When Sophia stepped into the Council Hall, she was still wreathed in that faint, lingering afterglow of Holy Light, not yet fully dispersed.
She settled onto the throne, fingertips tapping a measured rhythm against the armrest, her mind still echoing with that extraordinary pulse she had felt at the top of the West Tower.
It was no illusion. It was the sensation of her hands, inch by inch, reweaving this shattered world into a web that belonged entirely to her.
"Someone come. Prepare ink."
Sophia's voice was cool and decisive. Without a moment's hesitation, she lifted her quill and began to write across the white parchment in flowing, unbroken strokes.
Unlike the ornate yet hollow noble proclamations of the old era, Sophia's notice was concise and forceful — carrying with it a pull that was almost impossible to refuse:
[Black Rose Special Recruitment: Rear Mountain Research Base Land Reclamation Initiative]
Purpose: To open the royal restricted grounds and conduct strategic agricultural research, with the aim of enriching the tables of Mason's people.
Requirements: Physically robust, absolutely tight-lipped, fully obedient to command.
Compensation: Daily wages settled by labor output, copper coin stipends provided, with additional rations of that day's fresh produce.
Pledge: Every drop of sweat you shed shall become a cornerstone of Mason's strength.
When the Black Rose wax seal — emblem of supreme authority — was pressed heavily into the paper, the corner of Sophia's lips curved into the faintest arc.
Before long, two Royal Guards soldiers mounted their warhorses and rode out, pressing the document — still fragrant with fresh ink — firmly to the very center of the most prominent notice board in the Palace Square.
The people who had been chatting just moments ago about the flavor of salted fish from Tears of the Sea swarmed toward it in an instant, like ants catching the scent of honey.
"Quick, look! A new recruitment from Her Majesty!"
"'Land reclamation research?' Sounds like something even Miss Irene and Saint Daphne would be involved in!"
"The important part is the last line — there's pay again! And extra rations on top!"
"Perfect timing too, I've had nothing to do lately — work a bit and earn enough to buy some salted fish for a taste!"
Waves of irrepressible cheering erupted through the crowd.
In Mason, what had once been the crushing yoke of "corvée labor" had been transformed, in Sophia's hands, into a "benefit" that everyone scrambled to seize.
"Pick me! Back home I was the best hand at turning soil!"
"I'm strong — I can carry two sacks of seeds by myself!"
"Choose me instead, I put in a lot of hard work during the spring wheat planting!"
Those subjects who had been ground into numbness under the old era now had a gleam of genuine motivation in their eyes. They jostled and shoved toward the registration officials, terrified of missing this chance to serve Her Majesty and fill their pockets at the same time.
At that moment, Old Pierre — stealing a rare moment of leisure — was standing in the shadows nearby, still clutching a bag of broken fish scraps left over from the day's sales.
He had only stepped out for some fresh air, yet he found himself witnessing a scene feverish enough to go down in history.
He pushed his way into the crowd, his disheveled grey hair jostling about as he strained up on his tiptoes and read the proclamation word by word, character by character.
Good gods... is this truly real?
I had thought the 'getting paid' the little girl mentioned yesterday was just a special case — yet now, Her Majesty has set it down openly in an official document, in plain ink: paid hired labor.
In my memory, the Kingdom of Orr's palace construction demanded brute labor — the wail of men under the lash, subjects who had to bring their own food and their own hoes, steeped in nothing but despair.
And in Avalon, the Queen's summons was absolute will. Who would dare breathe a word about payment?
Yet here, under Her Majesty Sophia... she is actually paying wages.
She needs no whip. She need only fling out a handful of gleaming copper coins, and her subjects will go willingly to till even the most desolate hillside.
Is this exploitation?
This is plainly letting the people hold the wealth!
She uses copper coins to buy her subjects' full bellies, and uses full bellies to buy their unconditional loyalty.
This method, this scale of thinking... Your Majesty Sophia, are you truly a girl not yet eighteen years old?
Beneath that black cloak of yours, just what kind of unfathomable imperial heart are you hiding?
Old Pierre watched the subjects celebrating and dancing with joy after getting their names registered, and couldn't help wiping the corner of his eye.
