novellaaa Chapter 109 Pym's New Job
Chapter 109 Pym's New Job
Chapter 108 Pym's New Job
Frostwolf City, Lord's Hall.
Pym stood outside the hall door, rubbing the sweat from his palms.
Two Babel Tower mechs stood guard on either side of the door, their iron-gray bodies still bearing charred battle marks, their mechanical eyes emitting a ghostly blue light as they stared unblinkingly at him.
Pym swallowed hard.
He had witnessed the Tower of Babel crushing the outer city walls, the moment the white line of fire pierced the church dome, and the scene of those once invincible second-tier knights being torn to pieces by vines.
But those were all seen through the window.
Now, he was going to go in and meet that person face to face.
"President Pym, the master is waiting for you."
Victor's voice came from inside the hall, low and calm, but Pym sensed an urgent need for time to pass.
He tugged at his collar and stepped inside.
The hall was much emptier than he remembered.
The gilded candlesticks, embroidered curtains, and piles of jewels from the Countess's era have all disappeared, leaving only gray stone walls and a high-backed iron chair.
Lorraine sat in that chair.
Pym's first thought was—young.
too young.
He had spent half his life dealing with the Alchemists' Guild, had been insincere with the Countess for over a decade, and had drunk and settled accounts with every prominent figure in Frostwolf City.
But this young man in front of me was, just two months ago, a bastard and abandoned child who was ridiculed by the whole city.
Two months later, he sat on that chair, stepping over the Countess's bones.
Pym bent his knees and knelt down with a thud.
"Pim, President of the Alchemists' Guild, pays his respects to the newly appointed Earl."
Lorraine didn't tell him to get up, nor did she say anything.
The hall was so quiet that the faint clicking of the mechs' joints could be heard. Pym's forehead was pressed against the cold stone floor, and his back was soaked with sweat.
The pledge of loyalty was the backdoor access to the Demon-Binding and Spirit-Suppressing Array, which he offered up immediately.
But sometimes, a pledge of loyalty can buy you a life, but not a bright future.
Get up.
Lorraine's voice rang out, her tone neither cold nor warm.
Pym stood up, smiling obsequiously, and glanced at Lorraine's side out of the corner of his eye.
The red-haired witch Anna stood to the left, her expression indifferent, a faint light swirling at her fingertips. To the right, Victor gripped the hilt of the Wolf King Greatsword, his gaze fixed on Pym like two nails.
"Pym," Lorraine called his name.
"exist!"
Do you know why I called you here?
Pym's mind raced. He had considered countless possibilities beforehand: interrogation, blackmail, recruitment, or even silencing.
But Lorraine's tone was too calm; it didn't sound like she was about to kill someone.
"Your subordinate—I dare not presume to guess your meaning, sir." Pym chose the safest answer.
Lorraine leaned back in her chair and tapped her fingers on the armrest.
"Then I'll just say it directly."
He paused for a moment.
"Frostwolf City needs a bank."
Pym was stunned.
He was prepared to receive a reward, prepared to receive nothing, and even prepared to be publicly humiliated.
But banks?
"Does Your Excellency mean—a money exchange?" Pym asked tentatively.
“Not a money exchange,” Lorraine shook his head. “It’s a bank. A bank that belongs to the entire territory, in charge of currency issuance, deposit and loan interest rates, and the financial lifeline of the entire city.”
Pym opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything for a moment.
Lorraine looked at him, and the corners of her mouth curved slightly.
"In this city, no one is better at doing business and managing the economy than you. The Countess is so greedy that she razed Frostwolf City to the bone, yet your Alchemist's Guild still thrives. Based on that alone, you are the most suitable candidate."
Pym's heart skipped a beat.
Is this a compliment, or a subtle jab?
"So," Lorraine held up one finger, "you'll be the central bank governor."
Pym's legs went weak again.
He's been in the business world for most of his life; what hasn't he seen?
He never expected that this word would appear on himself.
Based on the lord's description of the central bank governor, this is probably not a merchant's title, but rather an official appointment?!
Moreover, he was an official in charge of money.
The most lucrative job in the world.
Pym knelt down again with a thud.
"Your Excellency's kindness is boundless! Pym would gladly die for you!"
"Stand up and speak." Lorraine's tone was flat. "I don't like seeing people kneeling."
Pym got up, but his back was bent and he didn't dare to straighten up.
There's something I need to make clear to you.
Lorraine looked at Pym calmly, her voice dropping half an octave, "I don't care about what you did under the Countess. Whether you were hedging your bets or hoarding, it's all in the past."
Pym nodded repeatedly.
"but"
The moment that "but" came out, Pym's back tensed.
"The money in the bank belongs to the territory, to the people. If you dare to take it—"
Lorraine didn't finish speaking; she simply tilted her head and glanced at Anna.
Anna's fingertips lit up briefly, a pale light that vanished in an instant, and a faint smell of burning filled the air.
