The initial week following Sharath's "Chill Box" going into mass production, Unnatirajya's economy veered like a chariot over a newly greased road—quick, a bit unstable, and sure to trample over someone's toes.
Originally, individuals merely viewed the invention as something that was a luxury of the nobles: a container that would preserve meat, fruit retain its crispness, milk remain potable, and even ale cool for weeks. Commoners murmured in wonder as butcher stores expanded their business by ten days, taverns flaunted "Cold Ale! No sour taste!" and the city's fishmongers suddenly had the wherewithal to act as if they dwelled beside the sea rather than a dusty interior province.
The demand went through the roof. Traders flooded in like pigeons to bread crumbs, selling bags of gold and silver for every Chill Box machine. Lord Bassana nearly wore his hands raw at the sight, grumbling to himself:
"Monopoly, thy name is profit."
Sharath, however, had a different perspective. Sitting in his lab, surrounded by scribbled blueprints and rune-etched test plates, he stared at the first stack of official ledgers recording the week's sales.
"NeuroBoop," he whispered. "This is… a stupid amount of money."
"Correction: this is an ungodly, economy-distorting, peasant-crushing, noble-envy-inducing amount of money. You've basically invented cold capitalism. Next up: stock markets, hedge funds, and your very own financial crisis."
Sharath graaned and hid his face in his hands. "I didn't volunteer to be the founder of frozen economics. I merely wished to prevent wolf corpses from decaying."
Thermo, his cat, jumped onto the desk and sat upon the ledger immediately, meowing with the assurance of an animal who had never once lost sleep over inflation.
Envoys and Envy
The news traveled too fast. Envoys from the neighboring lords began to arrive by the second week, their pennants flapping as their shiny carriages drove in through the gates of Unnatirajya.
Each envoy bore the same courteous smile and the same not-so-courteous insistence:
"This wonder machine has to be made available to all noble realms, for the benefit of the kingdom."
Lord Darsha greeted them in the council hall accompanied by Lord Bassana. Sharath, on the other hand, had been unwillingly brought along as the "genius inventor" and regretted every life choice that had led him to this point.
The first envoy, a pointed-nosed individual from House Vrindal, bowed rigidly. "Young Lord Sharath, is what I have heard true? Did you invent this box of eternal cold?"
"Yes," Sharath answered warily.
"And how does it actually work?"
Sharath smiled, the kind of smile that looked polite but carried the same energy as an armed trap. "Awakened talent. Can't be replicated. Sorry."
The envoy's smile twitched. Lord Bassana smirked behind his beard, clearly delighted.
NeuroBoop, in Sharath's head, offered commentary:
"Excellent lie. Ten out of ten. If lying were an Olympic sport, you'd still lose to the nobles, but at least you'd qualify for finals."
Lord Darsha eased the tension with his characteristic calm authority. "We will, of course, entertain requests for trade. But the method of creation will stay in Unnatirajya."
The ambassadors departed, displeased, but with their coin pouches prepared to bleed. Bassana lost no time channeling the orders into contracts so tight they would asphyxiate.
The Rise of Cold Industry
Factories mushroomed along Unnatirajya's industrial belt like fungi after a rain. Sharath's labor allocation based on appraisal proved to be horrifyingly effective.
Blacksmiths were converted to rune-etchers, employing their unshaky hands to inscribe intricate sigils.
Old scribes served as blueprint duplicates, copying hundreds of schematics per day.
Brutish laborers loaded ice-crystals, mana stones, and metal frames for bulk assembly.
The people were confused at first. Being told by their young lord, "No, you're not just a baker—you're actually a latent rune-inscriber" had sounded absurd. But after watching their new roles generate coin and prestige, the townsfolk began to accept that Sharath's bizarre system worked.
One older craftsman, a potter turned rune-etcher, was overheard muttering:
"I thought he was crazy. Turns out he's crazy and rich. That makes it acceptable."
At the end of the month, the entire household in the region worked in chill box manufacture or indirectly profited from it. Food didn't spoil so fast anymore, trade caravans lingered for longer, and inns were making profits high enough to increase.
Sharath, though masterminding the change, still had the sensation of holding together a runaway cart with string and prayer.
"Cheers," said NeuroBoop. "You just made Unnatirajya a cold empire. Historians in hindsight will be saying: 'Ah yes, it all started with a boy who did not want his wolf bodies to smell.'"
The Food Chain Revolution
It was when Sharath joined the dots that the actual change happened.
If meat would last longer, grain could travel farther, and ale would stay cool for months… then Unnatirajya would be able to dominate the food supply chains of the kingdom.
"Do you see what this implies?" he burst out one evening during dinner, surprising his parents and grandparents.
Lord Darsha arched an eyebrow. "That we'll have fewer rotten fish?
No!" Sharath pounded his fists on the table. "We can sell cured meat to regions that lack any! We can be the kingdom's breadbasket! We can—"
"—ignite food price wars, undercut noble monopolies, and earn assassination attempts from envious barons?" Bassana cut in wryly, taking a sip of wine.
Sharath deflated slightly. ".That too.
NeuroBoop laughed inwardly: "At last, learning the fundamentals of supply-and-demand-based slaughter. Capitalism is not merely an economic theory—it's a contact sport."
Ice Cream Diplomacy
The initial political repercussions came in the form of excess demands. A group of top merchants came over, stipulating that if chill boxes could chill ale, then certainly they could chill sweets, too.
"Chilled sweets?" Sharath blinked. "You mean… ice cream?"
The merchants nodded fervently.
So, in the space of a week, Unnatirajya opened the kingdom's first ever "Ice Cream Festival." Children shrieked with pleasure, nobles vied to pay outlandish prices for foreign fruits, and Bassana all but swooned with glee at the profits.
But the political consequences were clear:
Nobles who could not afford chill boxes suddenly appeared feeble against those who could indulge in frozen indulgencies.
Whispers went around that Unnatirajya's young master had "enslaved ice elementals" to create limitless desserts.
The royal court, as expected, insisted on an explanation.
Political Storm Brewing
Within the third month, Sharath was overwhelmed by scrolls of requests for trade, letters of grievance, and veiled threats.
Lord Darsha called in the family for a behind-closed-doors council.
"The Crown will not stand for a monopoly this powerful," he cautioned. "They will either insist upon a share… or they will devise means to take it through coercion."
Sharath massaged his temples. "So essentially. I'm too lucrative to be left alone."
Bassana leaned forward, their eyes sparkling. "Then we have to prepare. Armies are not fought with swords alone, but with supply. With this monopoly of food, we can survive any siege. But we need to be cautious."
Lady Ishvari, now visibly pregnant, spoke softly, "Prosperity has as many enemies as friends, Sharath. Do not forget that.
NeuroBoop, never one to let dramatic opportunity pass, contributed: "Don't fret, kid. Worst that can happen, you come up with nukes next week and fix the political issue for good."
Sharath spat his drink out. "NeuroBoop, for once in your life, SHUT UP."
Meanwhile, the council quarrelled. Suddenly, a messenger rushed into the room, gasping.
"A royal envoy rides from the capital! They insist on being granted immediate audience with Lord Darsha and Young Lord Sharath!"
The room was silent.
Bassana's smile cut as thinly as a blade. "Ah. The Crown has taken notice. The Frozen Age has made too much clamor."
Sharath reclined in his chair, fear tightening in his gut. Thermo, as if to capitalize on the moment, knocked over the inkwell yet again, spilling the royal envoy's sealed letter.
"Well," Sharath grumbled. "Guess the politics are going to boil over.
And so, Unnatirajya prepared itself for its most formidable political ordeal to date.