He suddenly felt that the decision he had once made to follow this Black Rose was, of all the choices he had made in his life, the one that most resembled divine revelation.
Hailey had at some point already perched herself on the stone block beside the notice board. She was writing so fast that the tip of her quill nearly struck sparks on the parchment.
Spring. Palace Square.
Her Majesty has dropped a bombshell by the name of money.
The people's eyes right now are even brighter than when they saw the sea salt last night.
They are not going out to work — they are setting off for a grand celebration.
By sending everyone to reclaim the rear mountain, Her Majesty has torn down the old King's vanity and replaced it with a sense of solid security in everyone's pockets.
Watching the way Grandfather Pierre stood there thunderstruck, I can tell he has been utterly conquered by Her Majesty's ability.
Her Majesty is incredible. Even the way she gives out money carries a kind of sanctity that makes people want to drop to their knees and kiss the tips of her boots.
Although Miss Irene did tell me in private — I must not learn from Princess Vasha and actually kiss Her Majesty's boot tips. She said that sort of behavior is not appropriate!
The thin morning mist had not yet dispersed from the slopes of the rear mountain when the heavy iron gate leading to the ruins of the "Garden of Ten Thousand Fragrances" was pushed open by two Royal Guards.
With generous pay and meals provided, fewer than two hours after the recruitment notice was posted, two hundred carefully selected young men and women had already assembled.
Most were among the sturdiest people in the city — some had once turned frozen soil in the outer districts, others were seasoned hands who had labored under the blazing sun in wheat fields — and in their eyes burned a fierce, hungry desire for a day's wages.
The rear mountain left behind by the old King was a place of contradiction and strange beauty.
Decades of abandonment had allowed half a foot of dead branches and rotting leaves to accumulate underfoot; a single step would draw out a dull, hollow crack.
Spring shoots were fighting their way up through the cracks in the stones, tangled together with thorned vines that coiled like vipers.
Among the scattered rubble, one could occasionally spot the headless or limbless remains of white marble statues — relics of the old era's vanity.
"Begin!"
At Delilah's single, frosty command, two hundred young people let out a battle cry fit for a hunt.
They threw off their heavy outer coats, baring the lean, defined lines of their arms.
Heavy iron pickaxes drove into the gravel-threaded earth; every strike sent sparks and dark brown fresh soil flying. It was the release of raw power — and a farewell to poverty.
The young women wore coarse hemp gloves, bent at the waist, and cleanly sliced through the stubborn dry grass, stacking the scattered rocks off to the side.
Their movements were quick and deeply rhythmic; some were even humming softly under their breath, a folk song newly spreading through Mason.
Sweat slid down face after face full of youthful vigor, dripping into the rich earth below.
The air here was no longer filled with the dust of rot, but with fresh-turned soil and the sharp juice of green grass — the smell of something called "hope."
Sophia was seated in the shade of a great hundred-year-old scholar tree.
Willow had long since arranged a comfortable high-backed cushioned chair for her, and presented a glass of semi-translucent gemstone-red wild berry juice.
Its sweet-tart fragrance drifted through the cool morning breeze, weaving together with the scent of distant soil.
Sophia lifted the glass and took a small sip.
Those pale golden pupils appeared unusually deep in the morning light as she gazed quietly at the two hundred figures toiling in the distance.
"Your Majesty, it seems we underestimated the disorder here. Two hundred people is still too few."
Delilah stood at the chair's side like a shadow, one hand resting on her heavy sword.
She surveyed the vast mountainside, where two hundred figures were scattered across it like sesame seeds on an enormous green carpet — not even enough to fill a single mountain hollow.
"Even if these young people work at peak efficiency, clearing out the core seedling zone completely will likely take ten days."
"There's no rush, Delilah."
Sophia watched the red liquid shimmering in her glass, her voice as unhurried as someone commenting on a game of chess.
"Two hundred people is not the upper limit of our current organizational capacity. What I want is not mere speed — I want them, in the process of reclaiming this land, to develop a sense of reverence and reward for this forbidden ground."
Two hundred people could not fill this mountain — but they were enough to light a spark.
Having these vigorous young men and women tear down the old King's ruins with their own hands was itself a kind of psychological baptism.
Resource monopoly, psychological cultivation, wealth redistribution...
