The reforms had appeared perfect on paper. Sharath, gazing at his precisely inked schematics, had been certain the entire operation would fall effortlessly into place like cogs in a machine of his design. A census, an ID system, elite guards—neat, logical, elegant.
Reality, it seemed, had teeth.
The Census Begins
The first scribes went out with parchment, ink, and question lists. They were excited—at least until the villagers started to respond.
"What's your name?" one scribe asked a large, muscular farmer.
"Mean the name my wife calls me when I'm angry, the name my friends give me, or the name the priest says I should use?"The scribe blinked. "Uh. All of those?
In two hours, the census book filled up with such entries as Raju / Idiot / Saint Raju of Turnipfield—not any of which were of any use for identification.
Another farmer, being questioned about his age, puffed out his chest. "Thirty-five."
His wife slapped him with a ladle. "Thirty-five? You fraud, you're fifty if you're a day!"
The farmer went red. "All right, forty. Forty-three. Forty-seven?!"
The scribe, sobbing quietly into his ink pot, entered Age: Uncertain. Appears Old.
By the end of day one, the census people had more contradictions than facts. Three men turned out to be the same "Harold," five children were "beyond a doubt heirs of some forgotten noble family," and at least one grandmother insisted her profession was "Professional Gossip."
The ID Outrage
But the real chaos began when the first ID plaques were handed out. Smooth wooden discs, etched with glowing runes, each bore the villager's name, age, occupation, and a faint magical seal to prevent forgery.
The villagers' reactions ranged from awe to outrage.
One old man squinted at his plaque and shouted, "Why does it say I'm seventy-two?! I'm sixty! Sixty-five at most!"
"Sir, the appraisal rune doesn't lie," the scribe explained gently.
"The rune's wrong, then! Throw it away!" The man stomped off, muttering darkly about sorcery ruining his chances with the widow next door.
Another woman inspected her plaque with horror. "Occupation: Brewer's Assistant? That's not fair! I've been sneaking extra sips for years—I deserve at least Brewer's Mistress!"
And then there were the conspiracy theorists. "This is how he'll control us," one muttered in the marketplace, waving his ID plaque in the air. "First it's names and ages. Next, he'll make us wear matching uniforms and march in lines. Mark my words, this is the end of freedom!"
His friend gasped. "You mean… we'll have to pay taxes on turnips?!"
"Exactly!"
Before long, half the town square was yelling about turnip taxes that Sharath had not even spoken about.
Public Outrage
By the third day, the outrage had reached a fever pitch. The shouting was audible from Sharath's study before the servants even knocked.
"Lord Sharath, the people want answers," one exclaimed.
Sharath massaged his temples. "Already? It's only three days!"
"Correction," 🐧NeuroBoop thought to himself, smug as ever. "It's been precisely seventy-four hours, twelve minutes, and thirty-three seconds. But who's counting? Oh, right. Me."
"Not helping," Sharath grumbled.
"Helping? I'm your personal AI sass generator, not a motivational coach. You didn't think presenting IDs would be a cakewalk, did you? You literally created magical bureaucracy. Bureaucracy is Latin for 'angry villagers with pitchforks.'"
"…It's not," Sharath struggled in protest.
"Now that it is. Check it out in the Dictionary of I Told You So."
Sharath sighed. "Okay. Town hall meeting. Tonight. Everyone."
The Town Hall Meeting
Unnatirajya's great hall was packed to the walls. Farmers in muddy boots, craftsmen with ink-stained hands, housewives hanging onto spoons like cudgels—all packed together, grumbling and scowling. At the front, Sharath was standing on a raised platform, between his father Varundar and grandfather Bassana.
Lady Ishvari crossed her arms, front row seat, eyes blazing at him like a hawk waiting for her son to falter.
Sharath cleared his throat. "My people. I know many of you are… confused by the census and identification system."
"Confused?!" someone shouted. "It says my age is eighty-three! I'm seventy!"
"You don't look a day under ninety!" another jeered.
