I stood atop a chair in my bedroom, gazing out through the same window I had first looked through upon awakening in this world, and yet what I saw now felt entirely unfamiliar.
Two moons of this new world hung in the night sky, surrounded by a sea of stars and drifting clouds of nebula. With almost no light pollution in the city below, I could see every detail clearly. The view was breathtaking.
That was the positive.
The negative was just as clear.
Without proper nighttime lighting, crime would be far easier to carry out. And after witnessing the sorry state of my troops earlier that day, I doubted I could rely on the city guard to compensate for it, if the soldiers were like that, the guards were likely no better.
Both problems demanded attention.
As I watched the twin moons drift slowly across the sky, I realized I had to begin formulating plans to fix the problems I had seen that day—and do so as soon as possible.
I turned away from the window and looked down at the pinewood table before me. A stack of brown-white parchment lay neatly arranged beside an inkwell and quill. The few books I owned were stacked nearby, all except the records of my bloodline.
I let out a quiet sigh, already anticipating a long and exhausting night.
But when I thought of the lives that could be saved, the sigh faded. I set my resolve, dipped the quill into ink, and began to plan—step by step, one problem at a time.
I spread the census report across the table, their corners curling like tired leaves.
Firstly, and most importantly, the economic foundation of this entire fiefdom rested on only two pillars, which are food crops and pinewood timber. Nothing else of note. No crafts worth exporting, no secondary agriculture, no trade specialty. Just grain and trees.
According to the population census report, the fiefdom planted only one crop, that's barley and nothing else.
Nearly everything beyond that was imported. The report, spanning almost a century, read like a chant carved into parchment, barley harvest after barley harvest after barley harvest. Though the records ended nearly a hundred years ago, I did not need newer ink to know the pattern had continued uninterrupted.
Barley, on its own, was not the villain.
In fact, it was an excellent choice for this kind of climate. Cold-hardy, short growing season, reliable even under poor weather. It is a sensible crop for a northern fiefdom scraping survival from frost-bitten earth.
But sense becomes poison when repeated without thought.
Planted alone, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, barley drinks the soil dry. It is a heavy consumer of nutrients, especially nitrogen, and its shallow roots do little to anchor the earth. Without proper crops rotation, the fields slowly bled fertility into the wind.
What remained was land that still looked farmable, but yielded less each season. Farmers forced to plant more acreage for the same harvest. Hunger creeping in despite full fields, malnourishment disguised as routine.
Having realized all of that, I quickly began writing on the parchment, resolve hardening with every stroke of the quill.
To stop this long accumulation of decay, action must be taken on two fronts.
In the short term, fertilizer must be purchased and produced in bulk to revive the exhausted fields.In the long term, proper crop diversification and rotation would be essential—and if circumstances allowed, even land reform, both to increase yields and to restore trust among the common folk.
The matter of fertilizer could be discussed with my subordinates tomorrow. That problem demanded logistics and authority.
As for crop rotation, the path was already clear. Legumes such as peas and lentils would be introduced to restore nitrogen to the soil. Root and leaf crops—turnips and cabbages—would follow, hardy enough for our climate and quick to ease the strain on barley fields.
Land reform, however, was a blade that cut both ways.
That would have to wait.
After finishing the plan for the crops, I set the parchment aside and allowed myself a brief pause. The land was one thing. Fields could be healed with patience and seasons.
The city itself was another matter entirely.
I turned my attention to the second problem which is state of our infrastructure and security—or rather, the alarming lack of both.
Unpaved roads riddled with potholes slowed carts and injured horses, while unemployed and miserable beggars riddled the streetside. At night, darkness swallowed entire streets, inviting crime and fear in equal measure. And for the guards, after what I had seen at the barracks, I could no longer assume they were any better trained or supplied.
All of it needed to be fixed.
The streets, first and foremost. At the very least, they had to be paved with gravel and crushed stone, shaped into crowned roads with proper drainage ditches. That change alone would spare countless people and horses from needless injury and prevent the city from dissolving into mud every thaw and rainfall.
Darkness, too, had to be driven back. Torch posts would be placed at every junction, crossroads, gate, and market square. The guards would be strictly disciplined, their patrol routes clearly defined and enforced. If even that proved insufficient, then a harsh night curfew would be decreed. Order did not ask for permission to exist.
And as for who would build the roads and keep the torches burning, the answer was already clear.
The unemployed.
With proper wages and steady work, the vast construction needed would absorb much of the city's idle population. Roads to lay, ditches to dig, torches to tend, watch duties to rotate. Honest labor would replace begging. If some refused, then choice would be presented plainly.
Coin, or consequence.
Payment for cooperation, or the punishment from a disciplined guard for obstruction. Not cruelty, but certainty. A city could not be rebuilt on hesitation alone.
With those matters outlined, I arrived at the third problem.
The hardest one of all.
"The human problem"
If the people themselves resented me, how could I ever truly rule them?
As lord of this land, I was not afraid to use harsh punishment or fear as tools. Authority backed by force was simple, effective, and historically proven. But as a man—one who still carried the thinking of another world—I found little comfort in ruling through terror alone. I was no Machiavellian genius, only someone who had read fragments of his work and absorbed its lessons through books and youtube videos.
Yet one quote surfaced clearly in my mind.
"It is much safer to be feared than loved because... love is preserved by the link of obligation which... is broken at every opportunity... but fear preserves you by a dread of punishment which never fails" -Niccolò Machiavelli
Machiavelli was not wrong.
Fear is convenient. Easy to apply. Reliable in the short term. It keeps people obedient and preserves the status quo with minimal effort. Love, on the other hand, is difficult to earn and even harder to maintain. It demands consistency, patience, and sacrifice.
But love possesses something fear never will.
Devotion.
Humans do unreasonable, impossible things for those they love. They place blind faith in them. They do not question orders. They fight, suffer, and even die willingly. History was full of such examples—saints, kings, generals, and tyrants alike. Love breeds devotion, and devotion, when left unchecked, becomes fanaticism.
If I truly wanted my rule to endure—if I wished to use the knowledge of my former world to raise this land rather than merely dominate it—then fear alone would not suffice.
I would still wield authority. I would still punish when necessary.
But my foundation would not be terror.
I would love my people.
And in time, I would be loved in return.
That was how I would rule from this day forward.
---
And so, after drafting a rudimentary plan for tomorrow's public appearances, I finally allowed myself to slump back onto the bed. The fur blankets yielded beneath my weight as I closed my eyes.
"Hygienic knowledge must be spread…An education system must be built…The bureaucratic structure must be improved…"
The thoughts kept lining up, one after another, like problems waiting patiently for their turn to be solved.
But my body had already reached its limit.
The words blurred. The plans dissolved. And before I could chase the next reform to its end, my mind finally shut down—overwhelmed by exhaustion, knowing full well that so much more still needed to be done.
Tomorrow, the work would begin.