The Grand Elder felt he had reached the absolute zenith of his life.
Not in the physical sense, naturally, but in the spiritual weight of his authority.
As an old man who had perched at the pinnacle of power for decades, leading the Karlan Temple through shifting political tides, he believed he had long since seen through the petty squabbles of the mortal world.
Barring the unforeseen, he was meant to sit comfortably upon his holy throne until the day he drew his final breath.
But on Terra, assuming the unforeseen will never happen is the surest way to guarantee it does.
First came the return of the SilverAsh family.
Exiled from Kjerag years ago, they had clawed their way back into the Three Clans Meeting through the Browntail family’s introduction.
Then, Enciodes SilverAsh began aggressively expanding his commercial empire, using the sacred name of Mount Karlan to amass staggering wealth and dangerous influence.
And now, this upstart Ernest had orchestrated the creation of some absurd ‘Kjerag Government and People’s Assembly,’ a blatant attempt to strip administrative power right out of the Temple’s grasp.
This was no mere political maneuver.
It was outright rebellion.
Although the hesitation of the other two clans had temporarily prevented the Grand Elder from launching a swift counterattack, it hardly meant he was willing to concede.
His calm demeanor and his apparent disregard for the shifting political landscape were entirely predicated on the fact that he still held the ultimate authority.
If someone reached for his crown, he would simply sever their hand.
And today, the perfect opportunity had presented itself.
He would slaughter the chicken to warn the monkeys.
“Ernest SilverAsh, do you plead guilty?”
The Grand Elder’s voice boomed across the Holy Stone Plaza.
The biting morning chill and the heavy snowfall did nothing to freeze the fervor of the Kjerag people.
The flat expanse of the plaza was suffocated by onlookers, a sea of thick coats and angry murmurs.
Below the elevated stone platform sat the heads of the great families in specially prepared chairs: Arctosz Paleroche, Ratatos Browntail, and Enciodes SilverAsh.
Behind the massive Holy Stone itself sat the Saintess, Enya SilverAsh, serving as a silent witness to the confrontation.
The Paleroche family militia formed a ring of steel around the venue, their breath pluming in the freezing air as they maintained a tense perimeter.
In this sacred place, the people of Kjerag temporarily curbed their mob fury, quietly waiting for the Great Goddess Kjeragandr to pass judgment on Ernest’s alleged crimes.
Standing opposite the Grand Elder, who leaned heavily on his wooden staff, Ernest firmly shook his head.
“I am innocent.”
The Grand Elder’s eyebrows shot upward.
“Without the permission of the Three Clans Meeting or the Karlan Temple, you arbitrarily sold Kjerag’s sovereign land!
You desecrated the blessings bestowed upon the Kjerag people by the Great Goddess Kjeragandr!
Is this not a monstrous crime?!”
Ernest was entirely unmoved by the theatrical accusation.
He let the echoes of the old man’s shouting fade before speaking.
“First, I need to correct this persistent misunderstanding.” He didn’t raise his voice, letting the cold clarity of his words carry over the snow.
“I did not sell Kjerag’s land to the Magnus Bank of Columbia.
I secured a loan.
The term is ten years, the principal is six hundred million Columbian gold coupons.
These figures are detailed in Kjerag’s annual financial statements, which have been publicly displayed on a chalkboard outside my office for weeks.
It is hardly my fault that no one bothered to read them.”
He let the silence stretch for a half-second.
“The fallow land northeast of Turicum was merely put up as collateral.
As long as I pay the corresponding interest and return the principal to the Magnus Bank within the agreed timeframe, that territory remains sovereign Kjerag soil.
The claim that I sold our land is a fabricated rumor, and I fully intend to hold Gulo accountable for spreading it.”
Ernest shifted his gaze to the crowd, locking onto Gulo.
The thousands of eyes in the plaza immediately snapped toward the Ursus man.
Most of the Kjerag citizens were exactly as Ernest described: they hadn’t actually paid attention to the core mechanics of the financial dispute.
They had simply swallowed Gulo’s inflammatory rumors and pointed their pitchforks at Ernest.
Lacking any understanding of what a loan actually was, they naturally looked to their instigator for a rebuttal.
And Gulo?
Sheltering under the Paleroche family’s banner, the hot-tempered Ursus clearly had no idea how high finance worked either.
Flushing a deep, ugly red under the scrutiny, Gulo awkwardly scanned the crowd.
He gritted his teeth and stepped forward, shouting over the murmurs.
What collateral!
You’re just using big words to confuse us!
You say a loan isn’t selling land today, but what happens when you decide it is tomorrow?
Where do we go to get our land back then?
You’re just bullying us because we don’t know your fancy city words!”
The mob eagerly seized on the excuse.
“He’s right!” someone shouted.
“Ernest sounds like he’s telling the truth, but none of us understand this garbage anyway!
If he’s using terms we don’t know to prove he’s innocent, he’s just tricking us!”
Ernest exhaled a slow, quiet breath.
The Holy Stone Judgment was a trial, not a classroom.
He had neither the ability nor the time to teach basic economics to a furious mob.
Concepts like lending relationships, financing, and investment belonged in a school, absorbed gradually through the painful process of modernization.
Seeing Ernest fall silent, the Grand Elder stepped closer, lowering his voice to a venomous hiss.
