No Law, and Fists Hurt
"Oh..."
The chicken at Vermont Castle was surprisingly delicious.
Crispy skin roasted until it carried a proper smoky char. Meat that was neither tough nor dry, just pleasantly chewy. Seasoning mixed with a careful hand. A cook who had taken limited ingredients and elevated them into something worthy of the absurd two-florin price tag—a meal that actually felt dignified.
Tears of pure emotion threatened to spill at the greasy, solid satisfaction of real meat, a taste the Middle Ages had never once offered her.
"Um... do you really have to drool while you eat?"
From her mouth.
"But it's just so good..."
A thirteenth-century local could never understand. They had no idea how precious a single delicious meal could be to a castaway from the twenty-first century—how desperate, how moving it felt. Or maybe Asty had simply been too poor to taste anything decent in her previous life.
"Eat slowly. Order more if you want."
Rebecca, unable to watch any longer, picked a piece of meat from her own plate and held it to Asty's lips.
What is she, an angel? A goddess? Honestly better than our actual goddess, who won't even hand out divine power.
"Is it that good?"
"Yes."
The bliss of tearing into chicken lasted only a moment. The instant she remembered that no such meal waited at home, depression crashed over her like a wave.
What now? Just... not go back?
Settle here permanently and start collecting Montpellier coins? Sign an exclusive contract on the spot and demand every delicacy under the sun?
Going home only means drawing blueprints and building prototypes in a drafty shack. Do the same work at Vermont Castle and the materials, the craftsmen—everything—would move incomparably faster. Why return to that mountain backwater at all?
Information gathering and investor hunting would be easier here too. So for the sake of accelerating technological development, relocating to Vermont Castle is the rational choice, isn't it?
"Tsk. What to do..."
Pure work efficiency pointed straight at Vermont Castle. The place was already a thriving small city in its own right, and France's largest city—Montpellier—sat right next door. The roads were far worse than she had imagined. Goods that cost one florin here ran two or three florins back in the village. Even under the same count's patronage, working at Vermont Castle would be several times more efficient.
The village's sole advantage was its remote mountain location, which made information leaks harder. But since her goal was to spread new technology rather than monopolize it, that advantage barely registered.
In every practical respect, Vermont Castle offered a superior workshop...
Except that only matters if I can trust the count.
That was the real problem. She still had not deciphered Count Montpellier's true intentions. In an age where hierarchy was simply the natural order, a commoner taking a noble as backer was little different from becoming his subordinate—someone who could be discarded the moment it became convenient.
And she had no leverage to change that. All she possessed was half-baked future knowledge and a Saintess title no one believed. Challenging a member of the medieval elite with only those two cards was pure suicide.
In the end, the terms of any contract, the decision to sign it, even the decision of whether to boil her in a pot—all of it rested with them. She could thrash a little with Rebecca's help if things turned ugly, but even that required the resolve either to flee France entirely or to dive headfirst into the knife-edge of noble politics. She had neither the courage to run to a country whose language she could not speak, nor the confidence to walk that tightrope among men born to power.
"...Senior Se-hwa."
What would you have done?
You, who always wore that shameless smile while emptying your sponsors' wallets.
She closed her eyes and summoned her senior's most glittering lines.
If I could steal even a fraction of that courage and that brazenness, could I carve my own path instead of being swept along by the age?
'Anyone interested in raising Somali pirates? Sponsor our foundation today and you too can become a pirate king's patron!'
'If your hand is trash, raise the stakes. That's just common sense, right?'
'Live as if dying tomorrow doesn't matter, and death will politely step aside on its own!'
...No. Cancel that. Thinking about it, that woman's entire quote collection is completely useless for actual life.
The same woman who said those things while poking around African civil-war zones, took a bullet, and checked out of this world. Even more reason not to listen.
Try that mindset in this neighborhood and the feudal lords will have your head on a spike before the day is out. Game over.
