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ArabicArknights: Prime Minister of Kjerag — Chapter 11
Chapter 11: Capitalist Schemes and the Impenetrable Peasant Economy
The Turicum Hotel stood as a fresh venture backed by the SilverAsh family’s deep coffers, built specifically to host foreign investors and the occasional brave tourist. As the sole modern establishment in the entirety of Kjerag, it had been rather unceremoniously crowned with grandiose titles like “Kjerag’s Largest Hotel” and “Kjerag’s Oldest Hotel.”
Brand prestige was essentially just added value. In truth, the amenities at the Turicum Hotel fell woefully short of even a budget business inn in a Columbian mobile city. Yet, precisely because of its monopoly and the local pride attached to it, the establishment maintained an immaculate reputation. Zero negative reviews. Any tourist who actually stayed there wouldn’t just swallow their complaints; they would actively crusade in its defense on public forums:
“Love it or leave it!”
“In a rugged frontier like Kjerag, having a heated room is already a luxury. What are you nitpicking about? Sure, foreign hotels are fancy, but do they have that authentic Kjerag soul?”
“As a completely neutral observer, I think we need to show the Turicum Hotel some grace. Yes, it has flaws, but as lovers of Kjerag culture, we must embrace its rustic charm and encourage its growth. Your one-star review is pure malicious slander! Are you a foreign spy trying to sabotage Kjerag’s tourism industry?!”
The sheer zealotry of these positive reviews gave Ernest a deep sense of déjà vu. It reeked of the rabid internet defense forces from his past life. Still, considering that most of Kjerag still viewed an Originium heater as a mystical artifact, he figured these keyboard warriors genuinely wanted their homeland to succeed.
But amateurs watch the spectacle; professionals dissect the foundation. A fresh coat of paint could fool an ordinary backpacker, but to a Columbian financial predator like Luther Magnus, the cracks were glaringly obvious.
Sitting in the private dining room, Luther tapped his polished cane against the floorboards. ‘Kjerag’s infrastructure is abysmal,’he calculated silently.’Prime Minister Ernest must be desperate for this capital injection.’He adjusted his tailored cuffs, preparing his strategy.’I’ll use this at the dinner table. If I press the right pressure points, I can squeeze an even more lucrative contract out of this frozen wasteland.’
A few moments later, the heavy oak doors of the corridor swung open. Ernest and Enciodes stepped into the hotel’s private wing.
Ernest slipped off his heavy winter coat, handing it to the towering Ursus girl beside him. He offered Aurora a reassuring nod, dismissing her to stand guard outside. The moment he turned back toward the private room, his face shifted. A smile as warm and inviting as a spring thaw bloomed across his features.
He strode forward, extending a welcoming hand toward the Columbian banker. “My deepest apologies, Mr. Magnus. I hope we haven’t kept you waiting long.”
“Not at all.” Luther shook his head gracefully, accepting the handshake. He offered a polite nod and a brief handshake to Enciodes as well, before the three men stepped fully into the private dining room.
Ernest, having led the way in, waited for the other two to cross the threshold before firmly pulling the door shut until the latch clicked. He strolled over to his chair, sank into the plush upholstery, and leaned forward with an easy, conspiratorial grin.
“Everyone in this room is family,” Ernest declared smoothly. “Let’s keep the door closed and speak freely.”
The casual remark carried an invisible weight. Both Enciodes and Luther unconsciously adjusted their posture, their spines straightening just a fraction. A second later, both men realized what they had done, a flicker of surprise crossing their features.
Luther, in particular, felt a jolt of genuine astonishment. Since stepping foot in Kjerag, this was the third time the young Prime Minister had caught him off guard, and this instance was the most deep. Politics was an art form—a ruthless discipline that usually required decades of gray hair and backroom betrayals to master.
Yet Ernest, despite his youth, carried none of the naive idealism of a boy. He was careful. Quick-witted. He handled the treacherous waters of negotiation with the practiced ease of a seasoned statesman. His grasp of bureaucratic maneuvering and unwritten rules was terrifyingly sharp.
That simple act—closing the door and establishing an exclusive inner circle—was a psychological power play. Half the so-called ‘master politicians’ in Columbia’s prime-time political dramas spent their entire fictional careers failing to execute that exact move with such natural charisma.
Enciodes, seated across the table, maintained a cooler facade. He was equally impressed, but he recovered much faster. He had already witnessed his younger brother’s baffling mastery of bureaucratic doublespeak during the Three Clans Meeting. Knowing that Ernest was about to launch into his grand persuasion, the Karlan Trade Chairman mentally prepared himself to play the straight man in whatever theatrical routine was about to unfold.
After letting the silence stretch just long enough to build anticipation, Ernest swept his gaze between the two men.
“To be perfectly frank, Mr. Magnus, my position as Prime Minister was a stroke of pure luck,” Ernest began, his tone dripping with self-deprecating humility. “I didn’t actually contribute much to earn this seat. It is entirely thanks to the immense influence of my elder brother, Enciodes, and my sister, the Saintess of Kjerag, that I sit before you today.”
He sighed, leaning back and steepling his fingers. “Let’s be honest. Being a government official is just another avenue for making money. My brother dominates the wealth of foreign trade. My sister commands the boundless tithes of religion. I have a thin skin and no seniority, so I can’t possibly compete with either of them. After agonizing over it, I realized there is only one viable path left for me to line my pockets.”
Luther raised a manicured eyebrow, leaning in with obvious curiosity. “And what path might that be?”
Ernest slapped his hand against the table, his eyes gleaming with feigned greed. “Skimming real estate.”
“Skimming land?” Luther stared at the young man, his mind practically translating the words into a glowing neon sign that read: A formidable youth with a limitless future!
