Before the ink had even dried on the final identification paper, Sharath was already looking ten moves ahead. The thick pile of bound parchment on his desk was more than a list of names—it was the master plan for turning Unnatirajya from a half-built settlement into a thriving, self-sustaining center of industry capable of rivaling the capital.
Thermo was sprawled across the desk like a furry paperweight, his tail flicking lazily every time Sharath reached for another sheet. The cat's eyes half-closed, radiating judgment, as if silently saying, "You better not screw this up, kid."
"🐧NeuroBoop," Sharath said, pushing the cat gently aside, "time to put our registry to work. Let's reorganize the territory."
"Finally. I thought you gathered those figures just so you could feel like a game master."
"Perhaps," Sharath grumbled, reading through the lists. "But now we get to put people where they will excel."
The Great Announcement
The next day, Sharath called in all of the residents to the town square. A wooden platform had been erected, and behind it a big chalkboard stood upon which the new work units would be posted.
The townspeople grumbled to one another. They had thought the appraisal would be some lordly hobby, the sort of thing lords engaged in before forgetting all about it.
But there was their young lord now, standing before them with a pile of papers, far too solemn-looking for one so young.
Sharath cleared his throat.
"Residents of Unnatirajya, the time has arrived to put each of you in a position where you can use your abilities and your talents to the fullest. This is not punishment—it's opportunity. You will be placed where your ability is most needed. And yes, I know some of you are thinking, 'What if I don't like my assignment?' Well…" He smiled sardonically. "…then I'll likely reassign you after you complain. But I think you'll find I've been equitable."
Surprises and Laughs
The first assignments went as expected: the blacksmiths were placed in the industrial quarter, the farmers organized into crop-specialty teams, the mages distributed between research and defense squads.
Then came the curveballs.
"Berta Klein—assigned to courier team."
Berta, a woman in her forties, blinked. "Courier? I've been a tailor for twenty years!"
Sharath smiled. "Yes, but you also have 'Fast Runner Lv. 4,' so you can outrun half of anyone here. The delivery service requires speed. And you will still make clothing when you're not running messages."
She paused, then smiled. "I… suppose that does make sense."
Next:
"Jorgen Mallik—traffic to heavy goods transport."
Jorgen rubbed his beard. "I'm a fisherman."
Sharath raised an eyebrow. "You also have 'Cart Pulling Strength Lv. 3.' Do you have any idea how uncommon that is? You're ideal to be on the load-bearing tricycles for dungeon resource runs."
The audience laughed, and Jorgen grumbled something about "being tricked into free exercise" but nodded.
Then there was the legendary shock:
"Grent Halvor—allocated to combat training unit."
Grent advanced, scowling. "Why? I'm a baker."
"Because," Sharath declared seriously, "you have 'Bear Puncher Lv. 1.' And I don't know how you managed it, but I'm not going to waste that on bread-making."
The audience erupted in laughter.
Grent let out a theatrical sigh. "Guess the wolves and slimes won't know what's coming."
Acceptance
What amazed Sharath was how rapidly the people embraced changes. He anticipated resistance, perhaps even out-and-out complaints. But instead, as the assignments came out, people started realizing—he wasn't relocating them to make life more difficult for them. He was placing them in roles where they could flourish.
By evening, the atmosphere in the square was cheerful. Some were even enthused about their new positions. The awareness filtered: their young master wasn't a tinkerer and dungeon raider only—he actually cared about creating something for them.
Huh," 🐧NeuroBoop observed afterward as Sharath returned to the estate. "They really like you. I didn't expect that to happen until at least your third public works miracle."
Economy Mode: ON
In the next week, Sharath started putting the new organization in place. Farmers changed crops in rotation for efficiency. Blacksmiths produced standardized tools rather than random custom commissions. The courier crew established timed delivery runs between points of interest in the territory.
Merchants got their own guild hall, and craftsmen were encouraged to work together—one blacksmith crafting hinges, another crafting blades, another doing fancy tools.
"Bravo," 🐧NeuroBoop joked, "you've created a medieval supply chain. You're about two centuries too early. Should I begin designing a stock market so you can bring it crashing down later?"
Dungeon Prep – The Next Run
Even as the land flowed more smoothly than ever before, Sharath's thoughts kept returning to the dungeon. His recent runs had been profitable, but unoptimized. The barrels had filled up too quickly, resources accumulated haphazardly, and there had been far too many instances where he'd had to dump perfectly good slime goo simply because there was no room for it.
This time.
This time, he had crews.
Four, to be precise:
The Combat Team – His primary troops, consisting of soldiers and anyone with good fighting ability.
Resource Carriers Inside – Two teams on rotation with load-carrying tricycles.
Dungeon Gate Receivers – Laborers posted outside the dungeon to send goods directly to the territory upon receipt.
Warehouse Sorters – The team tasked with sorting loot upon receipt.
With this system, no more overflow, no more wasted slime goo, and no more fumbling around trying to stuff ice boar corpses into an oversize bag.
Town Reactions
The townspeople were half awed, half entertained on the day Sharath made the new dungeon logistics plan.
"You're saying… we get paid to ride tricycles through a dungeon and shovel slime goo into barrels?" one of the men asked.
"Yes," Sharath said.
"And we can wear armor while doing it?"
"Yes."
"Where do I sign up?"
By evening, he had all the volunteers he could ever want.
The AI's Concerns
As Sharath went to bed and completed the shopping list for the dungeon run, 🐧NeuroBoop chipped in once more.
"You're making this sound like a carnival ride. You do know the second floor has more than just slimes these days, though?"
"Yeah. Ice boars. Fire slimes. We'll cope."
"And the third floor?
"Wolf beasts, likely."
"Likely? Oh yes, let's get ready for danger with the strength of fuzzy estimates."
Sharath grinned. "We'll adjust. That's what we do best."
Closing the Week
By the end of the week, Unnatirajya seemed… different. More vibrant. People walked with intent. Markets were fuller. The industrial district was cacophonous with hammering. Couriers zipped through streets on their deliveries.
Sharath stood on the balcony of his mansion, Thermo draped over his shoulders like a living scarf.
"They're settling in quick," he murmured.
"Or," 🐧NeuroBoop retorted, "they're faking it so you won't send them on latrine detail."
Sharath chuckled. "Either situation, it's effective."
And with the territory stable for now, there was only one thing left to do: prepare for the next dungeon dive—this time with a perfectly oiled machine at his back.