The ledgers arrived in a crumbling, leather-bound trunk that smelled overwhelmingly of mouse droppings and damp parchment. Master Hemlock supervised two young, frightened servants who gingerly placed the chest on a large, scarred table in the center of Arren's study. The steward's face was an exquisite mask of feigned injury and barely contained panic.
"My Lord, I truly must protest. This chest has not been opened in a decade. The very act is unwholesome for a man of your delicate constitution!" Hemlock wrung his greasy hands.
Alex—who was still struggling to align his current physical frailness with his need to project authority—leaned back in the massive chair, forcing a casual air. "Your devotion is noted, Hemlock. Now, leave us. I shall require silence and, crucially, air that does not contain your increasingly frantic scent."
Hemlock sputtered, but the absolute coldness in the Viscount's eyes, so different from the previous Arren's sickly apathy, shut him down. He bowed stiffly and scuttled out, pulling the heavy door shut.
Alone, Alex approached the chest. He dragged a heavy brass lamp closer, illuminating the contents. It was a financial crime scene.
The contents weren't organized by year, type, or even creditor. They were a chaotic scramble of brittle receipts, promissory notes bound with fraying string, and thick, unevenly cut parchment scrolls detailing expenditures. The handwriting was florid and inconsistent.
"Right," Alex muttered, rubbing his temples. "Forget QuickBooks. I'm starting at the invention of the zero."
The first major scroll he unrolled detailed the "Yearly Tithe of Grain." Instead of using an organized column method for income and expense, the scribe had written paragraphs of flowery prose: "The good farmer Elias delivered four measures of barley, yet upon transport, two measures were lost to a frightful infestation of beetle, and therefore the Lord received but two measures, and was thus required to purchase six more measures from the Merchant Guild at the exorbitant autumn price..."
Alex stared at the scroll, a vein throbbing in his temple. "They write a narrative for every transaction. This isn't bookkeeping; it's a financial fairy tale!"
He spent the rest of the day in a state of growing, analytical fury. He pulled a few sheets of cleaner parchment and began to create his own system, painstakingly translating the literary fraud into a structured, numbered format.
The Financial Diagnosis:
* Total Debt: Approximately 12,000 Crowns. (In the novel, this was enough to buy a minor castle.)
* Monthly Interest: A crippling 10% from various sources.
* Asset Management: The only real assets were the land and the crops.
* The Black Hole: The manor was trapped in a Debt Spiral—forced to pay exorbitant interest, they couldn't afford new equipment or seed, which reduced yield, which increased the debt load.
The biggest, most glaring flaw was the land yield. By comparing the fief's acreage (mentioned in a land deed) to the documented grain yield, Alex discovered the land was operating at 45% efficiency. They left half their best fields fallow every year because "the land must rest."
"It doesn't need to rest, you idiots," Alex growled at the empty study. "It needs nitrogen fixation! It needs a basic understanding of botany!"
Alex's first official act as the new, highly functional Viscount Arren was a staff meeting held in the drafty great hall. The few dozen remaining retainers—a mix of scullery maids, ancient guards, and Hemlock's nervous cronies—looked terrified.
"Master Hemlock," Alex announced, his voice surprisingly steady, "You are commended for your efforts in maintaining these disastrous accounts."
Hemlock preened instantly, his chest puffing out.
"However," Alex continued, letting the word hang in the silence, "your system is an embarrassment to basic numeracy. Effective immediately, you are relieved of all financial duties."
Hemlock's jaw dropped. "My Lord! Who will manage the funds? The taxing?"
"I will," Alex stated simply. "And you, Hemlock, will now manage the least complicated asset we possess: the linens. I want every napkin, sheet, and scrap of cloth cataloged by type, wear, and thread count. If the inventory doesn't match the new, double-entry ledger I will provide, you will be personally responsible for its cost."
This was strategic. Linen inventory was boring, meticulous, and offered Hemlock almost no chance for major fraud, effectively neutralizing him without the chaos of a public execution. The staff visibly relaxed—Hemlock was universally loathed.
Next, Alex looked at a dour, sturdy woman standing near the back. "You, the cook. What is your name?"
"Elara, my Lord," she replied, wary.
"Your books show you purchasing expensive spices daily, yet we consume only bland gruel. Is the kitchen not efficient?"
Elara hesitated, then pointed a stout finger at a trembling kitchen boy. "He skims the funds, claiming the market prices are high, My Lord!"
"Understood," Alex said calmly. He didn't fire the boy. He addressed Elara: "From this moment, you will receive a single, weekly budget. You will pay your own staff and purchase your own supplies. Any copper you save is yours, as a bonus. But if the food is inedible or the budget is exceeded, I will hire a new cook. Do you accept this profit-sharing incentive structure?"
Elara's eyes lit up with a spark of entrepreneurial interest the old Viscount Arren would have never inspired. "I do, My Lord."
With the manor's human element temporarily stabilized, Alex moved to the core problem: the land.
He called for Old Man Silas, the chief (and only) remaining tenant farmer, a man whose hands were as gnarled as the oak trees on the property.
"Silas," Alex said, using the man's name as a mark of respect, "I have studied our lands. Tell me why we leave the western fields fallow for half the year."
Silas spat on the floor. "The land must sleep, My Lord. If we tax it too much, the yield will drop forever. It is the wisdom of the Earth Spirits."
"The wisdom of the Earth Spirits," Alex echoed, stifling a systems analyst's migraine. "Or perhaps... the wisdom of rudimentary, ancient agricultural methods."
He produced a hastily drawn sketch on a piece of parchment—a circle divided into three parts: Wheat, Barley, and Legumes.
"Silas, we will change the system. You will divide the land into three fields. Field one: Wheat for bread. Field two: Barley for beer and feed. Field three: Peas and beans."
Silas squinted. "Peas and beans? That land should be resting!"
"No," Alex explained patiently. "The peas and beans are the rest. When you harvest them, they leave something behind—nitrogen—that enriches the soil. Next year, you plant the wheat there. It will be the biggest wheat harvest we've ever seen. We stop leaving fields fallow. We farm 100% of our land every year, not 50%."
Silas stared at the diagram as if it were a coded spell. "My Lord... that is madness. It is inviting the rot! It is against all tradition!"
"Tradition," Alex said, pointing at the financial ledger he'd just summarized, "is why we're broke. Silas, I ask you to run an experiment. Take one small, quarter-acre plot that you were going to leave fallow. Plant the peas there. If the yield is poor, I will pay you back your lost time myself. If it works, we will implement this Three-Field System across the entire estate next season, and you, Silas, will receive a bonus based on the percentage increase in our total output."
Alex was betting his entire survival on the scientific method. Silas, faced with a small, low-risk test and the promise of actual, honest money, hesitated for a long moment.
"Peas on the fallow..." Silas mumbled, shaking his head. "If the Earth Spirits curse us, My Lord, I blame you."
"Agreed," Alex said, smiling sharply. "Now, go execute the pilot program, Silas. Let's make this field 50% more efficient, immediately."
How did that flow feel? We successfully moved from diagnosis to a low-cost, high-impact solution and introduced the conflict with tradition