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Chapter 1174: A Permanent Currency Solution

Somebody in the room laughed.

The Administrative Office had grown younger as it grew larger — a graduation exam system channeling twenty-year-olds into entry positions, where a promising few reached key posts by twenty-five. Roland could see them now: junior officials who had not yet learned to keep their faces still, cheeks going red, chins dropping toward notebooks. Youth injected energy and a willingness to be wrong into the institution. It also injected this.

He let the laughter run its course. Then: “You all need to do your best to increase Neverwinter’s population. More people means more residential buildings, more facilities, more of everything. Doubling the population isn’t the ceiling — there is no ceiling. What you should know is that more is always better, and everyone is obligated to contribute.” He paused. “To make it easy to remember, we’ll call this the ‘Project of a Million.’”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

The executive orders that followed were supplementary to the Project of a Million: extraction of resources beneath the Fertile Plains; establishing day schools and specialized academies; tightening universal education requirements. Roland also planned to pull medical professionals from the civilian population rather than the army, plant clinics in residential neighborhoods, and relieve the pressure on the main hospital. The Ministry of Education would add medical science to the middle school curriculum and use texts sourced from the Dream World to train field medic semiprofessionals.

A city of four hundred thousand — eventually a million — would not simply be a city of two hundred thousand stretched larger. Dense populations required sewage infrastructure, waste water management, epidemic prevention networks that no single person could hold together. Lily could help with disease control, but a monitoring system needed to exist independently of any one witch’s ability. Illiteracy would drag against every step; a population that could not read imposed on industrialization rather than advancing it.

Roland had given them a frame, not a blueprint. A million-person city would not assemble itself in one meeting. The Administrative Office would have to feel its way forward through trial and error, finding what worked and building from there.

While the room still hummed with anticipation, Barov raised his hand. “Your Majesty — are you planning to send all of these people to the plants?”

“Or the construction teams. The First Army. The laboratory. Wherever there’s a need.”

Barov wrote something down, then looked up. “The Administrative Office may not be financially capable of sustaining them all.” He chose his words carefully. “Our main revenue comes from Chaos Drinks, perfumes, and steam engines. The Joint Chamber of Commerce pays us for the steam engines every three to six months. Payroll goes out every month — currently around 80,000 gold royals. At present, income exceeds expenditure, and there’s no problem. But if the population doubles…” He trailed off, then collected himself. “I’m worried that if payment is delayed even a few months, the municipality won’t be able to meet its obligations.”

Roland’s eyebrows rose slightly. He was genuinely pleased. Barov had been assistant to the Treasurer once; that instinct for where money ran thin had never left him. “That’s precisely what you’re worried about — yes?”

“Exactly.” The notebook was filling up. “Payroll increases every year. The annual output of Chaos Drinks doesn’t scale with population. And as residents from Everwinter and Wolfheart move here, they’ll stop buying products from their home regions, which will shrink our revenue from those markets. If we absorb more than 100,000 people per year, our financial risk increases by roughly 30%. Unless another revenue source appears…” He looked up. “I made the estimate here.”

Nightingale’s eyes caught the light. She leaned close to Roland’s ear. “There’s an untapped gold mine in my family’s domain.”

“I’m not that desperate yet,” Roland murmured back.

“Use it if you want. I don’t mind.”

“I’ll keep it in reserve. Not now.” He turned back to the table. “I’ve anticipated this problem, Barov. I have a solution — one that addresses everything you’ve described.”

“An ultimate solution?” Barov said, visibly caught off guard.

“Correct. The root cause of everything you’re worried about is insufficient funds. If the revenue source is effectively unlimited, the problem disappears.”

Print notes. That was the blunt version.

The elegant version was this: at a certain stage of industrialization, a monetary system built on precious metal must fail. Technology produces goods whose value exceeds the total supply of gold and silver available to pay for them. When buyers can no longer produce enough metal currency to match what the market is actually worth, the system collapses under its own arithmetic. Credit currency carried no such flaw. Its supply could grow with the economy it served.

Roland had already run a small pilot. The nominal notes he had distributed to the witches were, by any measure, extremely difficult to counterfeit: printed in Darkcloud’s ink, pressed with moulds Anna had made, carrying an anti-forgery mark derived from the rubber worm’s slime. He had not been entirely joking about the witches forging notes to clean out the castle convenience store — the system had to hold against people with abilities, and it had held.

Neverwinter now had the infrastructure to do this at scale.

He had planned to draft a basic guideline first and then sit down with Barov to work through the specifics — denomination, exchange ratios, transition rules. But the question had come up now, and he did not mind giving them a preview.

While Roland explained the principles of credit currency to a room full of increasingly confused and increasingly fascinated ministers, the conference hall door swung open.

Phyllis did not knock. She walked straight to Roland’s end of the table, and the expression on her face ended every sidebar conversation in the room.

“Your Majesty, a new discovery. Pasha asks that you and your party come to the underground hall immediately.”

“That urgent?”

“Yes.” Phyllis’s brow was tight. “We’ve deciphered the Magic Slayer’s letter.” She caught herself. “The demon lord — Ursrook’s letter.”

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