Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World

Lucien Vale, envoy of the Chronos Empire, rode through the towering gates of Eldoria atop a sleek, black steed, its coat groomed to a mirror shine. His silver-embroidered cloak billowed behind him, catching the early afternoon sun like a banner of authority. Four knights flanked him—silent, disciplined, and clad in immaculate crimson cloaks, each one stitched with the unmistakable emblem of Chronos: a silver lion entwined with gears.

The guards stationed at Eldoria's gate bowed hastily, heads lowered, eyes averted. Not a single man dared to meet the envoy's gaze.

Despite the reforms King Arthur Tesla had enacted in recent months, the name Chronos still inspired fear in Keldoria. Not because the two nations were enemies, but because the balance of power between them was unmistakably one-sided. Chronos stood as a towering empire—militarily dominant, economically vast, and politically shrewd—while Keldoria, though proud, remained a much smaller kingdom still finding its footing.

Its armies were modest, its infrastructure underdeveloped, and its wealth—while growing—still paled in comparison to the deep coffers of the empire. For generations, Keldoria had walked a careful line, paying tribute and avoiding offense. The fear was not rooted in hatred, but in the quiet, daily understanding that if Chronos ever decided to press its weight, Keldoria wouldn't be able to resist.

And Lucien could feel that fear with every lowered gaze and stiff bow.

The corners of his lips curled in satisfaction. Good, he thought. At least some things haven't changed.

The entourage proceeded into the heart of the capital. Lucien's gaze swept over the city with cool disinterest. The streets were uneven, worn by years of neglect. Roofs sagged here and there, and the buildings varied wildly—some of stone, some of timber, many clearly patched up with what materials were available. A few showed signs of fresh masonry, hints of slow-moving restoration.

But overall?

Still the same sleepy backwater, he mused. A tribute state with no spine. A kingdom that barely manages to feed its own… Yet somehow still coughs up a million gold a year for us. Amazing.

He recalled the most recent reports from the capital: Arthur Tesla had rolled out a revised tax code, repealed levies on the poor, and established a network of new tax offices in each region—moves that were praised as progressive within diplomatic circles. Supposedly, the reforms had eased the burden on farmers and small merchants, increasing compliance and improving internal revenue without stirring rebellion.

However, Lucien couldn't care less.

To him, it was little more than the fumbling of an idealistic boy playing at governance. Shuffling numbers and printing decrees might win praise from peasants and foreign scribes, but it didn't change the hard truth: Keldoria remained weak. Its army was still under-equipped. Its roads were still crumbling. Its influence barely reached beyond its own borders.

Let the king toy with taxes, Lucien thought, as long as he keeps the tribute flowing.

Then, something strange caught Lucien's eye.

Near a fruit vendor's stall, two men stood huddled together—not speaking, not trading—but reading. Each held a book in their hands.

They weren't nobles. That was immediately obvious. One wore boots caked in dried mud, their edges cracking from overuse. Another's tunic was patched in multiple places, faded from years of wear. Their faces were sun-darkened, their hands scarred and calloused from labor—hands more accustomed to hammers and plows than parchment.

And yet… they held those books with a quiet reverence. Not as if they were luxuries, but treasures. Essentials.

Lucien pulled the reins and brought his horse to a halt.

What in the gods' names is this?

He watched them for a moment longer, unsettled. These were not men he expected to see reading. In Chronos, books were gatekept by birthright. Even a steward in a noble household would be expected to listen, not read. But here, these laborers read like it was their right. No—like it was a gift they'd never thought they'd receive.

The reason they could afford the book—despite not being wealthy or part of the upper class—was due to Arthur's recent tax reforms. When the new system was introduced, they fell into the lower-income bracket and, as a result, their tax burden was reduced. The difference wasn't drastic, but it was enough to leave them with a bit of disposable income—just enough to spend on something beyond daily necessities. And with books now priced affordably, the two men who had learned to read chose to spend that extra silver on a book they never thought they'd own.

Lucien dismounted with deliberate grace, ignoring the knight's glance behind him. The envoy's boots clicked softly against the stone as he approached one of the men—a broad-shouldered figure with leathery skin, a scent of tanned hide and sawdust clinging to him.

"You," Lucien said smoothly, his tone warm but edged with steel. "That book—where did you get it?"

The man looked up—and his gaze instantly fell upon the silver lion entwined with clockwork gears emblazoned on Lucien's chest. Recognition struck like a spark to dry tinder. His body went rigid. The fingers around the book tensed—not in offering, but in possession, as if fearing it might be taken from him.

"From there, my lord," the man answered quietly, nodding toward a nearby stall beneath a weathered canvas awning. "That merchant's been selling them for the past few days."

Lucien's eyes narrowed, a flicker of disbelief hidden beneath a mask of detached curiosity. "Even so," he said, his tone mild but edged with condescension, "you hardly look like someone who can afford the luxury of books."

"It's because this one only cost one silver and three copper coins, sir," the man replied, clutching the book a little tighter. "Most are around that price. Some a bit less, some a little more… depends on the title."

Lucien blinked—once, slowly. One silver and three copper? For a bound book?

