15 — 2 (5)

Opinions on the Colosseum were fairly divided. That was natural—people here were not yet familiar with how the Colosseum system worked. Louis himself would only know how it ran after building one. All he had verified was the information.

However, by the nature of the Civilization System, a Colosseum would surely boost Satisfaction dramatically. In particular, the “all Unhappiness dissipates for one month” effect after the first opening could work like a miracle in the current situation.

As expected, views split into two groups—but, interestingly, the one responding positively to Louis’s idea was Dekal.

“Oh, that sounds interesting. Is this your idea, young lord? Truly splendid. If such matches were held, I might go watch them every day.”

True to a man who had once maintained a northern legion, Dekal showed no aversion to what could be called brutally cruel contests. On the other hand, snapping at Louis’s heels was Max, a close aide to the second son, Pierre. Dekal and Max respectively handled military and finance, and Max’s reason for opposing was obvious.

Max, a pure career administrator, liked clean finality. If a criminal received a death sentence, he believed they should be executed at once, as criminals. But Louis pushed ahead regardless of Max’s objections. Why? Simple. Dekal, who held military power, clearly wanted to see this curious concept—the Colosseum—and, more importantly, overall control over prisoners lay with Dekal, not Max.

Even so, Dekal did not show an active stance. His attitude was more like “do it or don’t”… that kind of posture. Thus the costs to build the Colosseum, manage slaves, and so on were all dumped onto Louis.

Since Max controlled the finances and would not approve easily, Louis had no choice but to draw on private funds.

‘One hundred million from the subjugation.’

That would be enough to open at least one site. As governor, it was easy to acquire land illicitly. A full building was unnecessary. The structural requirement to trigger the Colosseum’s effect was simply an enclosed yet open-form vacant lot.

Roughly set pillars of wood and stone, stretch a canopy, drive a few more posts, and you had the rough shape of a circular arena. If they charged money to operate the Colosseum, that alone could spark a major opportunity.

As things stood, however, to earn the points being offered, admission had to be free.

‘For now, the force I can operate is a hundred. If I purchase some construction labor…’

‘I can have an estimate within six days.’

Where could he grab land illicitly? The farthest corner of Proia. The most deprived area. The slums.

Since even slum-dwellers would have to be evicted, Louis judged it better to assign the task to Kalbang, who had worked as a mercenary, rather than use Boromir, who still had a moral compass.

Finishing his thoughts, Louis called for Kalbang at once.

Soon Kalbang opened the door and entered. Louis opened the info window. Kalbang’s Respect was 4—one higher than the regular soldiers. In effect, he could be considered wholly Louis’s man. Having moved from mercenary life to a governor’s regular soldier living in barracks, his circumstances had surely improved. In raw combat strength, he was 2 below Boromir—enough that meeting the wrong foe could be fatal—but the task Louis intended to give Kalbang was not of that sort.

If Boromir had a heavy temperament, Kalbang was the subtly quick-on-the-uptake type—especially cordial in greetings. Even within the barracks, where soldiers clustered together, he was known for not shunning menial jobs.

In that sense, his innate talent was lacking, but he made up for it with effort.

“Good morning, young lord. You sent for me?”

“I have a job for you. It’s a little illegal.”

Max, a close aide to Duke Remitri’s second son Pierre, had risen quite high for someone of baronial origin. Quick with figures and thorough by nature, Max could not help but catch the eye of Pierre, who possessed outstanding commercial talent.

Having never failed and having advanced without a hitch until now, he found the current situation bewildering.

He clearly held Proia’s purse strings, yet he could not bring the city’s power-brokers to heel.

A man like Dekal was a type Pierre—who had drifted only among commercial cities—had never seen, and even more curious than that was Young Lord Louis.

Even ranking power in order, it should have been Dekal, then himself, then Louis.

Yet Louis’s moves clearly ignored that order.

Louis was openly disregarding Max’s opinions.

