkel Dalmer of Tilenburg benefits the realm. We have no intention of rebelling against the Duchy."
Then, in a low whisper to me:
"Let's not throw a feast for this guy. I'm not sharing our food with him."
I chuckle. Absurd or not, I agree with the sentiment.
"Third—and most grievous," the envoy's voice rises, face reddening, "you let beastmen roam your realm freely—as if they are equals! Did you not know they are filthy worshippers of the Demon Kings? You don't even make them slaves! You treat them as if they were human!
What of our divine privilege as Solarius' chosen? Humans are the rightful masters of this realm! You will denounce your policies and return the runaway slaves to their proper owners at once!"
The throne room falls silent.
Count Gerhart's expression shifts—from mild disinterest to something darker. Rage. Disappointment.
He rises from his seat.
And begins walking toward the envoy.
"I was promised that my decisions in Tharros Vale would be respected—even by the crown of Stahlmark. No interference. No opposition.That was the price of my loyalty in the war, and that was the reward promised for my blood and contribution."
Count Gerhart's voice cut through the hall like a blade. The envoy was sweating now, clearly unamused.
"When I emancipated the Bovinids in my domain, it wasn't done on a whim. I believe that everyone—regardless of race or origin—deserves equal treatment under my law, and the same opportunity to thrive.In this realm, even a noble's son is worth less than a former bandit if he refuses to work.
So I suggest you return to your Duke and tell him, plainly: stop meddling in affairs that are not his to touch."
His eyes gleamed with fury, no longer restrained.
The fat military man made a step forward, chest puffed.
Bad move.
He was immediately intercepted by Marshal Ziegler—tall, broad-shouldered, scarred from countless battles. One cold stare from Ziegler was enough to send the pompous officer stumbling back like a whipped dog, tail tucked between his legs.
Then, almost as if choreographed, a new presence entered the hall.
Bishop Austin. Draped in black leather robes, wielding a staff like it was forged from divine wrath itself, he walked straight toward the jeweled clergyman and stare at him dead in his eyes.
The holy man opened his mouth, likely ready to spew some righteous condemnation—
But the words died in his throat.
"I… am the Bishop… of Luthenwald… I am your superior," he squeaked, voice dwindling like a candle in wind.
"And I don't give a damn," Bishop Austin growled.
"Politics are not the business of the Church. Didn't you know that, old man? Or do you need me to remind you—with my boot up your holy behind?"
The clergyman shrunk even further, tears threatening at the edge of his eyes.
Bishop Austin, clearly just getting started, delivered a barrage of insults with flair. Then ended with his signature line:
"And that's the bottom line—'cause the Suffragan Bishop said so!"
I had to bite my tongue to stop the wrestling fanboy inside me from exploding.
"The Duke will not stand for this..." Khun managed to say, though his voice trembled.
"Then let him come," Count Gerhart answered calmly. "Maybe he needs the exercise."
That was the final blow.
The Duke's entourage, thoroughly humiliated and shaken, scrambled out of the castle like rats fleeing a sinking ship.
But two individuals remained. Unlike the others, they were plainly dressed and composed.
One of them stepped forward.
"Count Gerhart," he said with a polite nod, "we traveled with Khun's party, but we are not associated with him—or the Duke—in any way."
"My name is Klaus, head of the merchant guild from the County of Solmar. This is Graf, master of the blacksmith guild from County Lautern. We are here to explore business opportunities and to observe the way of life in this thriving land."
Gerhart studied them for a moment. Then nodded.
"Then you may stay. Welcome to Tharros Vale."
And just like that, the problem with the Duke had been deflected. For now.
We only had to wait…
…for his response.