Arknights: Prime Minister of Kjerag — Chapter 96

Chapter 96: Duke Caster in Victoria

A week dissolved into a blur of ink, paper, and endless logistics.

During this brief window, Ernst found his desk buried under a mounting pile of correspondence from the outside world. Kjerag’s trade routes and diplomatic exchanges had surged into a frenzy of activity, reaching a volume of traffic that would have been entirely unimaginable just a few months prior.

Among the stack of envelopes was a missive from Vina, dispatched straight from Lungmen. Chief Executive Wei Yenwu’s reaction fell perfectly within Ernst’s calculations. While the old draco’s insistence on heavy-handed censorship and structural modifications remained an annoyance, it was ultimately irrelevant. The published volumes of “The Chronicles of Earth” had not yet reached the truly dangerous chapters.

As for Wei’s proposal to lock down an exclusive publishing contract, Ernst rejected it without a second thought. Profit splits and royalty margins were always negotiable, but the ideological reach of “The Chronicles of Earth” could never be confined to Lungmen, nor to the borders of Yan. He absolutely refused to let Wei Yenwu chain the narrative to his political whims.

Ernst’s primary objective was mass exposure. If sacrificing a fraction of the immediate profits ensured the book landed in more hands across Terra, it was a trade he would make every single time.

Right now, the Four Ancient Civilizations Arc was merely the appetizer. The royalties and fame were just the garnish; the real ideological meat he intended to serve had not even left the kitchen.

Kjerag was technologically and socially stunted. One wrong step in its modernization could plunge the snow-capped nation into eternal ruin. But that did not mean the rest of Terra lacked the fertile soil necessary to cultivate an alternative path.

No matter how politically shrewd Wei Yenwu might be, he could certainly smell the underlying risks buried within “The Chronicles of Earth.” But could a politician truly kill an ideology just by redacting a few pages of a fantasy novel?

Ernst intended to take his time. He would slowly paint the socio-economic landscape of that other world. He would disguise the German Peasants’ War, the French Revolution, and the Paris Commune as thrilling narrative arcs, weaving the core tenets of “The Manifesto” directly into the dialogue and world-building. Finally, he would push the entire epic to a boiling climax through the brutal, world-shattering scale of the two Great Wars.

By the time that happened, “The Chronicles of Earth” would already be a runaway bestseller, ironically propelled to the top of the charts by the very elites who mistakenly believed they had Ernst dancing on their strings.

One should never underestimate the sheer kinetic force of the written word. Ideology was a priceless, contagious weapon. The philosophies people recited, pondered, and ultimately bled for were always born from the quiet writings of ancient thinkers, eventually colliding with the harsh realities of societal decay.

By the time men like Wei Yenwu finally pierced through Ernst’s veil of fiction and realized the true, terrifying purpose of the book, the fire would already be out of control.

If Lungmen eventually panicked and banned its publication, Ernst would simply pivot to Columbia, to Leithanien, or anywhere else. And if it came down to it, Kjerag itself would soon possess the industrial capacity to run its own global publishing house.

In an era connected by the Nomadic City Network, a universally beloved, wildly popular book could never truly be eradicated. Once a revolutionary idea took root in the minds of the oppressed, burning the paper it was printed on would do nothing to stop the inevitable harvest.

Ernst leaned back in his chair, a quiet confidence settling over him. He knew that when the time came, there would be brilliant minds across Terra who would read his stories, look at their own fractured world, and draft a new “Manifesto” perfectly tailored for this land.

Those grand designs, however, belonged to the future. After drafting a swift reply instructing Vina to return to the snow mountains the moment her current task concluded, Ernst broke the seal on a second letter. This one demanded his immediate attention.

It bore the official crest of Rhine Lab, signed by Director Kirsten.

Skipping past the dry, obligatory corporate pleasantries, Kirsten detailed that Nasti had safely returned to Trimounts and delivered a complete report on her expedition to Kjerag.

The letter outlined a phased blueprint for the urban renovation project, a finalized site selection assessment for the Mount Matterhorn Dome Research Station, and the one detail Ernst cared about most: the exact date the heavy machinery would break ground.

For the common citizen, grand political slogans were entirely worthless. Broadcasting endless debates about GDP growth and long-term policy benefits was nothing but hot air compared to putting cold, hard currency and a solid roof over a family’s head.

Ernst’s ambitious renovation plan for the Turicum Old City had been public knowledge for quite some time. Yet, aside from a few preliminary factories erected on the outskirts, there was zero visible progress on the new government sectors, the paved commercial streets, or the central business district. Ernst counted himself incredibly lucky that the people of Kjerag possessed such a patient, simple nature. In any other nation, the populace would have rioted over the delays, and he would have been dragged out of office.

Kirsten’s elegant handwriting provided the hard deadline he needed.

“Dear Prime Minister Ernst. Regarding the Turicum Old City renovation and the construction of the Mount Matterhorn Dome Research Station, Nasti and I will personally lead the vanguard engineering team to Kjerag one month from today, on February 15th, to officially launch the project. Should this timeline conflict with your schedule, please reply at your earliest convenience so we may adjust accordingly.”

“February 15, 1094.”

Ernst murmured the date into the quiet room, picking up his pen to circle the day on his desk calendar.