Day after day, Max felt cowed by Proia’s failure to move according to his predictions.

He was quick to judge and think, but lacked experience. That was Max’s decisive flaw.

‘He’s utterly unknowable. Nothing like the rumors. It makes sense that Dekal, who commanded a legion in the north, is formidable—but how does the third young lord, who has hardly even held a sword properly, possess that kind of charisma?’

Though Max followed Pierre, his impression after meeting Louis was that the true lion was Louis.

People often called Fred the Lion of Pontina, but to Max’s eyes, that was not so.

‘The Colosseum, is it?’

To Max, it was laughable. Condemned prisoners crossing swords as a spectacle? The notion that this could improve Proia’s situation, as Louis claimed, struck the rational Max as absurd.

‘Should I actively obstruct it?’

But the question of how remained. A direct obstruction would be to process all the condemned at once, but then he would have to clash head-on with Dekal. The best course was to check only Louis—yet Proia’s state was so poor that the wrong kind of check could collapse the city outright. Young Lord Pierre’s order was to suppress growth, not push it into bankruptcy.

“Sir Max. A report.”

After hearing it, Max clicked his tongue. Louis had moved. That stubbornness to push things through, no matter what—it reminded him of the first young lord. At any rate, he decided watching would do. How much Louis could spend, and what the result would be, were already in the palm of Max’s hand.

Since he had no intention of granting a proper building, erecting a Colosseum in the commercial district was impossible. Which meant only remote areas difficult for people to reach were available. “Location is everything” was axiomatic in business; upon receiving the report, Max’s anxieties vanished.

‘He’ll only draw resentment instead.’

Louis’s public standing was plunging to rock bottom. When something went wrong, people always sought a cause. If the cause was called a calamity, it was common to pin it on the manager.

‘Go ahead and try, Young Lord Louis… People’s hearts don’t move as easily as yours.’

Max concluded that Louis’s actions were the sum total of foolish decisions verging on recklessness. He now found his earlier worries laughable.

‘I must break this habit. Only then can I play in bigger waters!’

Leisurely, he smoothed the papers.

The subordinate watching him spoke.

“………Shall we act separately?”

“No. Aside from keeping watch on Louis, we’ll do the bare minimum—perhaps even help a little.”

‘Hoo…’

Kalbang was being showered with curses as he tore down the slums. He had been a mercenary for quite some time, but he could not recall ever being reviled like this. The work itself was easy enough. What could half-starved paupers do? They blamed Louis—or rather, the world.

Because Kalbang had also grown up in the slums, he knew their hardships—but that only made him more unsparing in action. This place was both dear and hateful to him at once….

‘What on earth is the young lord… trying to pull this time?’

Kalbang was already over forty. His mercenary career alone spanned twenty-five years. Entangled with mercenaries as a fifteen-year-old errand boy, he had met a great many nobles. Among such nobles, Young Lord Louis had many peculiarities.

First, the atmosphere. In truth, Kalbang had been won over by that. He had a ghostly knack for distinguishing nobles who had seen real combat from those who had not. He had survived this long precisely by always avoiding nobles who reeked of bookish gentility. Even compared to those who had seen combat, Louis’s aura was unique. He was not especially skilled with a sword, nor did he cultivate mana. But he had presence.

Second, his way of acting. To Kalbang, Louis was akin to a mage brimming with ideas. The problem was that his “magic” worked. Remember when he put up the Monument? Kalbang had spent a whole day soothing his mercenaries.

A puzzling endeavor—soothing them when even he did not know why. Had Louis told them to plow fields, they would have at least understood. But the Monument was completed, and the result was astonishing. It had not been in vain. The farmers grew nimbler, and the sowing volume visibly increased.

‘What kind of magic will he work this time?’

Kalbang grabbed a troublesome man by the collar and hoisted him up. What resistance could a scrawny wretch put up? Against soldiers in regular uniforms, resistance meant nothing—and for now, clearing this place and creating open space was what mattered.