My senior already holds the undisputed number-one spot on my personal list of people never to emulate. Am I seriously considering copying her? I'd rather marry Hans.
"Rebecca. What do you think Count Montpellier really wants?"
Asty leaned in with a playful expression and whispered carefully into Rebecca's ear. The content, of course, was anything but playful.
This was Vermont Castle—the very heart of House Montpellier. As long as the cooks and diners around them might serve as the count's eyes and ears, any sensitive conversation required a proper disguise first.
"I couldn't say for certain, but isn't the goal simply to make money?"
Rebecca's speech had stiffened into formal stiffness in an instant; she answered with a grave face and the most obvious reply possible.
Yes, money is definitely part of it. But I don't think that's the whole story.
"I'm a complete outsider when it comes to commerce or engineering, so I may be wrong... but perhaps the count intends to build a business around the Saintess's inventions..."
No, I already know that much. Of course they'll pry the water-frame designs out of me, set up workshops, then either buy me off or quietly assassinate me to lock down the monopoly.
The question is what comes after that.
If the plan were simply to open a Montpellier spinning mill and rake in cash, Thomas would never have been this courteous. Thirteenth-century people couldn't possibly have guessed the future of automated production from mere rumors. Elevating a child who built one curious gadget would only irritate the existing craftsmen—
Wait.
What is currently the largest city in France?
"Where is the capital of France these days?"
"After the fall of Paris the royal family nested in Orléans. Those shameless wretches who helped corrupt the Order still cling to life and dare call themselves the goddess's highest representatives. Truly shameless beyond measure."
Rebecca ground her teeth and spat pure hatred, but that was not the point right now.
France's largest city at present was Montpellier. Paris—once the heart of the realm, the cradle of revolution, the City of Eternal Light—had been trampled into ash by orc hordes. The royal family had simply relocated to nearby Orléans and declared it the new capital. Roughly sixty years later the Order collapsed, dealing their remaining authority a mortal wound.
And Montpellier was a free city—granted autonomy by both crown and church.
With the Vesta Order already shattered by the goddess's absence, ignoring royal authority alone would make swallowing the city entirely possible.
No. That's not quite right.
If Count Montpellier swallows the city of Montpellier, that bastard simply becomes the emperor of France.
It was not that ignoring the crown made conquest possible. The moment he took the city, the count's house would outrank the royal family itself. In other words: a de facto change of dynasty.
How could a mere count's house ever surpass the crown?
I ask the opposite: why would the other nobles automatically side with the royal family?
A French crown with neither authority nor Paris was nothing more than a balloon-muscled hat stand. If Count Montpellier offered to turn the king into a puppet and carve up the lands, every ambitious noble would cheerfully join the treason and collect their share.
She was certain now.
Count Montpellier's final target was the throne itself. He intended to absorb Montpellier, build a power base that eclipsed the royal house, reduce the king to a figurehead—or simply remove him—and take the crown for himself. Vermont Castle was merely the forward base for that conquest.
The realization sent a full-body shiver racing across her skin.
What kind of lunatic scheme is this feudal madman cooking up?
From this moment on, the count would use her to reclaim the free city's autonomy. He would inflate her name with his own prestige until the city's loyalty became the price of admission into the new industry—and the craftsmen would fall into line under his protection.
Once France's greatest city lay in the count's hands, the royal family and House Montpellier could never again share the same sky. Two suns cannot hang in one heaven.
And for Asty, who had walked into this castle of her own free will on the count's invitation, neutrality no longer existed as an option. Either accept his patronage and join the rebellion as one of his inner circle, or abandon everything and flee France entirely.
Given that the location of her family was already known to him, the only real choice left was to join the rebellion.
"Uh..."
I'm going insane.
I reincarnated less than half a year ago and I'm already getting dragged into a rebellion? Who set the difficulty this high?
And where the hell is our goddess right now? The Saintess is about to become a rebel ringleader!
"One more plate of chicken, please!"
I don't know anymore.
Fill the stomach first. Think later.