The Price of Counterfeit
The Genoese merchants were practically printing money. Those Castilian bumpkins were churning out textiles, biscuits, pancetta, and ham with such reckless abandon that all the merchants had to do was cross a single sea to see their silver coins multiply! But they were blissfully unaware that the "tide" was shifting.
The poor Castilian plateau, once incapable of growth due to high prices and a shattered domestic market, had transformed into a powerhouse of production following the arrival of the Marquis. Its wealth was finally beginning to pool.
Originally, the wealth of the New World would merely leave a fleeting scent in Spain before flowing to Genoa, the center of finance, and the Low Countries, the center of industry. The Spanish mainland had failed to accumulate that wealth, suffering only the double and triple burdens of the Price Revolution. But now, a small dam—or perhaps more accurately, a weir—had been built in that flowing stream of capital.
The very source that had triggered the "Price Revolution" and birthed inflation across Europe was now seeing its New World treasures pool, bit by bit, deep within the Spanish interior. And the way that wealth was transforming into productive capital was ruthlessly aggressive.
Olivares was a man desperate to stop the outflow of silver. He forced the army to buy new uniforms and food, effectively dragging that silver back into the country. Thanks to the truce with the Low Countries and England, there were few restrictions on merchant shipping, allowing private shipping magnates to grow steadily. At the heart of this stood Bilbao, the key port of the north.
"Velasco has made a direct request. They want us to pave the roads."
Since the shareholders had reached a consensus to focus on securing road networks and cutting transport costs, Velasco—which stood to gain the most from logistics—had directly petitioned Bilbao to secure the roads.
"Why on earth should we pave the roads? Tell them to figure it out themselves. There are so many merchant ships these days; let's use that money to expand the docking facilities instead."
"They say they'll do it if we want to transport wheat from within Castile."
"It’s cheaper to buy from Amsterdam than to cover those transport costs."
"Then we shall reject the motion."
With the sea made safe by the truce, Bilbao, where foreign wheat was cheaper than domestic grain, remained lukewarm. Eventually, the logistics heading toward the coast began to stagnate at the port. Despite Velasco’s fury, Bilbao, armed with its privileges, didn't care in the slightest.
March. The spring of blooming grass and flowers had arrived.
March is a crucial time to forecast the year's harvest and map out future plans. My farming methods are specialized in enduring bad harvests and maintaining yields. Since the great flood of '26, the weather in '27, '28, and '29 hadn't been great, but it hadn't been bad either. Perhaps this year's harvest would be decent as well.
"My Lord. We expect an above-average harvest for our farms again this year. However, the wheat fields across the rest of Castile are looking quite sickly."
Around Valladolid, it had become a trend to imitate my farming methods, so many had planted beans this year, but outside of this area, most people just planted wheat. As I had predicted during last year's settlement, everyone else's wheat fields were indeed struggling.
"Grain prices will rise."
"Indeed. The local pósitos (public granaries) have already begun restricting wheat exports. Should we also restrict the export of our grain for one reason or another?"
I shook my head at his suggestion.
"Leonel. Credit is a more valuable commodity than such small gains. As long as the warehouse receipts are legitimate, accept them."
"Ah, and we keep catching forgeries. It seems there are people organizing to forge them."
If a counterfeiter used them personally and got caught, I could just beat some sense into them, but the problem was that they were exploiting poor, ignorant farmers by giving them the fakes in exchange for chickens.
"If it were just a few, I’d write it off as a loss. But they started small and are gradually increasing... it’s truly difficult."
My granaries verify certificates through "double-entry verification." It aligns with the "double-entry bookkeeping" that forms the basis of modern accounting, acting as a filter to catch information discrepancies between the issuer and the recipient. Because I do this, I can tell that "there is a counterfeiter."
When issuing a warehouse receipt, I record the serial number, date of issue, amount of wheat, and user number in the ledger, so one must visit the warehouse city for any "deposit" or "withdrawal."
