Preparations for Survival
Was it because I'd taken a gamble right in front of the Founding Emperor and caught his eye? The establishment of the National Tax Service was proceeding far faster than I'd anticipated. I'd figured it would take at least two years, no matter what. But now, it looked like things could be sorted in about a year and a half.
If someone asked whether a year and a half was fast, the answer was obviously yes. Even just building the structure would take longer than that. And reorganizing an administrative body tangled up in all sorts of vested interests? Forget about it.
Anyway, the formation of the three internal departments of the National Tax Service was picking up speed as well. I still didn't know who would head the Audit Division or the Investigation Division. But the outlines for the Director position were starting to solidify.
"The Director spot will probably go to a noble from the 8th Prince's faction."
"You know your stuff. Did someone tip you off?"
"This much is obvious even without inside info, Godfather."
"Don't get cocky. Politics is a circus that keeps defying expectations."
He had a point, so I just shrugged. In the end, the world turned on people's whims—starting or stopping at their caprice. Get too cocky thinking you know it all, and you could end up dead.
"Still, your guess on the Director is spot on. I don't know exactly who, but it's definitely someone from the Regestice family."
"The Prime Minister's coming out swinging from the start. With the power to choke anyone over taxes, no matter who they are, the 5th Prince's side must be on high alert."
"Have you ever seen that man handle anything cautiously? He's like a wildfire—could burn himself to ashes too."
Id noticed it before, but my godfather really didn't like the Prime Minister. Probably because their personalities were polar opposites. Godfather was laid-back, loved dealing with people and chatting. A dictatorial type like the Prime Minister must rub him the wrong way. His ears are only for the Emperor's commands, or so they said. One sentence that nailed the man perfectly.
"Even so, unless something drastic happens, he'll stay Prime Minister forever. Staying on good terms with him..."
"Enough. I've got new info from the Minister anyway. Once you hear it, Ethan, you'll see my worries aren't baseless."
What could make him so certain?
"The Prime Minister's goal is to complete the entire National Tax Service setup within a year and get it fully operational. That includes all personnel assignments and even the reporting systems."
"Within a year? Hold on. Is that even possible? Personnel selection is a mess of entanglements everywhere—you can't just shuffle people around willy-nilly."
"He says a year, but from what I see, he's aiming to cut it to eight months."
"No way... This is insane."
We'd already pegged the Director as 8th Prince faction, but this was extreme. The Director's advisory staff. The heads of the two divisions excluding Enforcement. Then the field operatives under them. And crucially, the new positions in the Finance Ministry linking to the National Tax Service.
This wasn't something the Founding Emperor could just point at someone and declare done. First, suitable candidates had to be proposed. Nobles would debate them. Objections? Compromise. Still no? Mutual concessions. Only then would the Emperor sign off, and assignments happen.
And that was just the start. They'd need time to adapt to their roles. Secure operating funds for the National Tax Service. Build tight communication with other ministries for smooth operations.
"That alone should take at least a year. Cutting it to eight months? Isn't that too reckless? The National Tax Service is important, sure, but rushing like this can't end well."
"You think the Prime Minister doesn't know that? A sharp guy like him has all those issues mapped out already."
"If he knows, then why...?"
I trailed off as it hit me—the reason behind the Prime Minister's push.
"Don't tell me. This is for the 8th Prince too?"
"Sharp as ever. Yeah. Looks like the Prime Minister wants to turn this new National Tax Service into the 8th Prince's achievement. The kid's got nothing to show compared to the others, so he's forcing something through."
"That's a stretch."
The 8th Prince—Rustone Prince—was only ten now. In my past life terms, elementary school. When the Condor Empire fell and the empire began, he was just four. No feats, no heroics possible. It was impossible from the start.
That's why the crown prince debate kept circling back to him. With the 1st Prince dead, primogeniture was out. By order, the 2nd Prince should be elevated. By talent, the 5th Prince topped the list. Either way, the 8th Prince couldn't compete.
