Scammed by the North's "Normalcy"

I felt like I'd been utterly scammed by the North's so-called normalization. No, it was a proper scam through and through. I sat alone at the end of the long, ornate mahogany dining table, staring blankly into space with dazed eyes.

When I opened my eyes, there was an unfamiliar ceiling, a handsome face, and the Grand Duke of the North, Theodor Balder. Up to that point, it was fine. The problem came after.

Forget the Academy—I was in the North. And not right after enrollment, but at the ripe age of twenty, long after graduation had come and gone. It was a full three years behind the original novel's timeline as I remembered it.

...This is straight-up genre fraud, isn't it? If this were a web novel, I'd have grabbed the author by the collar in the comments and ranted about not pulling genre scams. But this was stone-cold reality, without even a comment section to vent in.

I let out a long sigh and dropped my gaze downward. To check out the "Grand Duke's meal" set before me.

Before my eyes lay an ornate silver tray crafted with the finest techniques and gold-embellished candelabras. And smack in the center of all that finery...

A rock-hard hunk of rye bread. A watery soup without a single solid bit. And next to it, two fist-sized boiled potatoes rolling pathetically around.

"......"

The ruler governing the North. A table setting so pathetically meager it made the title of Grand Duke ring hollow.

...Right. It's the famine—the great famine—that's causing this. Or maybe the demon king's army invaded and torched all the granaries.

Yeah. That had to be it. There was no way it could be that I—or rather, this body's previous owner, Theodor—had gone mad over the heroine and sliced up the territory's foundations to hand them over, leaving the Grand Duke on a monk's diet.

I glanced up at Hans, standing rigidly at my side. The elderly butler's composed face regarded this dismal meal as entirely natural, looking at me instead with eyes full of pity.

I swallowed the torrent of curses rising to my throat and opened my mouth in as calm a voice as I could manage.

"...Hans. Has the territory's food situation always been this... modest?"

At my question, Hans's eyes flickered ever so slightly. He chose his words with utmost care, as if wary of offending me, before speaking.

"I apologize, Your Grace. Last month, a large merchant caravan headed to Lady Ayla's territory included a major portion of our emergency food reserves from the North."

"...Reserves?"

"Yes. As you know, Lady Ayla is building a new glass garden at her family estate. She's planning a grand banquet to celebrate its completion, inviting Empire nobles. She expressed concern over shortages of wheat and ingredients for the event."

Hans paused to gauge my reaction, then continued cautiously.

"Upon reading her letter, Your Grace was deeply moved and ordered the emergency granaries opened, loading the finest foodstuffs onto wagons for immediate dispatch."

Hans's voice was calm and polite, without a hint of reproach. But I perfectly decoded the true meaning hidden in those exceedingly refined, courteous words.

...Hah.

I closed my eyes tightly, stifling a hollow laugh.

Demon king invasion? Great famine? No. The true disaster of the North was me.

'This is way worse than I thought.'

It wasn't just dipping into emergency funds. I'd handed over the blood-sweat food reserves the territory's people needed to survive the harsh winter—all to decorate some other estate's party table.

At this rate, forget living lavishly as a rich layabout; I'd end up hanged by starving territory folk on the guillotine.

Assessment complete. I dropped the hard rye bread onto the silver tray with a loud thunk and fixed Hans with a straight stare.

No more delays.

"Hans."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Cut off all support heading south immediately."

"...Pardon?"

A flicker of deep bewilderment crossed Hans's face for the first time, cracking his unflappable poker face.

"Cut it off. Not a single gold coin, not a single grain of wheat. If any caravans or food wagons have already departed, dispatch knights to turn them back at once."

"But... Your Grace, this was a promise you made personally. Withdrawing it suddenly may cause considerable confusion on their end."

"Are my words not clear?"

I deliberately lowered my voice to a icy chill. As my inherent chill emanated, Hans flinched and bowed deeply in haste.

"...I shall obey, Your Grace."

"And by today."

I tapped the watery soup—mirroring my face—with my spoon as I spoke.

"Bring all financial ledgers from the past three years and itemized lists of everything sent to Ayla to my chambers. Not a single omission."

How much shit had this mad body's original owner dumped ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠over those lost three years? I needed to see ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it with my own eyes.

I finished the meal in a daze—barely registering what I'd swallowed—and rose from my seat. That's when it hit me: before poring over ledgers, there was something I needed to check first.

Numbers were just numbers. Amounts and items on paper wouldn't convey how broken the territory truly was.

How far the North had collapsed. How deep the hole I had to fill.

I needed to see it myself.

I stood and said to Hans,

"Hans. Guide me through the territory. I want to inspect it personally."

"The weather is quite cold today. I'll prepare a coat and escorts."

"No need. I'll go quietly."

Hans bowed without further question.

"...Understood, Your Grace."