This would be the first time in Kjerag’s history that it hosted an engineering project of such colossal, urban-scale magnitude. He needed to brief Enciodes immediately. Before Rhine Lab’s landships arrived, the government and Karlan Trade had to execute a flawless, orderly relocation of the citizens living in the first phase of the Turicum demolition zone. They needed to distribute fair compensation and establish comfortable temporary housing.

The absolute priority was ensuring that the daily lives and livelihoods of the locals suffered zero disruption.

A soft knock broke his concentration. The heavy oak door swung open, revealing Ho’olheyak leaning casually against the frame.

“Grand Duke Windermere has boarded the train,” she announced, her tone carrying a hint of amusement.

Ernst nodded, setting his pen down and rising from his chair.

“Let us go, then. We have a Victorian friend to welcome at the station.”

…

Anfilia Windermere sat in the plush, heated cabin of the train, watching the snow-draped landscape blur past the reinforced glass. She felt a strange, lingering sense of novelty.

It was not that the Grand Duke of Victoria had never experienced a train ride before. Rather, for someone of her immense political and military stature, commercial rail lines were considered an archaic, entirely obsolete method of transit.

When a Grand Duke traveled privately, it was aboard heavily armored, custom-built luxury transports. Short official diplomatic trips used agile, advanced aircraft, while long-distance deployments demanded the sheer, overwhelming presence of high-speed military warships. The true, suffocating extravagance of Victorian nobility was something the common folk could scarcely comprehend.

The novelty she felt stemmed entirely from Kjerag’s raw, untouched environment.

As a hardened military commander tasked with guarding Victoria’s bloodiest frontiers, Anfilia’s tactical mind immediately dissected Kjerag’s geographical value.

Nestled at the volatile junction of three major powers, shielded by an impenetrable ring of towering mountains, elevated high above the lowlands, and miraculously untouched by the catastrophic natural disasters that plagued the rest of Terra. It was a fortress built by the gods.

If Victoria could somehow plant a heavily fortified military installation right here in this valley, it would act as a permanent, lethal dagger pressed directly against the throats of both Kazimierz and Columbia.

Anfilia closed her eyes for a brief second, shaking her head to physically discard the ruthless tactical assessment.

Unlike the majority of her cutthroat peers in the Victorian Parliament, Anfilia Windermere was a woman who placed personal loyalty and emotional debts far above the cold calculus of imperial expansion. Whether that trait made her a flawed Duke or a noble one was up for debate, but for Ernst, it was an absolute blessing.

Grand Duke Windermere never, under any circumstances, betrayed a friend.

And Ernst—the man who had pulled her daughter from the brink of death, the man who had saved her husband’s life on two separate occasions, the man who currently provided a safe, untouchable haven for Delphine—was undoubtedly her closest ally.

The train let out a long, piercing whistle as it carved its way through the final natural chasm surrounding Kjerag’s borders. As the claustrophobic canyon walls fell away, the sprawling, sparse plains of the SilverAsh territory opened up before her, revealing the distant, rising smoke of Turicum.

Out on this rugged, undeveloped frontier, local herders were busy driving massive, woolly Sumpter Beasts and skittish Originium Slugs away from the vibrating iron tracks. They paused their labor to stare at the roaring mechanical beast of steel and steam, their weather-beaten faces etched with a mixture of pure curiosity and quiet longing.

Through the thick glass, the hardened gaze of the Victorian conqueror met the innocent gaze of the Kjerag frontier.

Anfilia watched as one of the herders, a young man wrapped in thick furs, raised a heavily gloved hand and waved enthusiastically at the passing train.

He was greeting her.

A soft, genuine sound escaped her lips.

“Heh.”

A faint, warm smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Wherever Grand Duke Windermere traveled, she was met with trembling reverence, suffocating protocol, or the terrified awe reserved for a butcher of war. This was the first time in her life she had looked out a window and seen a commoner look back without a single ounce of fear.

The rhythmic clatter of the tracks began to slow, the brakes whining as the train glided into the Turicum Railway Station. The stone platforms slid into view on both sides of the carriage. Standing tall amidst the swirling snow, Ernst and Delphine were already waiting for her.

Anfilia Windermere stood up, smoothing out the immaculate creases of her military uniform. She walked toward the heavy iron door with measured, purposeful steps.

As the pneumatic doors hissed open, the biting mountain wind rushed in, and their eyes locked.

Breaking every rule of Victorian aristocratic protocol, Anfilia stripped the heavy leather glove from her right hand before stepping down onto the platform. She closed the distance and extended her bare hand toward Ernst.

Ernst met her grip firmly.

A few yards away, a hidden Karlan Trade photographer pressed the shutter, the blinding flash capturing the exact second their hands connected.

That single photograph would later be published and immortalized in the history books under the title “Prime Minister Ernst’s First Time.”

However, among the underground political circles of Terra, the image earned a much more famous, widely circulated nickname—”Duke Caster in Victoria.”

The more one analyzed the political absurdity of the photo, the more it felt like a deliberate, mocking title mark. If anyone doubted the humor of such historical misnomers, they only needed to look at the legendary tales of the Wandering Knight, Młynar.

[Rhodes’s Note: “Duke Caster in Victoria” is a classic bait-and-switch historical joke, mirroring the real-world Soviet joke about a painting titled “Lenin in Poland.” In the joke, the painting shows Lenin’s wife in bed with another man. When asked where Lenin is, the painter replies, “Lenin is in Poland.” Here, the photo is titled “Duke Caster in Victoria,” yet it prominently features Duke Windermere in Kjerag.]