If the news from the previous day made some politically sensitive people sense a shift in Gephra’s political landscape, then the headlines early the next morning confirmed it.
Because someone had died in the conflict that took place just yesterday.
Regardless of whether the emperor and his ministers were willing to admit it, one thing was undeniable: a certain awareness and power at the bottom of society was awakening.
The education people received, the knowledge they acquired, and their broadened horizons had given them more mature and complex ideas than in the past. They were no longer ignorant masses—at least, not all of them.
In the past, people’s lives were simple: in planting season, they received seeds from the nobles, worked the fields during the day, and toiled in their gardens at night, hoping to reap more fruit.
A good harvest meant comfort for the present; a good garden meant comfort in old age.
Beyond that, they had little else to pursue.
But now, people’s ambitions had expanded. They were no longer content with their old lives. They wanted more—such as the most basic human rights: their own lives, and the right to private property.
This is why Gephra has courts and laws now—something it didn’t have in the past. The legal system only came into being after the country was unified.
The importance of law goes without saying. A person had died in the suppression effort, meaning the issue had escalated. More importantly, it wasn’t just a simple incident.
This wasn’t a common conflict resulting in death—it was a confrontation between the civilian and noble classes, inherently more complex and sensitive.
In the Hall of Governance, the emperor’s face was devoid of expression—so much so that even calling him expressionless felt insufficient. Numb would be more accurate.
It was as if every muscle had lost its strength, returning to its most natural, untouched state.
“I heard some people are already petitioning outside the palace,” he said after several minutes of silence between him and his ministers.
This news had come from the royal butler. Early in the morning, some people were seen standing outside the palace gates with placards, submitting petitions.
They weren’t protesting, just petitioning. They hoped the emperor would intervene: to identify and fairly prosecute the officer responsible for the death, to investigate the finance minister and his subordinates, and to recover the funds involved in the Harmony Capital fraud and return them to the victims.
Having lost their sense of direction, the people could only hope the emperor still stood on their side.
But they were wrong. The royal family had never truly stood with the commoners. They cared only for themselves, not the so-called masses.
This misconception was born out of political necessity—for instance, the emperor didn’t want foreign media mocking him, or sometimes he needed to maintain the royal family’s good reputation, so he’d occasionally step in to do something trivial.
And there’s the key difference.
The emperor dealt with trivial issues only because they carried no political risk or consequences. No noble would oppose him or start a political struggle over helping an old woman with a leaking roof. They didn’t care about such things.
Because these small acts had no unpredictable outcomes, the emperor would sometimes intervene when it was politically convenient.
But to the people, if the emperor would handle something as minor as a leaking roof, surely he would also handle something far more serious.
And if he wasn’t doing it now, it must be because he simply didn’t know—so they began to petition.
Sometimes idealism is beautiful, but people’s inability to accept reality isn’t because reality is absurd; it’s because they can’t accept the truth.
The atmosphere in the Hall of Governance grew heavier. All the ministers had seen the petitioners and the signs they held on their way in.
But clearly, this was not something the emperor could act on—not now, at least.
No one spoke, and no one moved, but the emperor could sense something unusual in the room. It was as if something invisible was swiftly flowing between the ministers.
He watched them without saying a word, neither impatient nor urging them on.
The ministers acted as if they hadn’t heard him, remaining silent. This wasn’t their moment to step forward.
The finance minister was gathering his people to discuss next steps. The prime minister was also meeting with others about what to do. None of the other ministers were idle either.
Ultimately, most of them preferred that the prime minister take control of the treasury.
Not because they supported the prime minister, but because a strong prime minister was better than an emperor with unchecked power. After all, this emperor had ascended the throne by killing his siblings. He had the makings of a tyrant, and giving him full control would be the worst outcome.
After several minutes of silence following the emperor’s question, the finance minister finally spoke.
“Your Majesty, this entire matter began because of me. I have decided to resign from my post as finance minister and accept an investigation by the Ministry of Internal Affairs.” He took out a resignation letter and handed it to the butler, who then passed it to the emperor.
Some ministers were surprised, while others nodded slightly—they understood what the finance minister was trying to do.
As expected, he continued, “I am aware of the problems in my work, but this position is too important. Before my resignation is finalized, I recommend that the prime minister temporarily assume my responsibilities.”
The emperor casually accepted the resignation letter and glanced at it. He didn’t even look up at the finance minister, as if he hadn’t heard a word he said.
Whether allies or enemies, the other ministers silently praised the finance minister’s strategy.
He wasn’t finished. “Gephra has a tradition of the prime minister concurrently serving as finance minister in times of need. This wouldn’t be unprecedented and would facilitate both the prime minister’s responsibilities and the investigation into myself. I respectfully request Your Majesty to approve my resignation.”
He didn’t boast about his contributions to the country, the importance of his work, or his own value. He simply presented the emperor with a choice that was impossible to accept.
The prime minister smirked slightly, mocking the finance minister’s hunger for power, though he quickly masked it.
“It reads like dogshit…” the emperor muttered coldly as he tore the resignation letter in half and tossed it to the floor.
He glanced at the finance minister and said, “You’re responsible for this mess, so you’ll be the one to clean it up. You want to resign? Fine. Clean up this disaster first, then I’ll allow it.”
The finance minister looked down at the torn resignation letter and understood it was just the emperor’s way of saving face.
He could write another letter anytime he wanted to resign—but if the chaos were truly settled, why would he ever make the mistake of resigning again?
The finance minister sighed and looked at the others. “Your Majesty, there are already citizens gathered outside the palace calling for my suspension and investigation. I will take responsibility. At the same time, I hope you will agree to their demands.”
“These are two separate matters. I will continue my work, and those investigating me can carry out their duties simultaneously.”
He lowered his head slightly, signaling that he had finished speaking.
The emperor looked at the prime minister—still playing the mascot, feigning innocence—and asked with a faint smile, “Let’s leave this matter to the prime minister, shall we?”
The prime minister frowned slightly. This should have been handed over to the Minister of Defense or the Minister of the Army—both of whom had security departments capable of handling such investigations—not to him, a powerless figurehead.
Everyone knew he had no personnel under his command. Without control over the treasury, other ministers and institutions didn’t take him seriously—he simply had no leverage.
Tasking him with investigating the source of everyone’s money was no easy job. Too many interests were entangled.
Those at the top might hold their ground, but the mid- and lower-level officials would inevitably have their own thoughts.
If he failed to uncover anything, he would lose all authority. The emperor had given him power, and if he couldn’t deliver, it would prove he truly was only fit to be a figurehead.
On the other hand, if he wanted to investigate thoroughly, he’d need to borrow people from other departments. Whether those people had ties to the finance minister and his subordinates was anyone’s guess.
Moreover, those borrowed officials belonged to third-party factions—ones that hadn’t yet picked a side. Their superiors might even instruct them to go through the motions but not do real work, making it hard to uncover anything meaningful.
In that case, time would just be dragged out, effectively buying the finance minister a generous window.
This was the drawback of not having financial control—anyone could ignore him.
But the prime minister quickly relaxed his brows. In politics, a few words could decide everything. He pressed his lips together, thought for a moment, then nodded.
“I’ll take responsibility for this,” he said—unexpected, but also completely reasonable.
Refusing wasn’t really an option. Accepting gave him some initiative; refusing would relegate him to the sidelines, losing strategic advantage.
Now it was a numbers game—who had more people, more support.
If he didn’t rely on other ministers’ people and instead built a new department dedicated to the investigation—so long as he could find capable people and dig deep into the finance minister’s affairs—he’d win this round.
Of course, Gephra’s financial index would still have to take the hit.
