Day 24.
Chaos.
If Rian had to describe his kingdom in one word, it was Chaos.
The courtyard was packed. Children were crying. Women were arguing over sleeping spots in the makeshift longhouses. The ex-bandits were shoving the original serfs to get to the food line first.
Hance, the old butler, was drowning.
"Please! Form a line!" Hance shouted, waving a ladle. "One bowl per person!"
"I haven't eaten in two days!" a bandit's wife yelled, pushing forward.
"Back off, outsider!" a serf shouted back.
Rian watched from the balcony. He rubbed his aching forehead.
He had solved the food problem (Fish/Barley). He had solved the defense problem (Bandits). But now, he was facing the Logistics Problem.
"I can create steel," Rian muttered. "But I cannot create order with a hammer."
He needed a Manager.
[Ding! Daily Intelligence Report - Day 24]
[1. Personnel Analysis]
In the crowd, trying to count the grain sacks, is the woman Lara.
Class: Scribe (Level 2).
Hidden Trait: [Eidetic Memory] (She remembers everything she reads or sees).
History: She was the daughter of a merchant, kidnapped by bandits 2 years ago to read ransom letters.
Rian's eyes locked onto a woman in the corner. She wasn't fighting for food. She was holding a piece of charcoal and writing on a scrap of wood, shaking her head as she looked at the disorganized supplies.
Rian walked down the stairs. The crowd parted, silencing their arguments.
He walked straight to Lara. She flinched, hiding the wood scrap behind her back. She was thin, with ink-stained fingers and a scar on her cheek, but her eyes were sharp.
"Let me see it," Rian demanded gently.
Trembling, she handed him the wood.
It wasn't a drawing. It was a Spreadsheet.
Flour: 12 Sacks.
Fish: 400 lbs.
People: 268.
Consumption Rate: We run out in 9 days.
"You can do math," Rian said, looking at her.
"My father... taught me," Lara whispered, terrified. "I was just checking if... if we would starve."
"And?"
"We will," she said bluntly. "Unless you cut the rations by 30% or find more food."
Rian smiled. A brutal truth-teller. Exactly what he needed.
"Hance!" Rian called out. "Give this woman a table and a chair. She is no longer a refugee. She is the Administrator of Fort Blackiron."
The crowd gasped. A woman? An outsider?
"Lara," Rian handed her the scrap wood back. "Your first job is to register everyone. Name, Age, Skill. No registration, no food. Organize them."
Lara blinked, stunned. Then, she straightened her back. She looked at the chaotic crowd not with fear, but with calculation.
"Yes, My Lord. I need paper. And ink."
The Iron Laws
By noon, the chaos had turned into a queue. Lara sat at a table, ruthlessly organizing the population.
Smiths to Grom.
Miners to Torin.
Cooks to the Kitchen.
Builders to the Wall.
Rian stood on the crate again. Now that they were listening, it was time for the Rules.
"Listen carefully!" Rian shouted. "A city without laws is just a bandit camp. From today, Fort Blackiron follows the Code of Iron."
He held up three fingers.
"Rule 1: No Work, No Food."
"Unless you are sick, pregnant, or a child under 10, you work. We don't carry dead weight here."
"Rule 2: The Law of Blood."
"Murder, Rape, and Theft are punishable by Death. No trials. No dungeons. Immediate execution. We are too few to tolerate traitors."
The ex-bandits swallowed hard. They knew Rian wasn't joking.
"Rule 3: The Law of Filth."
Rian pointed to a designated area far from the water source and the kitchen.
"We are digging latrines (toilets). You use them. If anyone urinates in the river or defecates near the houses, they will be whipped."
The crowd murmured. They understood the first two rules, but the third one confused them. Why did the Lord care about poop?
"You think it's funny?" Rian snapped. "In a crowded camp, 'Filth' kills faster than Orcs. It brings the 'Black Bowel' sickness (Cholera). I will not let my people die of diarrhea. Wash your hands before you eat. Boil the water before you drink. This is not a request. It is a Law."
He turned to Lara.
"Write it down. Post it on the gate."
The Evening Peace
That night, for the first time, there was silence.
The registration was done.
The food was distributed fairly (rationed, as Lara suggested).
The latrines were dug.
Rian sat in his study. Lara knocked and entered, placing a neat stack of parchment on his desk.
"The Census is complete, My Lord," she said, her voice steady. "We have 12 Carpenters, 4 Masons, and... one Alchemist."
Rian looked up sharply. "An Alchemist?"
"An old woman named Elara. She says she can make 'healing salves' from moss. The bandits kept her alive to fix their wounds."
Rian grinned.
An Alchemist. That meant Potions. Or better yet... Chemistry.
"Good work, Lara," Rian nodded. "Go sleep. Tomorrow, we open the Trade Route."
[Ding! Administration Established]
[Order: +50]
[Disease Risk: Reduced by 80%]
Rian leaned back. The gears of his machine were finally oiled. Now, it was time to drive it.
End of Chapter 22