That was absurd. Laughable even. Books were luxury goods, even in Chronos. Every copy required the time of trained scribes, binding by artisans, and parchment imported at cost. In Keldoria—this half-fed vassal kingdom—it should have been doubly so.

"And who is covering the rest of the cost?" Lucien asked smoothly. "Someone must be subsidizing it. Surely the labor alone cost more than that."

The man hesitated again, glancing toward the stall and then back at Lucien's polished cloak. "I… I don't know the details, sir. Just that it's His Majesty's will. King Arthur Tesla said knowledge shouldn't be locked behind coin."

Lucien's jaw tightened beneath his carefully pleasant expression. Still, the smile remained. Polished. Practiced.

He let his gaze drop to the cover of the man's book.

The Basics of Trade.

The title was printed cleanly in block letters. The edges were straight, the binding firm. The print was crisp and uniform—no smudges, no crooked lines, no uneven spacing.

It must have been written by a very skilled scribe to get the letters this consistent, Lucien thought, narrowing his eyes. Or perhaps a team of them copying from a master sheet…

But even that didn't sit right. Scribes—especially ones with this level of precision—were costly. Far too costly for a book that sold for a silver and a handful of copper.

He extended a gloved hand toward the man.

"Let me see it."

The man flinched, his grip tightening instinctively. His eyes darted once toward the crimson cloaks of the Chronos knights, then back to Lucien's expectant hand. Resistance flickered in his gaze, but only for a moment. The crest on Lucien's chest glinted in the light, and whatever defiance might've surfaced sank back into quiet submission.

Wordlessly, he handed over the book.

Lucien accepted it with delicate care, like one might inspect a forged coin. He turned it in his hands, noting the rough-but-functional binding. The cover was plain but durable, stitched with modest thread. Nothing ornate. But nothing careless, either.

He opened to the first page. Then flipped to the second. Then the fifth.

And frowned.

The text was perfectly aligned—identical spacing between each letter, each line following a measured margin. Every letter mirrored the last, with none of the natural variation that came from the hand of even the most disciplined scribe.

He flipped to another page. Then another.

Still the same. As though the letters had been stamped rather than drawn.

This wasn't copied. This was… replicated.

Lucien's brow creased, his mind already combing through possibilities. He knew of no technology in Keldoria capable of this. In Chronos, such uniform duplication would be impossible without magic. And even then, spell-scribing was reserved for court rituals and sacred texts—not trade manuals for peasants.

The paper was coarse compared to the silk-fiber parchment used in Chronos tomes, and the ink lacked the deep lacquered sheen of noble-commissioned books. But it was legible, strong, and didn't bleed through. A bit brittle at the edge, perhaps—but sturdy enough not to tear from casual use.

He ran his thumb lightly along the inner spine, feeling the neat stitching.

Primitive, yet efficient.

After a long pause, he closed the book and handed it back to the man.

"Thank you," Lucien said, his tone unreadable. "You've been helpful."

The man nodded stiffly and cradled the book back to his chest, relief visible in the way his shoulders eased. He did not ask what Lucien had seen, nor what it meant. Only that he was still allowed to keep it.

Lucien watched the man retreat a step, still clutching the book like a rescued treasure, as though expecting it might vanish if he blinked. The tension in the air thinned, but Lucien remained still for a moment longer, his mind ablaze with questions.

What method produces such uniformity? How many of these books exist? Why sell them so cheaply?

But he knew the man before him would have no answers—only vague mentions of "His Majesty's orders" or "some new workshop." Commoners rarely understood the mechanisms behind the changes that touched their lives. They only knew relief when it came, and hardship when it returned.

Knowing that, Lucien turned on his heel, the crimson cloaks of his knights parting to flank him once more.

"We're done here," he said flatly, striding back toward his horse.

Mounting in a single, fluid motion, he cast one last look at the market.

A kingdom still cracked and weathered, but its foundation was shifting.

He tugged at the reins.

No more answers would be found among cobblers and fieldhands.

Not until he stood before the boy-king himself.

Lucien had come to Eldoria with a clear directive: to address the annual tribute of one million gold coins and carry out the specific instructions entrusted to him by King Brandon Rivas—reaffirm Keldoria's subservience, ensure continued payment, and investigate how Arthur Tesla had managed to implement sweeping tax reforms without provoking a rebellion from the nobility.

Yet as Lucien rode through the capital, the question of gold began to recede behind a more pressing curiosity.

Where did these books come from? What device—what technology—could produce them so cleanly, so cheaply? And why make them accessible to the common rabble?

As his steed carried him toward the castle, Lucien felt the familiar cloak of diplomacy settle around him—calm, cool, deliberate. Every word in the coming exchange would be measured. Every gesture, calculated.

What he didn't yet realize, however, was that this meeting would be no ordinary diplomatic parley.

Arthur Tesla hadn't summoned him merely to reaffirm old promises. No—the young king had something far more audacious in mind. A plan that would challenge Chronos's dominance. A scheme not just to delay the tribute—but to abolish it entirely. And worse still, Arthur was prepared to use any means even if he had to become an enemy with Chronos.