With every shovel thrust into the earth, they were cutting out the roots of the old era and planting the backbone of Mason for a hundred years to come.
The rear mountain air was thick with the fragrance of freshly turned soil, accompanied by the muffled thud of spades breaking ground and the soft swish of sickles through dry grass.
Though the two hundred young men and women were working with burning enthusiasm, whenever their glances crossed, the irrepressible whispers spread quietly through the rippling waves of grass.
They dared not speak aloud, afraid to disturb the ice-and-snow-carved Queen sitting beneath the tree's shade. Yet that mixture of reverence and curious speculation grew faster than spring vines.
"Hey, what do you think... Her Majesty's having us dig this deep — what on earth is she going to grow?"
A broad-shouldered young man lowered his voice, but his spade never slowed.
"I heard from an old soldier in the Royal City that Her Majesty tamed a sea monster in Avalon. Maybe she brought back some kind of 'sea wheat' that grows underground!"
"Shh! Keep it down!"
A young woman picking up stones beside him shot him a look, but her gaze drifted involuntarily toward Sophia in the distance.
"Sea wheat, sure. I think it's not that simple. Haven't you seen how excited Miss Irene is? My guess is Her Majesty wants to grow some kind of 'magic fruit' here — the kind that, once you drink it, makes you strong as an ox, or lets you glow like Saint Daphne!"
"Magic fruit? Then every single one we grow here would be worth more than a gold coin, wouldn't it?"
"Obviously! Has anything Her Majesty ever done not been a Divine Miracle? Think about the soap, think about the sea salt... the soil on this mountain is so rich — maybe she's going to grow a crop that never withers, so Mason never has to depend on the sky's mood for a meal ever again!"
On the other side, several young women were carefully working together to shift a chunk of rubble.
"Look at the patterns carved on this stone — there was a time we wouldn't have even dared glance at something like this."
One attentive girl wiped her brow with the back of her hand and lowered her voice.
"This must have been carved by the old King. Her Majesty is having us move all this away with our own hands — I think... she's not just reclaiming land."
"Then what is she doing?"
"Exorcising it!"
The girl's eyes shone with fervent awe.
"The old King sat on that throne for decades and did nothing but collect taxes. Her Majesty is using the sweat of us common folk to wash all the ill fortune out of this mountain. She's sitting there drinking fruit juice, but in truth she's using her gaze to suppress whatever lies beneath the ground. Once we've turned this place over and made it new, this mountain will truly be clean!"
Everyone exchanged glances, shivered collectively from head to toe, and their hands moved just a little faster without quite knowing why.
Made sense!
The sooner every last trace of the old King was scrubbed away, the better.
Though the things the group were speculating about were a bit wildly off the mark, there was still a thread of shared feeling running through it all.
That's right... Her Majesty doesn't need to lift a hand herself. She just has to sit there, and we feel like we have limitless energy.
She must be conducting some extraordinarily grand experiment. Mixing our loyalty and our sweat together with the vitality of this earth.
What she's really studying isn't seeds — it's our lives!
As long as we can leave our footprints here, we are no longer roadside weeds — we are participants in Her Majesty's laboratory of Divine Miracles.
That kind of glory... no amount of copper coins could ever buy!
Sophia set down her wild berry juice with a quiet touch. The breeze carried those scattered, reverence-tinged murmurs into her ears.
The corner of her mouth lifted into an arc so faint that even Delilah did not notice.
These young men and women did not truly understand the significance of a seedling repository. Nor did they understand the rudiments of genetic improvement.
But that was fine.
In their eyes, she was the omnipotent one — the being who sought to reshape the world through the earth itself. A "god."
This "irrational devotion" was, for the moment, the most impenetrable armor of a still-fragile Mason.
As for the fact that her subjects all seemed to have a talent for filling in the blanks with their own imaginations, and a mild fondness for feudal superstition — well, that was an education problem to be sorted out once they had enough food in their stomachs.
Empty bellies don't make for attentive students.
"Delilah." Sophia's voice came softly.
"Your Majesty, this minister is here."
"Tell the registration officials: the ten people who work hardest and most precisely — award each of them an extra bottle of fresh milk."
"Understood."
