The Fall of Regensburg

Originally, the plan had been to leave this graduation exam entirely in Theresa's hands without any interference ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from me.

But our student Theresa had astonishingly devised a brand-new theory for her graduation project—one her professors claimed could win a Nobel Prize.

What could I do? I had to set aside my current work, even if just for a bit, to savor the achievements of such an outstanding pupil.

"Luckily, I've wrapped up the simple tasks at hand, so things should run smoothly without me for about a month. Let's handle it in that window."

"Great! It's ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been ages since we've collaborated like this. Or wait—is this the first time I've proposed one?"

"Still, with the baby due any day now, you absolutely can't overdo it. I'll handle all the little details."

The doctors said she'd be fine until next week, but was I insane enough to trust 18th-century medicine?

Especially since this was Theresa's fourth pregnancy—she could go into labor at any moment. Any plan had to account for that premise.

But true to form, our Theresa, who embodied the spirit of the Yangtze River itself, barreled ahead with the plan undeterred.

"All the procedures and preparations for the indictment are already complete. All that's left is for you to take the stage."

Make Rome Roman again. Until now, it had been little more than a catchy slogan. But the time had come to put it into action.

Fall 1741 in the Holy Roman Empire.

Summer had long passed, but this place was about to burn hotter than ever before.

For ages, the Holy Roman Empire had something called the Imperial Tax.

This wasn't a specific tax but a blanket term encompassing all the taxes levied by the Empire on its territories.

The most famous examples were the military contributions known as the "Roman Month" and the judicial contributions called the Kammerziller.

But as one might expect, the Imperial Tax had never been collected properly—paying it willingly would earn you ridicule as a fool.

Delinquents were so rampant that even South Korea's 21st-century high-value tax evaders would look like model taxpayers by comparison.

Not just five or ten years—dozens of principalities had been dodging for decades.

Only recently, with Austria's imperial authority strengthened, had collections improved slightly, but even then, they barely reached twenty percent of what was owed.

Of course, I understood why.

If everyone around you had been evading taxes forever, was still doing it, and planned to keep doing it, wouldn't you want to join in? Human nature.

Anyone who insisted on following the law amid all that would be the real outlier.

So Theresa and I had reached a simple conclusion: scrap this tattered system entirely and start over.

Why renovate a crumbling building on the verge of collapse? You'd just get buried with it.

Tear out the foundations and rebuild boldly—that was the only way to revive Holy Roman real estate.

"Which is why we'll need Your Electoral Highness's help."

"Yes! Anything within my power!"

Augustus III, the Elector of Saxony, had now fully aligned himself with the Franz faction.

He spent half the year in Saxony and the other half in Vienna, attending to my needs—his entire fortune ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was all-in on Franz coins.

Friedrich was too big a fish to use as a mere hunting dog, and any close ties with him would raise suspicions. But Augustus III posed no such risk, making him perfect for exploitation.

If he kept toeing the line like this, I might not make him my top sword... but second sword—no, third or even fourth sword? Maybe.

"I've heard Your Electoral Highness has been gathering nobles who support centering the Empire on Austria."

"Indeed! I've handpicked only those who can aid Your Highness. They're mostly young, utterly captivated by the overwhelming prestige you command. This is true love, without a doubt!"

"...Does this group have a name, by any chance?"

"It does! We are the Knights of the Shining Star of Lorraine (Die Ritter des Leuchtenden Sterns von Lothringen)—the eternal alliance of loyalty to the heart of the King of Germany!"

What the hell was that godawful name? Was he mocking me on purpose?

But Augustus III slammed his left fist to his chest like he was offering his heart, reciting the members with utmost seriousness.

No doubt about it—this guy had started role-playing to keep his elector's seat and gotten consumed by the character.

Still, that name was a step too far.

"Impressive... but isn't it a bit long? Maybe change—"

"It was elected by overwhelming majority vote of all members, along with our motto. We'd be grateful if Your Highness saw it as a symbol of our love and reverence."

"O... kay... then. We'll keep it as is, but since it wouldn't do for outsiders to hear, let's operate as a secret society for now?"

"An excellent idea. We'll pause recruitment and proceed discreetly."

He seemed thrilled at the "secret society" vibe, beaming as he recited more of their salute phrases.

Good. At least that was fortunate.

I couldn't stop what they'd already made, but I had to prevent that horrific name from spreading across Rome. Absolutely.

"Your Electoral Highness... anyway, let me explain what you need to do. His Majesty the Emperor has said: With Britain and France at war, Russia advancing on Poland, and the world in chaos where nothing is certain, the Empire must act decisively to protect the rights of all its citizens and nobles."

