Chapter 118: Fraught with Peril (Part II)

Given these realities, the colonial government’s administrative system had nearly disintegrated into chaos. Take the Alfvheim region as an example: officially, His Excellency the Governor was the supreme authority over this vast territory of more than three million square miles. Yet, in truth, his control extended no further than the capital city, Leighton Port. Most residents of the remote villages scarcely knew the governor’s name, let alone felt compelled to obey his decrees.

In Alfvheim, the colonial government could hardly produce an accurate or reliable administrative map. More than sixty percent of the land was covered by vast forests teeming with monsters. A village that last year boasted hundreds of households and appeared prosperous could be utterly destroyed the next, leaving nothing but ruins. Under such conditions, effective governance was impossible; the government was forced to abandon the far-flung settlements to their own devices. Without protection from colonial authorities, rural inhabitants had no choice but to elect wealthy and influential locals to form autonomous governments and organize militias to defend their homes—Derlin Town was one of the most typical examples of such self-governance in Alfvheim.

Once the tradition of town autonomy took hold, conflicts with higher government authorities became inevitable. Residents of Alfvheim were subjects of the Asan Empire and, by imperial law, owed taxes. However, the imperial government could not dispatch tax collectors all the way to the New World, so it entrusted the colonial administration to collect taxes on its behalf.

The people of Alfvheim’s towns were known for their fierce independence and showed little respect to tax officials sent from the capital. In Derlin Town, the local council was responsible for tax collection, theoretically dividing the revenue into two parts: one portion was used for local public expenses—effectively a “land tax”—and the other was remitted to the colonial government. The colonial government would deduct administrative costs and forward the remainder to the imperial government as “national tax.” In reality, however, residents only paid the local tax because it funded visible and tangible projects such as roads, bridges, reservoirs, schools, or outfitting the militia with armor and weapons. These expenditures were universally acknowledged as necessary. But the “national tax” sent to the colonial capital? Most villagers had never even been to Leighton Port, living their daily lives completely detached from the colonial government. Why should they pay this tax?

Unable to persuade the townsfolk to pay the national tax—and with most council members opposed as well—the matter was quietly dropped, as if the obligation never existed. If tax officials from Leighton Port came to collect, the mayor would politely stall and offer hospitality to send them away. The tax collectors, unwilling to offend local power brokers, would accept some favors and report back. If the governor expressed displeasure, the only recourse would be to dispatch troops to enforce tax collection by force. But Derlin’s militia was not to be trifled with, and the colonial regular army numbered fewer than two thousand soldiers. Even if they succeeded in crushing the tax resistance, the cost in lives and compensation for fallen soldiers would likely exceed the taxes collected. A simple calculation told the governor that armed tax collection was a losing proposition; it was better to abandon attempts to tax Derlin Town altogether.

Such tax resistance was widespread throughout Alfvheim. Except for Leighton Port and its satellite towns, most remote villages had never paid a single coin of national tax since their founding. With the rural majority defaulting on taxes, the colonial capital could not fulfill its obligations to the imperial government. The empire, receiving insufficient revenue from the colony, found it unprofitable to invest financially and reduced funding, even withdrawing troops stationed there to save costs. The colonial government, left undermanned and underfunded, could not guarantee security for distant settlements. This vicious cycle progressively eroded both the economic ties and emotional bonds between the empire and its colonial subjects.

To this day, Derlin Town had owed the colonial government taxes for over a decade, and most people had forgotten the very concept of paying national tax—until Flint proposed requesting aid from the garrison in the capital. It was only then, upon Mayor Dingdor’s reminder, that they remembered the large debt owed to His Excellency the Governor.

“Suppose the governor happens to remember that Derlin Town is a major tax defaulter—would he still be willing to send troops to rescue us?”

Mayor Dingdor’s question sparked heated debate in the town square. Mr. Longfellow spoke first, optimistically suggesting that, reluctant as he might be, the governor would dispatch forces to save Derlin Town. After all, if the town were destroyed, the tax arrears would become a total loss; if saved, there was still hope of recovering the debt.

“In the current situation, the colonial government, as creditor, might be even more anxious than us debtors.”

Longfellow’s witty remark drew laughter, but few beyond a handful of optimists truly agreed with his somewhat cynical view.

“I’ve heard Governor Norfolk is generous and kind-hearted and would not bear to see Derlin Town destroyed. But General Gates, commander of the Leighton garrison, is another matter. Given his cold, ruthless style, he might well watch our town be slaughtered, then use us as a warning to other towns to enforce tax payments.”

Mr. Fiedel, a worldly gentleman and owner of the Riverlight Inn, was a Derlin town councilor whose brother worked in the governor’s mansion in Leighton Port. His assessment of Governor Norfolk and General Gates left listeners torn between hope and apprehension.

Guillaume Tail tapped his cane impatiently and said to Joan, “If we keep arguing like this, we’ll never reach a conclusion before the town falls. We must speak with Mayor Dingdor. Time is running out. Practical action is far more important than meaningless debate.”

Joan fully agreed. She drew a length of copper wire from her pocket, expertly intoned an incantation, and cast a “Message Spell.” Once ready, she handed the copper wire to her grandfather.

“Dingdor, all this noise is only causing confusion. We can’t waste time like this. I want to speak with you and Flint privately,” the old man said bluntly into the wire. The copper buzzed softly, transmitting his words to the mayor and the elderly dwarf standing in the crowd.

Mayor Dingdor touched his ear, nodded slightly toward Joan, then handed the meeting over to another councilor. He walked through the crowd toward them, accompanied by his two sons. At the same time, the old dwarf approached with his nephew, Tom.