Delilah accepted the order and departed. The young men and women bending their backs in labor had no idea that their murmured whispers had already become a kind of experimental data by which the Queen calibrated the psychological state of her kingdom.
When the night finally fell fully across the silhouette of Mason Royal City, several dark-red bonfires were lit at the foot of the temporary camp on the rear mountain.
The two hundred young men and women who had labored through an entire day were exhausted — yet their spirits were strung impossibly, extraordinarily taut.
As Delilah had announced at the gates, the ten who had performed best today received not only their day's wages, but an additional reward capable of sending the entire Royal City into a frenzy:
A cup of fresh milk, drawn directly from the Palace cold storage, still trailing faint wisps of chill.
In this era when animal husbandry had yet to take hold and milk was regarded as a gift from God, this was not merely food — it was the crossing of a class divide. It was glory, handed down personally by the Queen.
The strongest among those ten was a young man who had, that day, single-handedly moved three massive stones that had been blocking an old irrigation channel.
Now, his hands trembling, he cradled the clay cup in both palms. The white liquid inside, impossibly thick and rich, caught the firelight and gave off a scent he had never encountered before — a heady blend of green meadow sweetness and creamy warmth.
"This... this is the drink the nobility are said to have?"
His throat bobbed hard.
He glanced at the friends around him, whose envy was so fierce it looked like their eyes might fall out, then looked at the Palace blazing with lights in the distance — and his eyes went suddenly, fiercely red.
Gulp.
As if afraid this gift might vanish into thin air, he threw his head back, squeezed his eyes shut, and drained the milk in one long, desperate swallow — like a man downing a cup of strong liquor.
In that instant, a rich, silken, faintly cool sensation swept across every corner of his tongue.
He felt as though the aching soreness in every muscle of his body had been soothed away by some warm, gentle force in a single breath.
"Ha —!"
He slammed the cup down hard, a ridiculous white milk mustache ringing his lips, and howled at the star-filled sky like a man possessed.
"It's sweet! It's sweet! Long live Her Majesty! I feel like I could flip this whole mountain over tomorrow!"
In contrast to that young man's exuberance, the sharp-eyed young woman who had cleared her section of the path with such neat precision was quiet and almost reverent.
She sat beside the fire, cradling her cup as if it held something priceless beyond measure.
First, she drew in a long, deep breath of that heart-clearing milky fragrance, letting the near-hallucinatory happiness that came with true nourishment wash over her.
Then she extended the very tip of her tongue and, with extreme care, extreme slowness, barely touched it to the rim of the cup.
The dense, silk-smooth richness she had never once experienced in her life made her body seize up entirely in that one moment.
"Mm..."
Two clear tears slid silently down her face.
She did not drink it in one go. Instead, every few minutes, she would raise the cup and take the tiniest sip, as if tasting a divine oracle.
O gods... is this truly a flavor I am allowed to taste?
In my sparse, meager memories, even the best drinking water carried a bitter grit of silt.
Yet what Her Majesty has bestowed in this cup is pure — not a single impurity — white as the hem of Saint Daphne's gown.
Her Majesty said this is the dignity of labor.
So it is true. When we were drenched in sweat down in the mud, she was truly watching us.
She has shared this white miracle — something that originally only gods could touch — with wretched people like us who are covered head to toe in dirt.
After drinking down this milk, my life belongs to the Black Rose.
No — my life has belonged to the Black Rose for a long time already!
The young men and women around them who had not won a reward were now frantically inhaling every last trace of that milky fragrance still hanging in the air, their faces written all over with a fervor and longing that bordered on the religious.
"Look at them — after drinking it, their eyes are actually glowing!"
"Well of course — that is Her Majesty's gift! I've heard this milk is extraordinarily nutritious. Drink it and you'll live longer, maybe even be immune to all illness!"
"The reason she cried so hard after drinking it must be because she felt the compassion Her Majesty poured into that cup..."
This is a signal!
Her Majesty is telling us: as long as we work hard, all the things we never once dared to dream of — they will appear on our tables, little by little.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow we have to push even harder.
Even if a fingernail tears off, even if our backs break — we will fight for that one cup of milk!
In Mason, sweat truly can be traded for Divine Miracles!
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