"Ooh! As expected of the Habsburg court when it comes to the Empire—"

"To that end, we'll first ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠identify principalities whose rulers have failed their duties. Then, we'll propose legislation to collect taxes from them—and I'd like Your Electoral Highness to introduce it."

Delinquency. Collection.

The elector of Saxony paled at the trigger words that would send chronic high-value evaders into fits—who could blame a prince?

"W-wait just a moment. If it's about Imperial Taxes... we're delinquent too..."

"Ah, of course we won't force it on everyone. We'll make examples of the worst offenders and quietly pardon the rest."

The tactic that would work eternally for humanity: divide and conquer. Or, in fancier terms, divide et impera.

"First, the examples will be those delinquent for over thirty years or at ninety percent rates. They're problematic, wouldn't you agree?"

In the 21st century, skipping taxes for thirty years meant you were as good as dead.

Cancel your residency, and no one would call it harsh.

Yet the Holy Roman Empire had multiple such principalities.

They'd plead, "We want to pay, but our lands can't afford it—please, just this once?" And the Empire couldn't force it.

Stack thirty "just this once"s, and you get thirty years delinquent.

"Thirty years... that's a bit much, yes."

"Of course, punishing them outright would be unfair. We'll give grace periods: pay up by year's end to drop below eighty-five percent, and we'll be lenient. Too harsh?"

"There'll always be complainers. But at that level, I can stir opinion against them. Of course, if we divvy up some of those punished principalities' interests... it would be even easier."

"Good point. I'll consider it."

Friedrich wanted a pretext to hit Sweden's Pomerania, but Theresa had gone further, devising a masterstroke to overhaul the Empire's finances and politics at once.

Use the chronically delinquent Imperial Tax as bait.

Target everyone, and the Empire would fracture. But hit only the thirty-year, ninety-percent-plus monsters? Even the hesitant would pause.

Seize that moment: Prussia, the Saxon elector, and pro-Franz nobles rain yes votes and whip up the mood?

"Your role is crucial, Your Electoral Highness. I expect great things."

"Leave it to me! This battlefield will be the grand debut of the Knights of the Shining Star of Lorraine! I'll crush Your Highness's foes with all my might!"

"...Please do."

Even if we pushed hard here, France was gagged for fifteen years, and Britain had its own problems—no complaints from them.

Before the noisy petitioners returned, the Holy Roman reconstruction crew grabbed their shovels and got to work.

Regensburg, the Imperial Diet.

BAM!

"We can no longer sit idly by! France! Britain! Russia! The Ottomans! As Europe's great powers bare their fangs and devour their neighbors, we remain disunited—sniping and squabbling among ourselves!"

The delegates' initial reaction to Elector Augustus III's sudden agenda and thunderous speech was bewilderment: What's this guy's deal?

However.

"Under His Majesty's wise rule, the Empire shines brighter than ever. But no—this won't do!"

"What's not to do?"

"Just look at the Franco-British war: warfare has become a contest of capital, of which nation is richest. More capital means more power. Yet the Empire remains fragmented, and the taxes we should collect go uncollected. Everyone knows it."

"If you mean the Imperial Tax..."

"His Majesty has granted our principalities ironclad privileges against invasion by any nation. We need fear neither Britain nor France. But it's also true that some shamelessly enjoy those privileges without paying their defense contributions."

Even if it was to cling to his elector's seat, wasn't this overkill on the loyalty?

As resentful glares poured in, Augustus III deftly evaded.

"But as a prince myself, I've delinquent multiple times too. So I appealed to His Majesty: 'Sire, ideals are one thing, but reality falls short. Please consider the hardships of princes struggling with their domains!'"

"Well said."

"Sorry for the misunderstanding. Your Electoral Highness is spot on!"

"It's not like we don't want to pay!"

"Yes, yes. But some truly evade duties maliciously. That's why I earnestly pled for a compromise—which His Majesty granted. Here's the proposal."

Ha... tsk.

The room's atmosphere subtly shifted.

Revoking princely status was extreme, but targeting thirty-year delinquents made outright opposition awkward.

No one wanted to catch the Emperor's eye themselves.

"This is absurd!"

But the guilty always shout loudest.

As most princes and proxies—who didn't meet the criteria—stayed silent, a few raised their voices vehemently.

One, predictably, was the proxy for the Duke of Swedish Pomerania.

"The Imperial Tax is an outdated, barbaric custom!"

His plea reeked of "We can never pay this"—and he was the legend behind a century of delinquency, since the mid-17th century.