Basically, if you want to deposit or withdraw goods from my warehouse, you must create a registration card. Since I forbid withdrawals without a registration card—even if one has a certificate—I’ve been keeping a close eye on a few guys whose numbers were suspiciously erratic.
They keep bringing in certificates with already-used numbers, and if I don't accept them, they stir up trouble, claiming the Marquis is stealing their wheat! So I issue them for now, while tracking these "notorious users."
"Who could it be?"
When I said that in frustration, Leonel replied.
"It’s hard to see it as an individual. It’s quite organized. They likely know we are tracking them."
Advisor Spinola, who heard this, also chimed in.
"Judging by the fact that the paper texture of the forged certificates is different from ours, it is not the work of an insider."
Coming from Genoa, where he had both made and caught the most counterfeit documents, he had a wealth of experience in such matters.
"It’s definitely not Valladolid. They don't have the technology or the reason to make such things. They are the beneficiaries of the wheat certificate system."
Since the flood of '26, Valladolid had been developing haphazardly, feeling like a shantytown. Even if I wanted to do something, I was too busy building my warehouse cities and settlements. And since I had absorbed the skilled craftsmen, they didn't have the ability to pull such stunts.
"From my Genoese perspective, this feels like a cottage industry."
Advisor Spinola pointed to the faint pen marks left on the edge of a forged certificate.
"A cottage industry?"
"Yes. There are people who copy certificates by hand rather than using a press. It feels like the work of such people. The characteristic of these guys is that they aren't affected by changes to the design."
"They’re quite talented. How do they do that?"
I was dumbfounded at the idea of copying certificates by hand.
"Humans are remarkable. And these guys... there are many university students among them."
At Advisor Spinola’s words, Leonel answered.
"Salamanca."
"Ah, that’s a tough one..."
It was too far away, and the Duke of Alba’s influence was strong there.
"Is there no way?"
To my question, Advisor Spinola said.
"First, announce that you will stop exchanging wheat for forged certificates. And the characteristic of these guys is that they cannot replicate it if you use unique paper."
"Unique paper? What kind?"
"Generally, in Genoa, we mix dyes into paper made from linen rags or use a strong embossed stamp. And when doing double-entry verification, you shouldn't just stamp it and cut it in a straight line; you must cut it in an irregular shape."
Embossing is a method of pressing the paper hard to leave a pattern on the paper itself. It’s a technique still used in the 21st century—the one that makes money feel bumpy when you touch it.
"Let’s do it all. Contact Genoa and ask them to help with security measures."
"Understood, My Lord."
Though they were second-rate in Genoa, they sent me a "steel press" and "special pattern plates," the essence of coin-minting technology. I received this expensive equipment as a "sponsorship," but to the ruined industrial world of Castile, it was like semiconductor manufacturing equipment.
In other words, no one on the Castilian plateau would possess such things, and even with great manual dexterity, replicating the texture of the paper, rather than just the pattern, was impossible.
I started printing new paper with a different texture and added a tiny amount of blue dye to give it a sky-blue tint. Because it had to be adjusted precisely, like a secret family recipe, my paper workshop became a place where precise measurement was mandatory.
"Leonel."
"Yes, My Lord."
"Shall we go get them? The 'ringleaders'?"
When the issuance of the new certificates was ready, I announced the re-issuance of wheat warehouse receipts along with new rules.
1. Every time a certificate is circulated, the signature or seal of the transferor and recipient must be left on the back. Certificates with unclear circulation paths will be refused for exchange.
2. If a warehouse receipt number is duplicated, the bearer can be detained on the spot.
3. Old certificates can only be exchanged until Christmas Day, 1629.
Of course, if they wanted to exchange for the new certificates, they would have to come to the warehouse city. And the moment those "notorious users" showed their faces, they would have to go and greet some very scary gentlemen.
"I will contact the Security Division."
Leonel didn't hide his murderous expression, as if he were going to pay them back for the suffering of the past few months.
A middle-aged man with forearms thicker than a young lady's waist was smoking a pipe. In front of him sat a wooden desk, and on the other side sat a young man with a terrified expression. The young man, whose face looked battered as if he had fallen somewhere, didn't dare to look the middle-aged man in the eye.