Laughter spread through the crowd.
Sharath held up his hands. "Listen! These appraisal runes are correct. These IDs will safeguard you. Picture assassins entering our land—how will we distinguish friend from foe? With these plaques, each and every one of you is documented, identified, secure. Without them, we open ourselves to anarchy."
"Anarchy like the census declaring my husband has two wives?" one housewife insisted.
"That was an administrative mistake," Sharath grumbled.
"Clerical error? That guy's going to be clerically killed by his wife," 🐧NeuroBoop joked to himself.
Sharath put on a forced smile. "These IDs also assist us in knowing your skills. If you are skilled at smithing, we won't waste you in the fields. If you are a farmer, we won't force you into carpentry. You'll be put where your talents flourish best."
The murmurs eased. Some of the villagers looked back at their plaques again, scowling less intensely.
"And consider the future," Sharath urged. "When we have commerce with other kingdoms, when we become a city larger than the capital, these IDs will demonstrate that Unnatirajya is not a state of anarchy, but of order, plenty, and justice."
There was silence. Then a man stood up. "So… no turnip tax?"
Sharath's eye flickered. "No turnip tax."
The crowd went wild.
Guard Training Disasters
The villagers being placated, Sharath set his sights on his next endeavour: training the top personal guard. Volunteers flooded in—devoted men and women willing to serve the young lord. Loyalty was one thing, however, operating enchanted firearms was another.
On the first day of training, a recruit successfully fired his rune-rifle backwards. The bullet ricocheted through the training yard, cutting through a flagpole, a barrel of apples, and his own boot.
Another soldier, while trying to show off "cool spins," dropped his gun. The rune circuits flashed, shooting the gun out of his hands like a startled bird. It fell a moment later, burying itself in the mess hall roof.
Sharath pinched the bridge of his nose as 🐧NeuroBoop cackled in his skull."Behold! The mighty protectors of Unnatirajya. If the assassins don't die laughing, I'll be shocked."
Still, progress came. Slowly. By the end of the week, the recruits could at least march in formation without shooting each other. By the second week, they even hit targets more often than by accident.
The Census Results
When the census books were finally gathered, even Sharath was taken aback by the results.
Unnatirajya had 537 people—farmers, blacksmiths, carpenters, brewers, herders, scribes. But among them were talents that no one had ever seen.
A withdrawn shepherd boy was found to have a strange talent for healing magic. An old woman, assumed to be nothing more than a busybody gossip, possessed encyclopedic knowledge of herbs and medicines. A grumpy fisherman proved to be a natural at runic carving, forming symbols into nets without even knowing the skill's delicacy.
Sharath shared the findings at another town meeting. "These findings," he said, "confirm why this census was so important. You are no longer lost in the crowd. You are heard. Your abilities are recognized. And they will be utilized to make this country stronger."
The applause was real this time. Even the conspiracy buffs applauded.
A Private Moment
That evening, once the crowds had gone, Sharath sat on his mansion balcony, gazing up at the stars. Thermo the cat lay on his lap, purring with pleased disinterest.
"You did it," Varundar said, sitting down beside him. His father's face was weary, but pleased. "I have to admit, I was not certain of you. But maybe this system will succeed."
Sharath let out a breath. "It has to. Otherwise, we'll get chopped down before we ever rise."
Bassana laughed behind them. "You're just like I was at your age. Only I didn't have glowing rifles or a sarcastic attitude in my head."
"You're welcome," said 🐧NeuroBoop, grinning.
Sharath smiled weakly, stroking Thermo. "This is just the start. We've conquered red tape. Next, we conquer the dungeon anew."
🐧NeuroBoop groaned. "Oh, joy. Slime again. Forsooth, this is the epic tale of our time: form-filling and goo."
Sharath smiled, the laughter ringing out into the night. Tonight, the citizens of Unnatirajya were sleeping more securely, IDs held tightly in their fists. Tomorrow, the labor would resume. Tomorrow, the anarchy would come back.