Inheritance Tax and Ghost Stories (2)

Even under a monarchy stratified by status and rank, the Empire encouraged free economic activity among commoners.

After all, that was how you squeezed more taxes out of them.

So not every commoner was as destitute as Rhea.

Still, a commoner wealthy enough to own a mansion right in the heart of the capital—like Barton—was vanishingly rare.

That district belonged to nobles so rich their money practically rotted in the vaults.

A commoner holding a mansion in a noble residential quarter?

No matter how deep his pockets, would the surrounding aristocrats simply sit back and watch?

And the paperwork was plastered with absurd phrases about "ghost stories" and the like?

The whole affair reeked from a mile away.

And that wasn't the only thing that smelled off.

A commoner—not even a noble—refuses to pay his taxes, and the Tax Collection Bureau can't do a thing about it? You've got to be kidding me.

Right. I had no idea how formidable this Barton character was supposed to be, but the idea that the Tax Collection Bureau of the Imperial Treasury would be stymied by a single commoner was pure nonsense.

Hmm. Enough of the paperwork. Let's hear Rhea's report.

I lifted my head and gave a nod to Rhea, who stood at rigid attention in front of my desk.

Visibly tense, she began her briefing.

"Barton, proprietor of the Barton Merchant Company, inherited the company and this problematic mansion from his father, Born. He has paid the inheritance tax on the rest of the estate, but the tax on this mansion has been in arrears for several years."

"And how did the Tax Collection Bureau respond?"

"Yes, sir! The Bureau notified Barton of the delinquency on multiple occasions, but he claimed the company's finances were poor and said he would simply forfeit the mansion."

"So he keeps everything else and just dumps the mansion? Is that even allowed?"

"Ah. In principle, no. What Barton meant was that he would surrender the entire mansion in lieu of the unpaid inheritance tax."

The situation was nearly impossible to make sense of.

All the Bureau had to do was carry out the seizure and reclaim the mansion for the national treasury, just as he claimed to want. So what on earth had they been doing that this case had escalated into a malicious tax-evasion referral?

As one question piled onto the next and I tilted my head, Rhea rifled through her documents for a moment before continuing.

"The fact that Barton paid inheritance tax on everything except the mansion, combined with his stated willingness to transfer the property to the Crown in place of the tax, was recognized in court. He received no punishment whatsoever."

"I don't care about the mansion or any of that. Can't they just collect from the assets he still holds?"

"For the reasons I just mentioned, and because an enforcement order for the mansion has already been issued, a forced collection order against Barton's personal assets is reportedly impossible."

"Hmm…"

"The problem is that before the mansion can be absorbed into the treasury, personnel must be sent in to appraise its value—and that is where the trouble begins…"

"Because of those ghost stories tied to the place?"

"Yes, sir. Exactly. Every Tax Collection Bureau employee who entered the mansion came running out foaming at the mouth. They claim they saw ghosts, or something of the sort…"

In short: they first needed to compare Barton's unpaid inheritance tax against the mansion's appraised value.

But the ghost living in the place had made the appraisal itself impossible?

And that was why the case had landed on my desk?

This is peak nonsense.

I drew a sharp, incredulous breath. Rhea, watching my face carefully, slid a single sheet of paper across to me.

"Is this bastard insane?"

The moment I finished reading the document Rhea had handed me, a curse slipped out before I could stop it.

This Barton guy wasn't a merchant—he was a novelist.

Who puts this much care into writing such complete garbage?

"Th-the Tax Collection Bureau staff insist that every word of it is true. And also…"

"Also? There's more?"

"Barton commissioned the Temple himself to resolve the matter, and even the priest who inspected the mansion fainted."

"A priest? An actual priest I would recognize? He didn't drag in some quack, did he?"

"Yes, sir. Afterward the Temple officially issued documentation stating that the soul of the dead resides in the mansion."

I was so flabbergasted I couldn't speak. Rhea held out the papers sent over from the Temple.

Just in case, I examined them carefully—but the large official seal of the priest in charge was genuine.

"Everyone involved has lost their minds."

"W-well, given how many people have gone in and come out thoroughly traumatized, it's hard to say that…"

"Secretariat. Are you afraid of things like ghosts?"

"Sir?! I-I mean…"

"Tsk. Pathetic."

I clicked my tongue at Rhea, who stammered and broke out in a cold sweat.

Then I let out a long sigh and picked up a pen that had been rolling across my desk.

"Further reports are pointless. I'll draft a cooperation request. Take an escort from the guard detail and bring Barton here at once."

Nothing about the situation was trustworthy, so I decided to meet the man himself.

Even if I was going to raise hell, I needed to know what I was dealing with if I wanted a disciplinary action severe enough to let me quit.

