Chapter 40
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 040
Chapter Title: Spiritual War
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One week later, in the grand conference hall of Prague Palace.
The festival's fervor still lingered in corners of the city, but the air inside the conference room was heavy and silent.
The past week had been cleanup duty.
Inventorying the spoils of war and gathering the scattered corpses.
And today was the day to tally all that bloodshed into cold numbers.
Janos was the first to speak.
"Here is the final casualty report from the Battle of the Prague Plains, tallied up until dawn this morning."
The rustle of turning parchment echoed unusually loudly through the room.
"First, our losses. 124 dead. 850 wounded. Around 200 are seriously injured, with the rest suffering minor bruises or abrasions."
No sooner had Janos finished than stifled groans erupted from various spots in the room.
"Gods..."
"Just over a hundred...?"
It was an exchange ratio impossible to believe from a battle against a 100,000-strong army.
Most of the dead hadn't even fallen in combat—they'd died in accidents while recklessly pursuing the fleeing enemy.
"The enemy... An exact count is impossible, but we've recovered over 8,000 bodies from the field alone. Including those trampled during the retreat or those who succumbed to wounds, total casualties likely exceed 15,000."
Janos's report continued.
"We have 34,000 prisoners secured. The remaining 50,000-odd scattered in disarray without command structure and fled beyond the borders, so the Empire's main force is effectively annihilated."
A miracle born of asymmetrical warfare: gunpowder weapons and mechanized units.
Even hearing it again, the results were unbelievable. All eyes in the room turned to me.
I paused, noting the awe mixed in those gazes, then spoke.
"Good. Let's start with our side. 124 dead. Have we identified next of kin?"
"Yes, Your Highness. We have the list, but..."
Now it was my turn. I tapped the casualty list with my pen and declared as firmly as possible.
"Every soldier who died in this battle will receive a full year's pay in a lump sum."
"Pardon...?"
"And for their families: if they have children, provide monthly grain rations—or equivalent silver—until they come of age."
Cenek shot up from his seat in shock.
"Y-Your Highness! That's too much! They're just conscripted peasants. Dying for their lord is their duty and honor—why drain the treasury for such extravagant compensation...!"
But my orders didn't end there.
"Furthermore, those who lost limbs or suffer lasting disabilities that hinder their livelihood—employ them as castle laborers, guards, or administrative aides. Ensure they can live without want for life. The state will take responsibility for their remaining years."
The room buzzed like a disturbed hive.
Those unable to hide their bewilderment were mostly the conservative Prague nobles.
One moderate noble, Hynek Krusina of Lichtenburg, interjected cautiously but urgently.
"Your Highness. Covering funeral costs for the dead is customary, but pensions for families and lifelong support for the disabled? Must we spend so much from the treasury on mere peasants?"
"Mere peasants."
His words were utterly commonplace for a medieval noble.
In this era, soldiers were expendable. If they died on the field, tough luck. If wounded, they fended for themselves.
A lord's mercy extended at most to a proper burial and a church grave. Even that had peasants kowtowing in gratitude.
A chuckle escaped my lips.
"Lord Krusina."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Those mere peasants staked their lives on my single command and pushed back a wall of steel. Because they held firm before the cannons instead of fleeing, you're sitting there breathing right now."
"Th-that's..."
I fixed him with a glare, and Krusina fell silent, words dying on his tongue.
"If those who shed blood for the state end up begging in the streets, penniless for their sacrifice, who will pick up a spear in the next war? Who will risk their life for the king?"
I scanned the room coldly.
"This isn't waste—it's an investment. The surest, most efficient defense spending there is. No further objections on this matter."
A modern state's veteran support system.
This was the foundation for the central army I aimed to build.
The belief that even if I die, my family won't starve.
The conviction that the state has my back—that's when a soldier truly lays down his life for his country.
That's the real loyalty I want from my troops.
Honor and faith mean nothing if you and yours aren't fed and sheltered.
"Gods..."
"Unbelievable..."
The nobles could only gape, at a loss for words.
They feared this alien notion of valuing common lives would upend their privileges more than the money itself.
In contrast, the university professors and theologians among the moderates, and the Taborite commanders who'd bled in battle, had a different gleam in their eyes.
Jan Zizka nodded gravely.
"I am in awe of Your Highness's wisdom. Once word spreads, the soldiers will gladly die for you. You've earned loyalty beyond any price."
As he said, I could feel the soldiers' gazes shift subtly.
It'd cost a pretty penny, but the returns far outweighed it.
"Good. Next: prisoner handling."
