The passing of the Land Reform Act was a small victory in the palace, but its impact reverberated like thunder across the countryside. For decades, the Joseon peasantry had suffered under escalating rents, usurious interest rates, and the constant threat of eviction that enriched the very nobles who sat in the Council.
Maya insisted on immediate, highly public implementation. She understood the power of symbolism, especially in countering the lingering damage of Choi's propaganda, which had painted her as a greedy, destructive "Serpent."
The most powerful image of change came from the eastern provinces, the very region Choi had conspired to surrender.
Days after the law was ratified, Maya, flanked by a small entourage that included a proud Dong-jin and the highly efficient Scholar Aisha, traveled to a small village ravaged by past drought and debt.
A local farmer, a man named Han-su whose family had worked the same patch of land for seven generations, was chosen as the first recipient of the new decree. Han-su was a man worn down by worry, his hands rough, his eyes haunted by debt collectors.
In a carefully staged public ceremony outside the village's small shrine, Maya personally presented Han-su with the sealed decree. The parchment confirmed his family's title to the land, clear of all predatory debt—a gift of security and hope.
As he realized the finality of the document, Han-su, overcome with emotion, dropped to his knees. He was not bowing to the Crown Prince, but to Maya. Tears streamed down his face, and a wide, genuine smiling farmer was seen receiving the decree for land reform.
The image was powerful and immediate. The official royal painters and chroniclers ensured the depiction of the grateful farmer receiving the decree from the benevolent new advisor—Princess Anansi—was distributed far and wide. The narrative shifted instantly in the popular mind: the "Serpent" did not poison; she protected. The "Foreign Interloper" did not steal; she gave land back to the people.
This was Maya's masterpiece of political theater. It countered every lie Choi had spread and established her as a champion of Joseon's common folk, securing a crucial foundation of public loyalty that no amount of noble infighting could undermine.
The success of the policy had a ripple effect inside the palace. The conservative nobles who had opposed her were now forced to reckon with her popularity. Dong-jin's support for her had been vindicated; the Prince was seen as wise and just for trusting her.
In the hidden training chamber that night, Ji-su smiled for the first time in months. "You are learning to govern, Anansi, not just to fight. The people's gratitude is a shield stronger than any steel."
But the respite was brief. Ji-su passed Maya a courier's scroll, marked with an unfamiliar, complex seal.
"It is done. The emissaries of West-Seu are approaching the border," Ji-su said, the worry returning to her eyes. "They have watched the chaos here, and they know you are alive. They are coming for you, Anansi. They are coming to reclaim their Princess and their crown."
Maya felt a familiar coldness settle in her chest. She had focused so fiercely on saving Joseon that she had almost forgotten the kingdom that was her birthright—the kingdom she had been preparing to rule since she opened the cipher scroll.
She looked at the decree that had saved Han-su's farm, then at the scroll confirming the arrival of her own people. She had secured one kingdom's future. Now she had to face the claim of the other. The two crowns were on a collision course.