"Aigoo! An honor to meet you, sir! This lowly one greets a personage of such noble standing!"

Barton's face alone was enough to set off alarms.

A body bloated like a jar, a thin little mustache, and squinting eyes to top it off.

The classic physiognomy of a sycophant.

On top of that, despite meeting me for the first time, he was wringing his hands like a fly and acting familiar—deeply irritating.

"You know perfectly well why I wanted to see you, don't you?"

"Oh my! Of course, of course! It's about the inheritance tax, isn't it? That this worthless creature has stolen the precious time of the Special Tax Collector himself—I have committed a crime worthy of death!"

"Good. Then you understand."

"Sir?!"

"I said, if you understand, that's enough."

"……"

I crossed my arms and looked down at him with a flat expression. Barton, who had been smiling and fawning nonstop, rolled his beady eyes in visible panic.

I paid it no mind.

I set the documents related to his case in front of him and spoke again.

"Is everything written here true?"

"Yes, sir. Every word of it. Not a shred of falsehood."

"You intend to renounce ownership of the mansion and refuse to pay the inheritance tax?"

"Aigoo, it's driving me mad, sir! The Special Tax Collector knows full well how much the inheritance tax on that mansion is. A full thousand gold! One thousand gold!"

One thousand gold. Roughly a billion won in my old world's currency—an enormous sum.

One might wonder how an inheritance tax could be that expensive, but mansions in the capital's central district started at five thousand gold at the absolute minimum.

Inheritance tax typically ran anywhere from one-tenth to one-third of an estate's value, depending on the territory.

And here in the capital, ruled directly by the Emperor, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠rate was roughly one-fifth.

For a mansion sitting in the capital's finest residential quarter, a thousand gold in inheritance tax was, frankly, not that much.

"Wouldn't it be far more profitable to simply pay the tax and sell the mansion to someone else? And you happily accepted the merchant company—why forfeit only the mansion?"

"The company is how I put food on the table, so I had no choice but to pay the tax and take the inheritance, sir. But that dreadful mansion is useless to me in every way, and even if I wanted to sell it, the rumors have already spread so far that no one will buy."

Oh-ho. Look at this one.

True to his merchant blood, he was lying without so much as a blink.

There's no hard evidence, but every circumstance points to him lying through his teeth.

The surrounding nobles sitting idle while a commoner-owned haunted mansion stood next door.

Barton calling in a priest and making the whole mess bigger, even though a ghost rumor would make the place unsellable.

Merchants as a breed would do anything if there was money in it—ghosts be damned.

And this merchant was going to swallow a loss and hand over a mansion over something as ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠trivial ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as a ghost?

Laughable.

Since the Tax Collection Bureau can't appraise it, he's just going to sit on the unpaid tax and wait them out.

His scheme was so obvious it was almost insulting.

And I could see exactly what that mansion was being used for.

I was worried an innocent scapegoat might turn up. What a relief.

Having finished my thoughts, I looked at Barton with a thin, crooked smile.

"One last question. If I solve the mansion's little problem for you, will you pay the inheritance tax?"

"E-excuse me?! What on earth do you mean by that all of a sudden, sir?"

"Exactly what I said. Once that problem is gone, paying the tax, inheriting the building, and selling it would be the more profitable move, wouldn't it?"

"Well, that is true, but…"

"You were going to transfer ownership to us anyway. Why the sudden regretful dithering?"

"N-not at all, sir! Aigoo! If the Special Tax Collector would do such a thing for me, I would revere him as my lifelong benefactor!"

You little shit. I can hear the gears turning in that head of yours from here.

You really lucked out, running into me.

"The method may be somewhat… extreme. If things go wrong, the mansion could…"

"Hahaha! No matter at all, sir! As the Special Tax Collector says, I've got nothing to lose—what's the problem?"

"Then write up a consent form."

"Yes! Yes! A consent form, anything you like—I'll write it all!"

At a glance it looked like gratitude.

But those half-lidded squinting eyes made it clear: this was open mockery and a challenge. Go ahead and try, if you dare.

After Barton finished our conversation and left, I summoned Rhea at once to grant his wish.

"Secretariat Rhea. On your way home, stop by Imperial Army Headquarters, find a man named Brigadier General Cromwell, and deliver this cooperation request."

"Sir? I-Imperial Army Headquarters?!"

Rhea stared at me with trembling eyes, unable to hide her shock—but the moment I narrowed my brow, she snatched up the cooperation request and bolted.

I'll teach you clearly: humans are far more terrifying than ghosts.

Minister. You're the one who turned me into a monster.

This is all your fault—so take your karma and like it.