"Name."
"J-Juan."
-THUD
As the man’s thick eyebrows twitched once, a burly man standing next to the youth who called himself Juan grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed it into the desk.
Only then did the reason for the red stains on the thick oak desk become clear.
"Name."
"Argh! Juan! Juan Alvaro de Andrade!"
Watching the youth with blood streaming from his nose, the middle-aged man took a deep puff of his pipe and said.
"Do you know why you’re here?"
"What did I do wrong! I am a theology student at the University of Salamanca!"
At the youth's retort, the middle-aged man let out a dry laugh and spoke to the burly man standing at attention.
"Hey. Take this bastard away. Give him another 'lesson' and bring him back. If he stays like this, be prepared."
-GRAB
As the burly man grabbed the youth by the nape of his neck to force him up, the youth desperately clung to the desk and begged.
"I'm sorry! I won't do it again!"
Only then did the middle-aged man, thinking he was ready to talk, give him a sheet of paper, ink, and a goose quill. The burly man standing next to the youth dragged him to the next room. It was a bleak room with no furniture or decorations. In the middle of the room, two scary gentlemen holding clubs stood solemnly.
"Write. What you did wrong."
Only then did the youth with the bloody nose notice the others. There were too many people he recognized among those lying on the floor, busily filling their papers.
"Don't look at the person next to you. Look only at your own paper."
As one of the gentlemen with a club growled, the temperature in the room dropped.
Juan, the bleeding university student, lay on the floor. Watching him start to write diligently, the burly man returned to the middle-aged man.
"Diego. Bring the next one."
At those words, the burly man left the room and dragged in a new "guest."
-Do you know who I am! Damn it! My family is the Enriquez! The mistress you serve is an elder of my family!
The middle-aged man couldn't help but laugh at the nonsense coming through the hallway. These pathetic, lowly wretches had dared to forge the Marquis's certificates. They wouldn't be here if they hadn't been caught in the "stain of suspicion" once or twice, so they must have been playing quite dirty—yet they were this arrogant?
"Diego. I'm going to eat, so 'make a man out of him' and put him in his seat."
"Yes. Colonel."
"Colonel? Call me Security Director. Is this still the army?"
"I will correct myself. Director."
"You can treat him a bit more 'specially.' Just leave his right hand and his mouth."
Former Tercio Colonel, "Maestre de Campo" Juan Bautista Fernández de Osorio.
He was an hidalgo who had devoted himself to the military since his youth. He was a typical military aristocrat who had risked his life on the battlefield and reached the high rank of Colonel in recognition of his bravery.
He was a veteran who, with a body crippled by injuries sustained on the battlefields of the Holy Roman Empire, had spent his days waiting in the palace corridors for the King's favor, clutching a petition for compensation. He had never been paid his salary, and the little wealth he had was spent on his soldiers.
"Osorio," the old man who had clung to his last shred of honor, loved this city. He loved that it needed him, recognized his abilities, and provided him with an honorable profession and a life that, while not wealthy, was not lacking.
Looking at these sturdy, rough warehouses, so different from the splendor of Madrid, reminded him of the days when he built fortifications on the battlefield.
Yes. To Colonel Bear, this was a war. He would defend against the attacks of cowards trying to steal the wealth of the warehouse city, protect the supplies, and blow the trumpet of victory.
Director Bautista, who had finished his palate cleanser by eating the city's specialty, the soft "bean cheese," felt a surge of good spirits as he opened the door to his office, from which the smell of fresh blood wafted.
He said the same thing to the man claiming to be an "Enriquez," who was now acting very docile.
"Do you know why you’re here?"
One month after I began catching the "notorious users," I succeeded in catching the "ringleader."
Juan Bautista Fernández de Osorio is a former Tercio Colonel and an original character. His appearance is modeled after WWE's Batista.
I wonder if a Tercio Colonel at this time would be equivalent to a 2-star general in the 21st-century Korean military. General Spinola is a 4-star general.