Hence the Prime Minister's desperate play.
"Debates are still raging, but it'll fizzle out. What matters is His Majesty's will. And from what I see, he's already chosen the 8th Prince."
"Otherwise, the Prime Minister wouldn't move like this. For all his arrogance and radicalism, his loyalty to the Emperor is genuine."
That's why even I hesitated, despite the Earth's authors' historical accuracy. No matter how brilliant the 5th Prince was, he wasn't the Emperor. Not just any emperor—the founding one, a war hero to boot. Even at sixty, he could take down three knights. Defy him? Might as well beg for death.
"With things like this, Ethan, your position gets even trickier. The Prime Minister will try pulling you into the 8th Prince's camp—coax or threaten, whatever works. You're the brain behind Enforcement, after all."
"I've been feeling the pressure subtly these past few days. Talk of how the Prime Minister pushed the National Tax Service agenda, how His Majesty is watching. That sort of thing."
"The other princes will fight to snag you too. You openly defied His Majesty's will in the council chamber and crossed the Regestice family, the 8th Prince's maternal relatives."
"Crossed them? It was truly for the empire, I swear."
"Maybe to you. But the Regestices might see it differently. Hell, they might be dead set on pushing you out."
Godfather's last words weren't a joke. They might really try. The Regestices had to make the 8th Prince heir, no matter what. Fail, and it wouldn't just be political exile—they'd be torn apart by whoever became crown prince instead.
Right now, the 8th Prince's faction was cornering me for an answer. Pressure from the Prime Minister and others was mounting. These were far greater men than I, with more prestige. Even as fellow Founding Contributors, the Prime Minister and I weren't equals. If he wanted an answer, my options were slim.
Give the answer he wants. Or act the opposite.
Or make him back off on his own.
But for that, I needed a bigger splash. Stamping my mark with the Emperor and heading Enforcement would help, but it wasn't immediate. Not enough.
Something to make them truly recognize me. Something to shift their pressure to overtures.
I desperately hoped for something to happen.
*
The Empire's Foreign Ministry handled all diplomatic affairs. They were in a real bind right now.
"The Eastern Plains tribes want an envoy? And Buriller of the Urut Tribe mentioned it directly?"
"It seems they're getting anxious. His Majesty, whom they thought they had some rapport with, declared the empire six years ago and hasn't sent so much as a sign since."
The old Condor Empire, weakened, had faced invasions from all sides. Northern winter barbarians. Southern pirate coalitions. Eastern Plains tribes.
The Founding Emperor had crushed them all. Along the way, he'd built decent ties with the Eastern Plains tribes—especially the Urut, closest to him. Rumor was he shared a personal friendship with Buriller's son back then.
After that, the Eastern tribes mostly stayed off imperial borders. Time passed; the war hero became Founding Emperor, and Buriller's son became Buriller, leading his tribe.
Empire's sovereign and tribe's chieftain—similar yet worlds apart. Their old bonds had held so far, but misunderstandings were brewing among the tribes.
The guy we thought we could talk to changes once he's emperor. Might turn swords on us for his glory. No envoy in six years proves it. We need to gauge the empire and emperor's true intentions—now!
"What nonsense. We've been too busy purging Condor remnants to bother. They're not even a nation—just scattered tribes. Why send an envoy?"
"We can't ignore them entirely. The Urut have kept other tribes in check, keeping our eastern border quiet since the founding. They're pro-empire thanks to His Majesty's ties. Silence now might flip that."
The northern barbarians and southern pirates had been crushed, steering clear of borders and coasts for years. But who knew how long? They could strike tomorrow.
In this climate, the eastern border had to stay calm.
"Sending an envoy's a problem too. Who'd volunteer in this political climate? Shortest trip's four months round. Everyone's clawing for higher posts in the capital—envoy duty's basically exile."
Who to send? The Foreign Ministry racked their brains. In the end, it went to the imperial council.
And so began the "Not it" game.
"I'll go."
The one raising his hand? None other than Ethan.