I lightened the mood and asked,
"34,000 mouths. We can't feed them all forever. Classification done?"
Janos stepped forward, opening his notebook.
"Yes. About 2,100 nobles of knight rank or higher. The rest are conscripts and mercenary rabble."
"Nobles as per custom. Write their families demanding ransom. Scale by title and lands, release in order of payment. Non-payers go to the dungeons."
"Understood. That'll be quite the windfall."
Simple enough. Standard medieval business.
The issue was the remaining 32,000 common prisoners.
"What about the conscripts?"
Janos asked, looking troubled.
"They're penniless peasants. No ransom in them. Letting them go feels like a waste, killing them means dealing with the bodies. They're just grain-guzzling parasites..."
The room grew heavy again.
In the Middle Ages, prisoners without ransom faced grim fates: death, lifelong slavery, or—at best—a limb chopped off before release.
One hardline Taborite commander raised his hand.
"Your Highness, they're the Pope and Emperor's vanguard. Spare them, and they'll take up arms again. Why not behead them all and gibbet their heads on Prague's walls as a warning?"
"Too cruel. Better to enslave them as serfs—helps the treasury."
The retainers casually debated massacre or serfdom as obvious choices.
I couldn't help frowning.
Even for the Middle Ages, sentencing 32,000 to execution or lifelong bondage sat wrong with my 21st-century sensibilities.
Slaves and serfs were technically different, but from a modern view, much the same.
Releasing them outright would just be foolish.
Then an idea flashed through my mind. Yes... if we do it this way...
"Hold on."
I stood and approached the wall map.
"No need to kill or enslave them. Give them jobs to work off their own ransom."
"Jobs, Your Highness?"
"Exactly."
Northern Bohemia, in Silesia.
There lay untapped black jewels brimming with potential: coal and iron ore.
The rice of the Industrial Revolution. Fuel for the steel empire.
"Set fair wages. Two groschen a day. Deduct room, board, tool rental—and crucially—their ransom."
A strange silence blanketed the room.
I pressed on, undeterred, outlining my business model.
"3,000 groschen per common prisoner. Promise freedom and return home once they've paid it off through mine work. They get a chance to serve as honest kingdom laborers; we get the workforce. A perfect plan—no losers."
My math checked out. Industrialization needed vast labor for coal and iron.
Shoving locals into mines would ruin farming, but 32,000 volunteers delivered to our door? Different story.
'They'll be grateful to be alive, hopeful, so they'll work hard. True win-win.'
No killing, even a path to freedom through effort. Humane and rational—even by modern standards.
I scanned the room, awaiting approval. But the reactions were off.
Janos gaped at me in horror. Cenek had gone pale, trembling.
Lord Kuno asked in a quavering voice,
"Your Highness, those Silesian coal mines? Hundreds of meters underground, pitch black, crawling through dust and poison gas—that hell?"
Cenek crossed himself and cried out.
"Oh Lord! Even for enemies, burying 32,000 alive? Satan himself would recoil from such punishment!"
"What?"
No, I just meant giving them jobs?
Then it hit me. To medieval folk, mine work wasn't employment—it was torment incarnate.
No safety gear, toxic gases and rockfalls routine. Only the worst convicts went there.
"My lord... you're ruthless."
Janos shook his head, eyes gleaming with odd respect.
"Death's too merciful a rest. You'll wring them till their bones are dust, squeezing their blood for your steel... Truly, the Steel King. Even your heart is steel."
"No, listen. We'll dig ventilation shafts, install safety supports..."
"Yes, yes. Keep them alive as long as possible to dig more, right? Noted."
Janos scribbled [32,000 prisoners → Silesian camps] without hearing me out.
Zizka let out a low chuckle.
"Worse than death... As expected of Your Highness. Beheading's too kind. You'll make them regret ever setting foot in Bohemia—not just in their bones, but as dust fertilizing our soil."
The nobles around whispered in fear.
"Hear that? Till they pay off the ransom."
"No one survives a year in the mines. 3,000 groschen? Means die to get out."
"What if we slip up? Off to the mines?"
Terror now clearly shone in their eyes toward me.
'...That's not what I meant.'
A pang of injustice rose, but I let it go.
Explaining modern safety and mining tech wouldn't convince them without seeing it.
Besides, fear could be a useful tool of rule.
"Ahem. Anyway, ship the conscripts to Silesia at first light tomorrow. Their labor will drive Bohemia’s industrial revolution."
I ended the meeting with my sternest face.
In one corner, Lord Kuno crossed himself, murmuring,
"Lord, look upon those poor souls with mercy..."