The earliest cracks in Sharath's grand census strategy did not originate from external foes nor plotting nobles. No, it originated within Unnatirajya itself—specifically a rather irate mob of villagers brandishing their newly distributed ID cards as if they were accursed talismans.
"Why does mine read 'talent: counting sheep' when I'm a carpenter?" a man bellowed in the census hall, his voice cutting through the hum of the crowd assembled.
One woman, grasping her card as if it were contagious, snapped, "And mine reads that I'm skilled in 'domestic herb preparation.' I've never even set eyes on a plant! I smelt iron!"
The whispers became a hum, and the hum became a roar that threatened to break into a riot. The guards eyed Sharath warily, hesitating whether to step in or flee.
Sharath pinched the bridge of his nose, grumbling, "Terrific. My beautiful vision of bureaucracy goes up in flames because some inebriated scribe couldn't distinguish herbs from hammers."
🐧NeuroBoop spoke up from inside his head with the weight of a self-satisfied bureaucrat.
"I said""Lord Excel Spreadsheet, manual transcription by sleep-deprived scribes would be your downfall. But""no, you just had to go out and play Census Hero. Ah, well done, you have invented""paperwork riots before inventing democracy."
"Shut up""Sharath growled silently, pasting on a diplomatic smile to the outraged crowd. "My""dear citizens! Fear not, for this issue shall be solved forthwith. In person. By me.
The audience fell silent in an instant. If there was one thing that they had learned already in all these months, it was that when Sharath mentioned personally, it meant things would be done—whether that entailed constructing a road in one night, creating toilets out of nowhere, or shredding slimes with magic machine guns.
Sharath reviewed the list of muddled skills that night, alone in his study. His palms massaged against his temples as he gazed at the muddled roll call of half-baked skills. Blacksmiths marked down as bakers. Bakers marked down as "herbalist level 1." Herbalists marked down as "professional gossips."
🐧NeuroBoop was almost humming with excitement.
"I told you to not trust human error. Next time, perhaps request that I conduct the census? Oh, no, wait, you needed the 'human touch.' And look what you have now: greasy palms and bureaucratic catastrophe."
Sharath slammed the cover closed. "Okay. Alright. We do it the correct way."
And The Great Re-Appraisal began.
Rather than using scribes, Sharath assembled the villagers in groups of fifty. He sat at the front of the hall, and 🐧NeuroBoop hummed softly in his brain. As each individual came forward, Sharath turned on his Appraisal ability. The glowing window opened before him, listing their actual skills, affinities, and idiosyncrasies. 🐧NeuroBoop cut in to receive the data straight away, recording it like a magical screen capture.
The villagers expected long interviews and endless writing like last time. Instead, Sharath waved them in and out like he was running a factory line. "Next! Appraisal. Done. Next! Appraisal. Done."
🐧NeuroBoop was gleeful.
"Oh yes, keep them moving. Efficiency! You've invented medieval conveyor-belt bureaucracy. All hail Lord Ford, father of the assembly line."
Word spread fast in town: Lord Sharath himself was judging everyone. Panic at first. Word was that he could see their deepest secrets, such as who had pilfered goats or who watered down his beer. By noon, murmurs ran through the crowd—"Does he know I dodged taxes?""Does he know I've been sleeping in the fields instead of working?""What if he sees my infatuation with Lady Ishvari?"
Sharath had to lop off the paranoia by issuing a public statement: "No, I don't care who kissed whom behind the granary. I only care if you can milk cows or forge iron. Now line up."
Within three days, each of Unnatirajya's 537 residents had a neatly printed, magically anchored corrected ID card. Unlike the weak, error-filled pieces of paper previously, these glowed softly with runes, indicating they were anchored to the individual and Sharath's stamp of approval.
For the first time in weeks, there was peace. The outraged mob vanished, to be replaced by whispers of wonder: their lord had solved the problem himself, and no one could dispute his success.
The Birth of Defenses
With that crisis behind him, Sharath devoted himself to something much more important: safety.
The failed assassination continued to plague him. The nobles' scheming wasn't going to cease merely because he mended ID cards. He required protection—actual protection.
For three months, his manor was a hurricane of creation. He barricaded himself in his laboratory, hauling in runestones, metals, and tubs of slime goo. Hammering, explosions, and Thermo the cat wailing resonated day and night.
🐧NeuroBoop grumbled incessantly.
"Good grief. We're creating Homeland Security in a fantasy medieval setting. What's the next thing? Spying runes, town gate metal detectors? Can I write you a Patriot Act, then?"
"Don't go encouraging me," Sharath grunted, scribbling diagrams frantically.
The outcomes were… disorganized initially.
Test alarm wards howled so forcibly that three villages over believed demons had entered.
A rune-lock gate inexplicably sealed itself shut, forcing Sharath to blast it open with his Uzi.
Recruit guards who tested the new rune-rifles were able to blow Lord Darsha's chicken coop out of the sky, sending frightened hens running wild on the estate.
The guards botched it like clowns. A soldier attempted to reload by shoving bread down the rifle. Another accidentally triggered the auto-trigger, spinning circles as he fired harmless mana sparks, yelling, "It's possessed!"
Thermo, of course, contributed to the calamity by strolling over the rune-covered blueprints precisely when he should not have. His paw marks resulted in a prototype warning rune converting into an actual magical fireworks display, sprinkling sparks across the estate courtyard.
🐧NeuroBoop was unforgiving.
"Oh yes, let's leave your defenses in the hands of these geniuses. Indeed, your army will inspire fear within enemies—fear that they'll be dying of laughter before a fight can even take place."
Sharath winced, "It's a learning curve, 🐧NeuroBoop. Guns required training in my previous existence, too."
But gradually, agonizingly, things stabilized. The rune rifles were leveled. The alarm wards were adjusted to ring bells rather than blinding everyone. The rune-locked gates were experimented with until they would open and shut on cue.
Three months in, Sharath revealed the first of Unnatirajya's Defense Prototypes.
Rune-Powered Alarm System: magical wards on the walls that glowed red and clanged enchanted bells if intruders came through.
Guard Rifles: M16-like rune rifles that shot mana projectiles rather than bullets, easy enough for trained men to fire.
Reinforced Gates: steel gates with runic locks that only Sharath and his select captains could activate.
Armored Carts: tricycles repurposed as heavy troop carriers, complete with mana-shield armor.
Surveillance Wards: lazy magical drones with scrying eyes floating above the land.
When the prototypes were rolled out into the courtyard, the villagers stood in wonder. Children pointed at the floating orbs. Old men whistled at the armored wagons. The guards preened about with their new rifles as if they were the chosen warriors of fate.
Lord Darsha stood with arms folded, smiling in approval. "Good. Very good. A proper duchy requires defenses."
Lord Bassana, always the merchant, rubbed his beard and breathed softly, "Do you know how much gold this will bring if we sell the designs? Countries will pay gold."
Sharath shook his head emphatically. "These are not for sale. These are for Unnatirajya. For my people."
The audience applauded. It was theatrics, it was politics, and it was the first time Unnatirajya felt secure.
But Sharath knew better.
For at the very recesses of his brain, 🐧NeuroBoop cackled with wicked glee:
"Enjoy your play fortress, Sharath. Because somewhere in the world, your foes are already making plans to shatter it. And oh, won't that be fun?