Ragnar, sat in his private study. The conquest of East Anglia was over, the "merger" was complete, and the grain shipments were flowing north.
He had been working on this project in the late hours of the night, between audit reports and managing King Horik's tantrums. It was his magnum opus. It was the solution to the biggest problem plaguing the Jernheim Corporation: Success.
York was bursting. Thanks to the agricultural reforms, the population had exploded. Thanks to the factories, thousands of peasants had flocked to the city for jobs. The result? York was no longer a city; it was a refugee camp with a GDP.
The streets were crowded with mud and waste. The wooden longhouses were packed so tight that if one caught fire, the whole city would vanish in an hour. It was efficient in terms of density, but catastrophic in terms of hygiene.
"We are suffering from success," Ragnar muttered, dipping his quill in ink.
