Practice is the sole criterion for testing truth.
Ernest understood that even if he could somehow reach out and receive advice from the masses online, it would probably be useless.
People on X would spin elaborate stories that solved nothing but made themselves look impressive.
Reddit users would tell him how to stir internal conflict and factional strife.
Instagram commenters would enthusiastically suggest launching a leftist revolution in a theocratic state, and some would probably ask which of Enya’s or Ensia’s feet smell good.
Obviously Ensia’s.
She dressed lightly, was always active, always sweating.
No matter how you looked at it, she was more likely to have an odor than Enya, who was constantly attended to.
Of course, Ernest had never actually confirmed this himself.
Ever since Enya ascended the sacred mountain to become the Saintess, she no longer lived at home.
He only saw her a few times a year.
Without practice, there is no right to speak.
Sayings remained valid everywhere, but theory was another matter.
Clearly, whether it was stirring internal conflict or attempting some ideological revolution, such disruptive approaches were far too premature for Kjerag.
The moment he voiced such ideas, the three great families, including his own brother Enciodes, would likely conclude that allowing such a fool to serve as Prime Minister was far too risky, ending his political career in less than a day.
As far as Ernest was concerned, if Kjerag was to focus on anything right now, there was only one viable option:
Make money.
Entering the government office, which had been converted from a single-story building, Ernest sat down on a creaking chair and asked the black-haired, twin-tailed Itra girl who had followed him inside:
“Miss Monch, could you bring me this year’s government financial report?”
Monch froze for a moment, clearly surprised that the man who had just delivered such nonsense on the podium would, upon entering his office, ask for a financial report instead of taking a nap or grabbing something to eat.
Fortunately, both her nominal superior, Sciurus Browntail, and her actual superior, Gnosis Edelweiss, were the type to ignore financial matters entirely.
As a result, she had been forced to develop solid accounting skills.
After a brief pause, she nodded and turned to leave the room.
Watching her leave without even bothering to close the door, Ernest shrugged.
He knew Monch.
The girl with the exaggerated twin-tails currently served as a guard under Sciurus Browntail, the second-in-command of the Browntail family.
As for who she was truly loyal to, Ernest wasn’t sure, but it certainly wasn’t Sciurus.
There were two people in Kjerag who could never recruit even a single capable subordinate.
One of them was Sciurus.
This was a widely acknowledged fact throughout Kjerag, including by her own sister, Ratatos.
The fact that Sciurus herself remained unaware of this only made it all the more convincing.
So, Monch most likely answered to Ratatos.
Of course, there was also the possibility that she was a planted agent from the Silverash family within the Browntails.
As for why she couldn’t possibly belong to the Paleroches…
Well, the other person who couldn’t recruit competent subordinates was named Arctosz Paleroches.
When a bear treats you with brotherhood, and you try to play tricks on him, you’re just asking for trouble.
That said, it didn’t really matter.
Kjerag’s population was only around one million, and ninety-nine percent of them were devout believers or farmers.
Expecting them to possess modern financial knowledge was pure fantasy.
If he didn’t use Monch, was he supposed to prepare the financial reports himself as Prime Minister?
No matter which family she belonged to, she was still Kjerag’s.
As the first Prime Minister of Kjerag, Ernest felt he needed to think bigger.
Before long, Monch returned, carrying an entire wooden crate into the office.
“Thud!”
She dropped it onto the desk in front of him, making the old table groan under the strain.
Ernest pointed at the crate.
“What is this?”
“Account books,” Monch replied matter-of-factly.
Ernest felt a sinking feeling in his chest.
“But I asked for a financial report.
You know, something with income and expenditure details, dated records.”
Monch answered as if it were obvious.
“You can request one from Lord Enciodes.”
Ernest covered his face.
“But that would be blank, wouldn’t it?”
Monch nodded seriously.
“That’s why you need to fill it in yourself.”
Then what exactly am I paying you for?
I might as well recruit some promising young person and train them from scratch.
At least they’d be loyal to me.
Ernest complained inwardly, caught between laughter and frustration.
He had expected Kjerag’s finances to be in poor shape, but he hadn’t imagined it would be this bad.
Other countries had budget deficits.
This one had a budget disappearance entirely.
It was hard to believe a nation like this had survived without collapsing.
Ernest suddenly felt his faith in the great Kjeragandr deepen just a little.
Perhaps noticing his distress, or perhaps thinking it was unreasonable to expect someone who had just taken this “hot seat” to handle such matters, Monch offered a helpful suggestion:
“Lord Ernest, before the establishment of the National Assembly, Kjerag was jointly governed by the three families.
The Silverash, Browntail, and Paleroches families were in constant competition, so naturally they would never share the financial details of their territories with one another.
However, there is one place that must have the combined financial records of all three.”
Ernest looked up at her, his silver-gray eyes blinking.
Of course.
While the three families would never share their accounts with each other, Kjerag wasn’t entirely divided among them.
Above his position as Prime Minister, there existed an institution greater, more authoritative, and far older.
“You mean the Vine-Bead Court?
But isn’t that a religious institution?”
The moment he said it, Ernest realized he had probably asked a foolish question.
Everyone knew that religious institutions had always been deeply involved in managing wealth.
When the papal court of medieval Europe held the greatest treasures on the continent, its mastery of accounting was equally unmatched.
At that moment, Monch voiced her concern:
“That may be true, but the Grand Elder of the Monastery is not easy to deal with.
He isn’t particularly friendly toward the Silverash family, especially after the establishment of Karlan Trade.
It won’t be easy to get those records from him.”
That was the truth.
If it were anyone else, the old man’s conservatism would have him shouting about unchangeable traditions and refusing outright to hand over the Monastery’s ledgers.
But the one asking wasn’t just anyone.
It was Ernest.
The young man stood up confidently, took his coat from the rack, and draped it over his shoulders as he walked toward the door.
“It’s fine.
The Saintess is my sister.
She dotes on me.”
Put more simply:
Connections make everything easier.