"Don't take any chances. I know all the accounts. If you embezzle, I'll know immediately, and you'll know your fate immediately as well."
Pym's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
He thought of the hole in the church dome pierced by a line of white light, and of the rumors that the archbishop had turned to ashes.
"Understood, understood! Don't worry, sir! Pym would rather pawn his own bones than touch a single penny from the bank!"
Lorraine nodded, pulled a roll of parchment from beside the chair armrest, and tossed it to him.
Pym hurriedly caught it, looked down and saw—
"Issuing paper money?"
He thought he was seeing things.
Unfold the parchment and examine it closely. It contains a complete implementation plan written in neat handwriting, covering everything from the material of the banknotes, anti-counterfeiting marks, denominations to circulation channels, leaving no detail unattended.
The top line reads: Frostwolf City Fiat Currency Reform Plan.
Pym's expression changed.
"My lord, forgive my bluntness—" he carefully chose his words, "paper money, in our Frostwolf City, is probably—"
'
"Can't push it away?" Lorraine finished speaking for him.
"The people in the city recognize gold and silver. A piece of paper—" Pym rubbed his fingers together, "even if you printed an adult's portrait on it, they wouldn't believe it. Besides, if the surrounding territories don't accept our paper money, the trade routes will be cut off."
"The problems you mentioned are all in the plan," Lorraine interrupted him. "Don't jump to conclusions yet. Go back and read the whole plan."
Pym looked down and scanned a few more lines.
The more he looked, the more his brows furrowed.
The plan states: In the first phase, the crop output of the magic farm will be used as the anchor, and farmers will be forced to hand over 20% of their output to the lord's mansion in exchange for an equivalent amount of paper money.
Paper money can be used to purchase magical resources exclusively supplied by the territory at designated shops in the lord's manor.
Phase Two —
"My lord, this—"
"You don't need to understand why," Lorraine said calmly, but there was no room for negotiation. "You just need to follow the plan. I've thought of every step for you. If you encounter any obstacles, come to me."
Pym rolled up the parchment, tucked it into his pocket, and bent down deeply.
"Your subordinate obeys."
He turned and walked out, his steps much faster than when he came in.
The moment he stepped out of the hall, the cold wind rushed into his collar, and Pym shivered, but he couldn't help but smile.
No matter how capable a businessman is, can he be more capable than a government official?
From this day forward, Hepmem will be the governor of Frostwolf City's central bank.
All the money in the city had to pass through his hands.
Of course, I wouldn't dare to reach out.
The red-haired witch beside that man could burn him to ashes with a single finger.
But just the words "managing money" are enough for Pym to brag about for a lifetime.
And those rivals I used to compete with, hahaha, although they can't embezzle, which of those guys doesn't have some blemishes?
The lord should still allow me to use this small amount of power to punish him.
Pym clutched the parchment in his arms and disappeared lightly down the corridor.
Frostwolf City, Lower City.
The old man squatted by the edge of his field, staring blankly at the newly posted notice on the bulletin board.
The announcement was posted early this morning, and it still bears the Frostwolf Clan crest.
There were two soldiers in iron armor standing nearby, their backs ramrod straight, shouting "Don't push!" if anyone got too close.
The old man didn't know many words, but he was able to keep up with the fact that there were people nearby who could read.
A young man wearing a tattered felt hat shouted to everyone: "—From this day forward, every registered farmer in Frostwolf City may convert one acre of their farmland into magic-powered farmland, with the cost fully covered by the Lord's Mansion—"
The crowd erupted in uproar.
"Magic-powered farms? Aren't those only nobles able to afford?"
"How many magic crystals does it cost to transform one acre of land? Lord, you don't charge us?"
"You must be kidding! When the Countess was alive, you had to pay a fee even for watering the plants—"
The young man waved his hand impatiently and continued reading: "—Of the crops produced in the magic-powered farmland, farmers must pay 20 percent to the lord's mansion in exchange for an equivalent amount of the territory's legal tender."
"Fiat currency? What currency?"
"It's made of paper." The young man held up a sample he had taken from the display shelf next to the notice board. It was a thin sheet with the profile of a young man printed on the front and the denomination written below.
The crowd fell silent for a moment.
Then laughter erupted.
"Paper? Can this scrap of paper be used to buy things?"
"Even the dishcloths I use to wipe the table at home are thicker than this!"
"This is all we get after paying the grain? The lord isn't trying to get something for nothing, is he?"
The old man didn't laugh.
He squatted by the edge of the field, tapped his pipe on the sole of his shoe, and squinted at the notice.
He farmed all his life.
He knew better than anyone how long the winters were in Frostwolf City.
When the snow season arrives, the soil in the fields freezes as hard as iron. You can't plant anything; even if you throw a shovel down, it will bounce back.
Every year during the snow season, the people in the outer city rely on the food they have stored up in the fall to survive. Those who cannot survive die of hunger or cold, and this happens every year.
