Soldiers Must Eat to March (1)
Isekai reincarnation is fun when it happens to someone else, but when it happens to you, it's a goddamn catastrophe. Well, strictly speaking, what I possessed wasn't some fantasy isekai world—it's the 17th-century Holy Roman Empire, with no magic or auras. But whether it's an isekai or the 17th-century Holy Roman Empire, survival is equally brutal. No smartphones, no internet, no delivery food, no flush toilets, no subways or public transport—life is inconvenient as hell.
"At least I was born into nobility."
Even calling it nobility, I'm no grand duke of the north, no imperial duke or count. I'm just a minor lord with one small castle and seven villages under my rule... But that's still a billion times better than being born a serf or in a poor family in this era. In 21st-century Korea, poverty doesn't mean starving to death tomorrow, but here? Every moment is a fight against famine.
And while the era I live in is tough, it's not all bad. No, there's one supreme privilege I enjoy precisely because I'm living in this time.
"My lord! My lord!"
"What is it, steward?"
The steward, face flushed red and spittle flying, exclaimed, "The fields in Berns Village, where we tried the new farming method you ordered last time, yielded about 30% more harvest than the other villages! This is a revolution, my lord!"
Imagine getting a monthly salary of 2 million won, then bumping it to 2.2 million next year—your quality of life changes dramatically. You can still live the same as before but now spend 200,000 won on fried chicken or nicer clothes. If a mere 10% raise feels that huge, what about a 30% harvest increase?
The serfs must be shedding tears of joy.
"A bountiful harvest—excellent news. Our territory will grow a bit richer thanks to it."
Being able to apply the knowledge I picked up as a hobby in my past life in Korea, and seeing the results with my own eyes? And when it succeeds, getting worshipped by the steward here and the people of my fief? That's the ultimate dopamine hit. No wonder politicians cling to power despite all the hate—they're addicted to that superiority, the thrill of one command from their hand affecting thousands, even tens of thousands of lives.
"I've served the Albrecht family for nearly 50 years, but you're the first to achieve such a feat, my lord. At just 20 years old, no less. You'll surely become a great figure like the first head of the Albrecht house."
My name back in Korea was Kim Sumin. Here, I'm Albrecht von Wallenstein, head of the Wallenstein family. And the original owner of this body? A lowly noble who rose to become a duke of the Holy Roman Empire and total commander of the imperial army... only to get purged by the emperor in the end.
Since I'm here in this era, sure, I want to climb the ladder. But getting purged? I'll dodge that fate by any means necessary.
"Thanks for the kind words. So, how do you plan to collect taxes from Berns Village?"
"The Albrecht family takes about 40% of the serfs' harvest annually, including the tithe. We'll do the same this time."
"By the rules, yes. But didn't they farm using the new method I ordered?"
"Yes, that's true."
"They abandoned centuries of tradition on my command and took the reckless gamble of a new way. They deserve a reward for that."
Some lords in this era treat peasants—exaggerating a bit—like less than dogs or pigs. Nobles are free men; serfs are livestock tied to the land, so just work them and no need for rewards. But strip away the environment and jobs, and nobles and serfs are the same humans. People work better with rewards for good deeds and punishment for bad.
"Collect the same tax as last year from Berns Village, and let them keep the rest. They followed my orders well; they deserve that consideration."
Failing small companies often stems from bosses not raising employee pay. You promote top performers, make them work like dogs for the company... but skimp on salaries, lose talent, morale tanks, productivity crashes. Fief management is corporate management too. As the boss-lord, how can I not reward serfs who delivered results?
"And send beer and wine from the castle, plus a few cows. When rewarding, do it big, right?"
"Waiving the due tax is reward enough. Beer, wine, and cows? Isn't that excessive?"
"Changing ancestral farming methods isn't easy for farmers. Yet they followed my 'madness' to the letter. Even lowly peasants deserve repayment for loyalty—it's a lord's duty."
To manage this fief well going forward, I need thick trust with the people. That way, when I propose four-field rotation over three-field, or new tech like crucible steel, they'll embrace it.
'Even if the lord spouts nonsense from the underworld, no one will call it bullshit.' And success means more praise, like the steward now.
"Since Berns succeeded with this method, we should spread it to the other Wallenstein villages quickly, no?"
In business, hoard good tech for profit. But as a lord, more grain overall means more tax revenue for me. This fief is mine, after all—income growth.
"With the tax bump, I can hire a maid."