“Do you not understand your position?
If I declare you guilty, then you are guilty.
The moment you stepped onto this platform, you lost any chance of leaving it clean.”
Ernest merely glanced at the old man.
“I am innocent.
Kjerag possesses no laws capable of judging me.”
It was the cold, pragmatic truth.
Kjerag operated entirely on customary traditions and religious morality.
Codified, systematic legislation simply did not exist.
The nation had never experienced corporate land sales, let alone international loans and mortgages, meaning there was literally no legal framework to define Ernest’s actions as a crime.
The factual sneer in Ernest’s tone infuriated the Grand Elder.
His frail body trembled with righteous indignation, his wrinkled face twisting into a mask of pure arrogance.
“Laws?
What are those?”
He slammed his wooden staff against the stone floor.
“Kjerag relies only on divine oracles!
We have no need for your secular laws!”
Recovering his solemn, dignified posture, the Grand Elder projected his voice to the furthest edges of the plaza.
“You claim innocence!
Then tell me, what did you intend to do by mortgaging the Great Goddess Kjeragandr’s sacred soil to line your pockets with Columbian gold?”
‘What did I want to do?’
Countless blueprints flashed through Ernest’s mind.
Build paved roads.
Cultivate barren fields.
Establish a functioning civil service.
Completely strip the Karlan Temple of its bloated political authority.
Import heavy machinery, open factories, and drag Kjerag into the industrial age.
Raise a centralized National Defense Force loyal to the state, entirely independent of the squabbling families.
He had too many ambitions.
But above all else, he wanted education.
He wanted to build schools so the next generation wouldn’t be as painfully, dangerously ignorant as the mob standing before him today.
Ultimately, all those desires condensed into a single concept.
“Reform,” Ernest answered, his voice steady and absolute.
The word was instantly met with the Grand Elder’s mocking laughter.
“Reform…
I have heard that cursed word far too many times over the years.
I truly cannot fathom why people like you cling to ‘reform’ as if it were a holy text.”
He turned his back on Ernest, throwing his arms wide to the thousands of Kjerag citizens surrounding the plaza.
“Look at our sacred nation!
We have stood for thousands of years.
The long passage of time has never harmed us, the chosen children of Kjeragandr!
Yet now, outsiders and traitors whisper that our home is in crisis, that our days are numbered.
They claim only their ‘reforms’ can save us!
I ask you all—reform what?!”
The Grand Elder struck the stone with his staff again, his tone turning vicious.
He directed his next words at Ernest, but his eyes deliberately locked onto Enciodes down in the VIP seating.
“You wish to imitate Columbia?
To mimic Victoria?
Tell me, which of those nations has endured longer than our holy Mount Karlan?
Longer than the Karlan Temple?”
“I may have never left Kjerag, but do not mistake me for a fool blind to the outside world!”
He paced the platform, weaponizing his ignorance as fact.
“Columbia was nothing but a penal colony built on the backs of slaves and exiles!
Victoria is a fractured, abnormal remnant conquered by Sargon’s Pashas!
How can their tainted histories possibly compare to the purity of Kjerag?”
“You speak of reform, but you bring only chaos!
Do you believe yourselves wiser than our ancestors?
Wiser than the Great Goddess Kjeragandr, who laid down the sacred rules that have protected our bloodlines until this very day?!”
The plaza fell into a brief, deathly silence.
A second later, a deafening roar of approval erupted from the crowd.
The sheer concussive force of their cheers nearly snapped the flagpoles fluttering in the freezing wind.
The fanatical screaming was so loud it could be heard clearly in the town at the foot of the mountain.
A victorious, cruel smile stretched across the Grand Elder’s lips.
He struck while the iron was hot.
“Then, sinner Ernest SilverAsh, your arrogance has been heard by our guardian!
Before this Holy Stone, do you dare accept Kjeragandr’s judgment?!”
Ernest slowly turned his head, his gaze sweeping across the plaza.
Arctosz Paleroche sat with a heavy, disgusted scowl, perfectly mirroring the fury of the mob.
Ratatos Browntail kept her chin tucked to her chest, hiding her eyes in the shadows.
Enciodes SilverAsh simply met Ernest’s gaze.
The warlord’s expression was a mask of absolute, chilling composure, entirely unfazed by the collapsing political mountain around them.
Enciodes casually checked the silver watch on his wrist, then offered Ernest a single, microscopic nod.
There was a slight commotion on the outer edges of the plaza, but the dense wall of bodies made it impossible for Ernest to see the cause.
He withdrew his gaze.
Behind the massive stone, completely out of Ernest’s line of sight, Enya’s expression shifted rapidly.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, her features finally hardening into absolute resolve.
“If the Great Goddess Kjeragandr is truly watching all of this,” Ernest said smoothly, “then my innocence is already assured.”
“Begin.”
The Grand Elder’s sarcastic smile widened.
Together, the two men turned their attention to the towering Holy Stone.
Ten minutes.
That was the traditional waiting period for the Great Goddess Kjeragandr to deliver a divine ruling.
In ten minutes, the truth would be carved in stone.
[Rhodes’s Note:
Enjoying the operation so far, Doctor?
(This daily grind literally pays the landship’s rent!
to use the links!)