As he bowed, the attending servants moved silently. Soon, I donned the thick winter coat they brought and stepped out of the Grand Duke's Mansion.

The moment the door opened, biting cold air slapped my cheeks. It stung my nose raw—a chill worlds apart from the mansion's temperate warmth.

The North's winter. What I'd seen as mere backdrop until now pressed onto my skin as stark reality.

The mansion's front retained its dignity: towering stone walls, steeply pitched roofs defying snow's weight, the North Grand Duke's flag flapping in the wind.

But as my view widened beyond the gates, the cracks in that dignity appeared.

Servants' quarters near the mansion had rags patched onto walls against the wind; servants crossing the courtyard looked utterly drained.

Farther out, the inner-wall village came into view. Smoke rose—but not signs of plenty. Chimneys puffed faintly; some were dead cold. Houses unable to afford proper fuel.

Passersby's faces were lifeless: shoulders hunched, hands cracked red and raw. Far too gaunt for the sturdy Northern build.

Children caught my eye first. Two huddled against a snow-piled stone wall in an alley, clinging to each other. No older than ten. Noses red-frozen, twig-thin fingers poking from ragged sleeves.

The younger bit his lip and tugged at a woman's skirt—his mother, presumably.

"Mom... I'm hungry."

His small voice rang unnaturally clear. She pulled him close but couldn't muster soothing words. Whether from lack or choked throat, I couldn't tell.

I stopped. Hot ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠fury surged from my gut.

'To heat that bitch's greenhouse, they stole food from kids like this?'

Pity for the original Theodor twisted into thick murderous rage. Disgust for the faceless heroine, Ayla, peaked too.

The whiny heroine and the duke fawning over her—both equally repulsive.

How could people be like that? They weren't blind to the starving. They just never looked.

Drunk on their lovey-dovey bubble, others' winter meant nothing.

I turned away. Any longer, and I'd march south to wring necks.

Instead, I moved on.

"Where's the warehouse."

Hans answered my low query promptly from behind.

"The storage depot on the eastern outskirts, Your Grace?"

"Yes."

Hans took the lead naturally. I followed.

The warehouse appeared sooner than expected: a massive structure of high stone walls and thick timber doors.

Guards at the entrance startled at my surprise arrival, snapping to attention.

"G-Grand Duke, salutations!"

I waved dismissively and strode inside.

"......"

The vast warehouse, meant to hold the North's entire food supply, was shockingly empty. My footsteps echoed hollowly.

At least, laborers in the back sweated as they bustled wooden crates.

I approached briskly.

"What are you doing?"

"Eek! G-Grand Duke...?!"

They dropped crates in panic, prostrating themselves.

"W-We were loading for the southbound wagons!"

"What's inside?"

"P-Premium spices..."

Hans's orders hadn't reached here yet. I declared coldly to the trembling workers,

"All supplies to the south end now. Unload everything from the wagons and store it back."

"Y-Yes?! U-Understood, we obey!"

They scrambled to haul crates back in at my command.

I surveyed the cavernous emptiness, eyes halting on dirt-smeared sacks piled mountain-like in a corner.

Opening one revealed familiar produce—overflowing.

'...Potatoes? A massive amount, too.'

I frowned at Hans.

"Hans. The warehouse is rotting with edible food like this—why are the people outside starving? Why not distribute it? Was this headed south too?"

Hans coughed awkwardly.

"Ahem, Your Grace. As you know, potatoes are the devil's crop... er, 'livestock fodder.' Grown as a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠famine crop on barren land, but even commoners shun them for the earthy smell and bad luck."

"What?"

"That's why Your Grace ordered potatoes on your table this morning—to set an example for the people."

Ah. The two fist-sized boiled potatoes on the silver tray earlier. That was the lord's "leading by example"?

I let out an incredulous chuckle.

'Crazy bastards. Livestock fodder, so they won't eat it?'

Grandpa K's spirit possessed me from the depths. Back in our famine days, we stripped pine bark till mountains went bald. And now? Earthy smell? No thanks?

'Were their bellies not empty enough?'

Didn't look that way...

Still, couldn't force-feed them.

"Understood for now. Leave the potatoes untouched and store as-is."

I issued the order curtly and exited.

I poked around the territory till sunset: outer wall repairs, soldiers' gear, folk hygiene. Far worse than imagined—a total shithole.

Back at the castle after darkfall, I dragged heavy steps to my chambers.

Warm fireplace glow. Piles of ledgers and manifests from Hans towered on my massive desk.

I flung off my coat and slumped into the chair. Picking up the thickest ledger, I smirked coldly.

"Alright... time to normalize this."

How much blood had the mad duke squeezed from his people for Ayla? And how many "rats" had fattened on the blind Grand Duke's scraps?

"I'll hunt every last one and smash their pots personally."