"As expected of your youthful vigor, my lord..."
"Why not?"
One big misconception about medieval Europe: nobles pining for one woman. Nah, they don't keep concubines but hook up with lower-status women freely. So why not hire a cute maid from my fief for fun?
"Prepare, steward."
"For what, my lord?"
"Berns followed my orders and succeeded, so I'll go praise them personally."
In the 21st century, bigwigs visiting is a nuisance. In the 17th century? An honor. A noble from the heavens praising lowly folk? Motivation skyrockets. And I have a trick up my sleeve.
"Order them to slaughter lots of cows, pigs, chickens for a lavish feast when I arrive."
"Pardon...?"
"Issue it in another official's name, so they bear the cost and grimace at the expense."
Key: another official's name. They'll curse me, the lord forcing a fancy feast... until I arrive, see it, and say, "I can't burden you poor folk—I'll cover it all." My subordinate caused the headache; I fix it. Reputation soars.
That's politics.
"When I arrive, declare I'll cover the entire feast. Prepare accordingly."
When giving rewards, do it smart—earn the praise.
It took only half a day from the lord's castle to Berns Village. The village had one cow, five pigs, and uncountable chickens prepared—a massive feast. All from farmers' pockets, so their faces were grim.
Everything per plan.
"Where's the village head?"
"That's me, my lord."
"Good. Hearing you embraced my new method without prejudice and reaped a huge harvest pleases me greatly."
"We're sorry..."
His words were polite, but his mood was sour. No surprise. To them, I'm the villain lord who dropped in, extracted tens of thousands in costs, forced an unwanted feast. Sure, the new method boosted income, but who likes forced spending? Like docking 200,000 won from pay for the boss's birthday—who'd be happy?
"Your face looks down. Something wrong?"
"I'm old, not feeling well—it's the illness."
"I see. Unavoidable. But if something troubles you..."
I pretended to survey, then called the steward.
"Steward."
"Yes, my lord."
"I ordered a simple feast. Who commanded all this? A cow roast is no burden for me, but for poor folk? Crushing."
"Forgive us, my lord."
To boost image and fame, political theater is key. Like politicians devouring cheap market skewers they ignore otherwise. Common in 21st-century Korea, revolutionary here.
'They'll eat it up.'
"No, can't do this. Find who ordered it. Back at the castle, severe punishment."
"Yes, understood."
Of course, it was my order—no one gets punished. Punish an innocent subordinate to save face? They'd hate me. Keep the show WWE-scripted. Punish for real, and it turns to war.
"You worked hard for a great harvest, yet I make you waste it on me? Heartbreaking. This time, I'll cover all feast costs specially."
The head and villagers' eyes lit up.
"Really?"
"Long live the lord!"
To them, it was like treating the boss to premium beef from their pay—until the kind boss covers it personally. Saved money and feast? Hurray inevitable.
"See the cows and wine behind? Rewards for trusting and following me."
"Rewards for lowly serfs like us?"
"Aren't you my men too? Good work deserves reward."
Serfs are often lordly livestock here. A lord treating them as equals with rewards? They'd go mad with loyalty.
"Taxes stay the same as last year. Any complaints?"
Serfs wept with joy.
"Thank you, my lord!! We'll follow only you forever!!"
"God bless our lord!"
Yes, love me like this. Your harder work from gratitude makes me richer, stronger.
"Eat and drink your fill today!"
Next morning after the feast, one of our territory's soldiers rushed into my office.
"A letter from His Excellency, the Bohemian Governor, directly to you, my lord."
"Read it—what's it say? Hand it over."
The de facto number two of Bohemia—the only place in the mighty Holy Roman Empire legally treated as a 'kingdom'—writing a rural noble like me? What's the angle?
Curiosity piqued, I opened it. Stark and simple:
The great Holy Roman Emperor, His Imperial Majesty, desires you.
Enlist immediately as an officer and prove your loyalty.
Our pledged king of Bohemia is off fighting the Ottomans, so no need to join... but to showcase my knowledge and skills, earn recognition, I need a bigger stage. Acclaim in this backwater won't lead to big success.
'Enter the tiger's den to catch the tiger.'
Other Bohemian nobles refused to join anyway...
"Guess I'll go alone."
Thus, with minimal retinue, I joined the war against the Ottomans—the Fifteen Years' War, as it's called. To make my name, prove my worth.
Wait for me, world... I'll show you how great I am.