Young man, you truly understand the game! Luther thought, his pulse quickening. The real estate sector was an absolute gold mine. For this fledgling politician to zero in on land acquisition right out of the gate… his future wasn’t just bright; it was a paved highway to the Columbian elite!
The banker’s appetite was thoroughly whetted. He hung on Ernest’s every word, completely unconcerned about the actual logistics of acquiring the territory. As a top-tier financial predator, Luther hadn’t ventured into this frozen isolationist nation blind. He had mapped out Kjerag’s power structure long before his train departed.
Who wielded the absolute spiritual authority in Kjerag? The Saintess of the Karlan Temple.
Who controlled the absolute economic monopoly? Enciodes SilverAsh, Chairman of Karlan Trade.
And this young man sitting across from him was their blood brother, holding the highest secular office in the government. In a nation this small, having the two most powerful figures as immediate family meant Ernest could do whatever he pleased. What was skimming a little land? If Luther had siblings with that kind of untouchable authority, he would have erected a Magnus Tower in every single district from the Columbian Core to the frontier!
Seeing the Columbian’s eyes practically spinning with LMD symbols, Ernest didn’t rush. He dragged out his next words, baiting the hook. “It’s just that…”
“Just that what?” Luther prompted eagerly.
“It’s just that the common folk of Kjerag are incredibly stubborn,” Ernest lamented, shaking his head. “They believe that every blade of grass, every towering pine, and every pebble on the mountain is a sacred gift from Kjeragandr. Because of this religious devotion, they absolutely refuse to allow us to buy and sell the land freely.”
“Hah!” Luther let out a sharp, disdainful bark of laughter. He had expected some massive political hurdle, not the whining of superstitious peasants.
Youth will always be youth, Luther mused smugly. Plenty of ambition, but zero practical finesse. What was so difficult about displacing a few stubborn locals?
“That is a trivial matter, my dear Ernest. Allow me to teach you how it’s done,” Luther offered, leaning across the table to close the distance, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “When dealing with troublesome commoners, you simply hire a crew of local thugs. Have them visit the neighborhoods at night. Glue their door locks shut. Clog their sewer lines. If they still won’t budge, wait until they leave for the day and set their roofs on fire. Make their daily existence a living nightmare. Once they are sufficiently exhausted and terrified, they will pack up and leave on their own.”
Ernest stared at him, utterly deadpan. Seeing the practiced, casual cruelty in Luther’s eyes—a look that suggested he had orchestrated this exact tactic a hundred times before—Ernest slowly turned his head to look at Enciodes.
His gaze clearly asked: Are all you capitalist pigs this inherently evil?
Enciodes blinked, his expression a mask of pristine innocence. He had never resorted to such crude, low-class thuggery. Why was his brother looking at him like that?
Ernest sighed, withdrawing his gaze. He offered two polite coughs, interrupting Luther’s enthusiastic monologue on the finer points of urban displacement.
“Mr. Magnus… that simply won’t work.”
“Why on earth not?” Luther frowned, genuinely baffled.
Ernest delivered a truth so absolute it shattered the banker’s entire worldview. “Because the people of Kjerag do not have door locks to glue, nor do they have sewers to clog.”
Luther froze.
What kind of place was Kjerag? The vast majority of civilian dwellings were crude, single-room structures cobbled together from rough-hewn wood, thatch, and mountain stone. A cluster of these huts formed a herding settlement. Everyone in the village saw each other every single day; who needed a luxury item like a metal door lock?
And sewers? That was a Columbian pipe dream. The only arable land was clustered around the sacred lakes. The Sumpter Beasts needed fodder, and the crops needed fertilizer. Why would anyone flush perfectly good, organic night soil down a drain when it was essential for survival?
Luther’s vast repertoire of corporate villainy was suddenly rendered entirely useless.
The ruthless capitalist had been completely neutralized—not by morality, but by the sheer, unyielding stability of a primitive peasant economy. It was like trying to hack a mainframe only to find the target was using a wooden abacus.
At that precise moment, sensing his cue—or perhaps just realizing that if he didn’t intervene, he’d be stuck watching these two stare at each other all night—Enciodes finally spoke up. He looked at Luther with an expression of mild concern.
“Actually, it isn’t entirely hopeless,” Enciodes murmured smoothly. “If the hard approach is incompatible with our local infrastructure, we simply need to employ a softer method.”
“A softer method?” Luther frowned, still struggling to process the lack of indoor plumbing.
“It is merely a matter of phrasing,” Ernest explained, his voice dropping to a smooth, persuasive cadence.
“If we outright sell the land—especially to a Columbian entity like your bank—the people of Kjerag will riot. If they riot, the unrest will inevitably reach the Karlan Temple. My sister would be forced to intervene, which would make resolving the situation a political nightmare. I wouldn’t be able to secure the territory, and I might even be forced to resign in disgrace. Resigning is bad for business; how can I line my pockets if I’m out of office? Therefore, the land absolutely cannot be sold!”
Ernest paused, letting the finality of the statement hang in the air. Then, the corners of his lips curled into a sly, predatory smile.
“However… if we simply change the terminology, all our problems vanish.”
He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Luther’s. “Mr. Magnus, acting in my official capacity as Prime Minister, and under the noble pretext of raising vital government funds for national development… I can simply borrow a massive sum of capital from your bank.”
Ernest tapped the table lightly. “And the collateral for this generous government loan… will be that exact piece of land.”
[Rhodes’s Note: The raw text humorously refers to the natural fertilizer as “Oli Ge” (奥利给). While originally a positive Chinese internet cheer meaning “Awesome!” or “Give it your all!”, it became infamous online after a viral video of a streamer yelling the phrase before eating feces. Thus, it evolved into a slang term for poop. It has been localized here as “organic night soil” to maintain the flow of the narrative.]