When the Countess was alive, 60% of taxes were collected.
Sixty percent.
After a year of hard work, 60% of the profits are earned, but the remaining 40% is barely enough to make ends meet. In years with poor harvests, it's like risking your life.
The old man stood up, walked to the notice, and looked up at it again.
The literate young man next to him was arguing with someone about whether banknotes were reliable, each shouting louder than the last. The old man tugged at the young man's sleeve.
"Young man, read it to me again, that magical farmland, can it really be cultivated even in the snowy season?"
The young man glanced back at him, his tone less than friendly: "The notice says it can be planted even during the snow season, and the yield is thirty times that of ordinary fields. But I think..."
"Thirty times?"
The old man almost dropped his pipe.
"That's what the announcement said." The young man shrugged. "It also said that the lord is going to expand the city walls and enclose most of the farmland outside. In the future, we won't have to worry about the fields being destroyed by blizzards during the snow season."
The old man stood there, stunned.
Thirty times.
His family's meager plot of land could yield less than 220 pounds of grain in a good year.
Thirty times, that's 6600 pounds of grain.
Pay 20 percent, 1320 pounds.
5280 pounds remain.
5280 pounds!
He had farmed all his life and had never seen such a quantity of grain in a single acre of land.
Even if all he gets in return is scraps of paper, even if those scraps are too hard to wipe his bottom—with 5280 pounds of grain in his hands, what is there to be afraid of?
Food is food; it's something you can eat, and it's more valuable than any gold or silver coin.
The old man tucked his pipe back into his waistband and walked toward the registration area below the notice.
A neatly dressed soldier stopped him: "Sir, you want to register? Please line up here."
The old man nodded and joined the line.
There were already about ten people ahead of him, mostly farmers of similar age, rubbing their hands together, their faces showing both anticipation and trepidation.
Ahead of him in line was a burly man with a dark face and broad shoulders. He turned around and started talking to the old man.
"Hey bro, you're here to register too?"
"Um."
"You believe this? Magic farmland for free? There's no such thing as a free lunch." The dark-faced man muttered, but he didn't move an inch.
"And they don't even collect agricultural taxes. They say they'll just exchange 20% of the grain for a banknote, but can you really spend that banknote?"
The old man took a drag on his pipe and said slowly, "Believe it or not, take the land first. The worst outcome is just paying 20% of the grain for nothing. That's 40% less than the Countess's 60% back then."
The burly, dark-faced man thought for a moment, then grinned and said, "What you say makes sense."
"Besides," the old man lowered his voice, "look at that Tower of Babel—"
The two of them looked up at the city gates at the same time.
The silhouette of that steel behemoth cast a massive shadow on the hazy horizon, its four thick mechanical legs standing firmly on the snowfield, like a walking mountain.
The old man had seen it run over the outer city wall.
That day, everyone in the entire downtown area hid inside their houses, peering out through cracks in their doors.
The ground shook, and the rough porcelain bowls on the rack clattered to the ground. Then there was a loud crash, and the outer city wall collapsed as if it were made of paper.
Then came the fire.
White fire.
One after another, bolts of light shot down from the sky with needle-like precision. The church dome exploded, the bell tower collapsed, and the crossbowmen, along with their frames, fell from the city walls.
The whole process took less than half an incense stick's time.
The city of Frostwolf, which the Countess had managed for decades, was gone just like that.
The old man exhaled a puff of smoke and said slowly, "It's not surprising that someone who could oust the Countess would give us a magical farm."
The burly, dark-faced man nodded vigorously.
The line moved forward little by little.
When it was the old man's turn, the soldier registering him asked for his name, address, and the amount of land he owned, and then handed him a wooden plaque.
"Here you go. Head to the meeting point in the North District tomorrow morning. Someone will take you to do the land conversion."
The old man took the wooden plaque, turned it over and looked at it. The plaque had a number and his name engraved on it.
"That—about the paper money—" the old man began hesitantly.
The soldier looked up: "What's wrong?"
"Can that paper money be used to buy food?"
"You can buy anything at the shops designated by the lord's manor. Grain, salt, medicine, magic crystals—they all accept paper money."
"In the future, the lord will continue to sell magical farmland, and you will be allowed to exchange it for paper money."
The old man said "Oh," and tucked the wooden plaque into his pocket.
As long as I can buy grain, that's fine.
Whether it's paper or iron, anything that can be exchanged for food is a good thing.
As he walked home, he glanced back at the banknote sample with the profile of a young man printed on it as he passed the notice board.
The new lord looks really young.
I heard he's not even twenty years old.
The old man shook his head, muttering, "Young people are always up to no good, treating scraps of paper like money—"
But he didn't stop.
One acre yields 5280 pounds of grain.
The number spun in his mind again and again, becoming clearer and clearer with each repetition.
He had lived for nearly sixty years, and for the first time, he felt that the days ahead might not be so difficult to endure.