CH1173 · Rewrite
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Chapter 1173: I Want All of Them

“I’m giving you the frame. Implementation, coordination between departments — that’s yours to work out. Barov Mons will supervise the whole project.”

“As you command,” Barov said, hand to chest.

Roland nodded. Years of working together had filed away any reflex Barov once had toward open resistance. He would raise objections through proper channels, in measured language — but he would not balk. The interlocking relationships between departments inside the Administrative Office meant he could actually pull the levers of a project this size, provided the will was there. It was.

“Now listen carefully.” Roland gestured to Nightingale, who fixed a sheet of white cloth to the blackboard.

The room exhaled as one.

The cloth was printed: main features of the policy, each one accompanied by both text and a diagram. Soraya had made it — crude compared to a proper presentation, but infinitely clearer than a spoken summary delivered to two hundred people with different backgrounds and different ideas of what words meant. Roland had spent enough of his previous life making slides for engineering proposals to know that a visual aid bought ten minutes of coherence for every hour it cost to produce.

The population structure of Graycastle told the story of a world with low productivity and nothing else. High-ranking nobles became lords, built cities, distributed land to subordinates. Cities grew until they could not sustain themselves, at which point their overflow trickled outward into villages and satellite towns. The cities stopped expanding. The gap between noble and commoner calcified. Walking through a prosperous city, you would see markets and walls and towers — and miss the fact that far more people lived in the farmland surrounding it, bound to soil they could not leave, producing just enough to feed the lords above them and keep themselves alive.

That was the trap. Low productivity meant labor was always attached to land. People could not move. Could not accumulate. Could not become anything other than what the land required them to be.

The Administrative Office had tracked Graycastle’s demographic shifts while Roland was recruiting refugees, and their estimate had settled somewhere between two and four million total subjects. The wars of the second prince and Princess Garcia, and then the plague the church had spread, had stripped away somewhere between five and six hundred thousand — Eagle City in the South, Valencia in the East, both razed. Even so, a considerable population was scattered across the kingdom, and only a small fraction had drifted west to the Western Region.

Roland intended to compel the rest.

Within a month, they would harvest the first wave of Golden Two wheat on a large scale. High-yield cotton had already spread across the Port of Clearwater — fabric for the whole kingdom was no longer a question of when, only of logistics. One person could now produce what ten or twenty had before. The land no longer required the same density of bodies to hold it.

And Graycastle was, on paper, unified. The power that had once scattered across a hundred local lords now ran through the central government. The lords still existed, but they answered to secondary administrative bodies, which answered upward. The chain of command was real. It could carry orders.

Migration equality — the policy that guaranteed any citizen’s right to transfer, and that their property rights would be honored on arrival — was the mechanism designed to absorb the friction that mandatory relocation would otherwise generate. A farmer with two acres moved to Neverwinter and was granted two acres by the Administrative Office. The math was simple enough that most people could see it was not a theft. Whether they wanted to come was a separate question.

Roland knew they would not want to come.

Leaving a place your family had worked for generations was not a calculation; it was a wound. History offered no shortage of examples of governments that had resolved this problem through violence — illegal seizure, coerced purchase, legislation that criminalized refusing to work. Roland was not planning any of that. He was planning social assistance, guaranteed property, a life with wages rather than subsistence. But he was also planning to make the move happen regardless. He understood what that meant. He did not pretend otherwise.


The second directive was cross-border recruitment — mandatory migration, but applied outside Graycastle’s borders.

The Kingdom of Dawn had survived the church’s invasion with its sovereign intact, which made a puppet administration possible. The Kingdoms of Everwinter and Wolfheart had not been so fortunate. Their royal lines were gone, replaced by competing lords who each claimed blood descent from the crown and none of whom could compel the others. A puppet government was out of the question — there was nothing coherent enough to puppet.

Barov saw the next cloth go up on the board and spoke before he could stop himself: “You mean — the First Army?”

“Do you think the nobles will peacefully allow us to strip their labor force while we explain our population policy to them?” Roland picked up his tea. “They care about power, land, and wealth. The Battle of Divine Will means nothing to them. We’ll reason with them first. What they decide after that is their concern.”

“I’ll make them yield, Your Majesty,” Iron Axe said. Flat, certain, the way a door closing sounds certain.

Cross-border recruitment would be harder than domestic migration by every measure. Without Golden Two seed to leave behind and sustain a city’s food supply, the departure of large numbers of people would collapse the entire urban ecosystem — farms without farmers, markets without buyers, cities without populations. It was war conducted through economics rather than weapons, and the casualties would be lower, but it was still war.

The combined population of Everwinter and Wolfheart sat somewhere around three million. Accounting for those killed in the fighting against the church, Neverwinter could reasonably draw one and a half million immigrants from those two kingdoms alone. The relocation would take years — but it was the fastest available path to the scale Roland needed. That was why he had told Barov to double the population within a year. Half a year, if possible.

“Do you have any requirements for these immigrants?” Barov asked, pencil ready. “Skilled workers, farmers, literacy levels?”

Roland had screened refugees before. In the early days he had to — resources were too scarce to take in everyone who showed up at the gate. Those days were behind him.

“No,” Roland said, and his fist closed on the table. “I want all of them.”

Barov pressed his handkerchief to his forehead and said nothing for a moment. “I… see.”

“Last.” Roland nodded to Nightingale, who brought up the final cloth. “The Administrative Office will promote births through advertising, tax reductions, and direct rewards. This policy won’t produce visible results as quickly as the other two — but it will be the most important one, long-term.”

He let his gaze move across the room: young officials, old ministers, scribes pressing against the walls.

“For this last policy,” he said, with the first smile of the morning, “I hope everyone in this room will set a proper example for the public.”

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