“You didn’t write this report by yourself did you, Foreman Bradley?” Atlas questioned.

“No, milord. I’m not learned enough for such a task,” Vivian honestly answered. “It was my husband who wrote this report.”

“Your husband… Thomas Bradley, correct?”

“That is correct, milord. He’s a fine man,” Vivian replied while wearing a smile on her face.

“I’m sure he is,” Atlas perfunctorily replied. Inwardly, however, he was quaking with complaints.

‘What the hell is written here?’ Atlas looked at the indecipherable writing that he held in his hands. The handwriting was simply… horrendous.

‘How can anyone be expected to read what’s written here? This is the worst handwriting that I’ve ever seen! It’s worse than a monkey’s, and I’ve seen a monkey write!!’

The worst thing was that Atlas couldn’t even fully express the feeling inside his heart. He had to maintain a perfectly amiable smile on his face in order to reinforce his image.

‘Let me first put this away. Looking at this god-awful writing is only causing my stress to increase.’ Atlas was afraid that he would shed his persona and do something drastic if he spent another second looking at the paper.

“Is anything wrong, milord?” Vivian asked nervously, seeing the prince put down her report.

“Oh, not at all, Foreman Bradley,” the prince amiably replied. “It’s just that a report can only tell me so much. I would much rather hear the facts from you.” He flashed her a smile.

Seeing the cute prince’s tooth-full smile was akin to seeing a flower bloom at the beginning of spring. The middle-aged woman’s heart instantly melted at the sight.

‘What an adorable, little boy! I just wanna snatch him up and take him home!’ Vivian dreamily thought to herself.

Reading the dangerous flash of light in the middle-aged woman’s eyes, Atlas hurriedly removed his smile and distracted her.

“Please do begin your report, Foreman Bradley,” he urged.

“Ah, yes, milord.” She then began her exposition on the day’s events.

Listening to her narration, Atlas filtered out most of the unnecessary, useless details, focusing only on the meat of her report. He mentally noted down the important bits and asked questions whenever he felt it was necessary.

It had to be noted that Foreman Vivian Bradley had a habit of sidetracking into unnecessary tangents while talking at length. Much like a certain blacksmith, whom Atlas was scheduled to meet later tonight. Fortunately, unlike that gossip-monger blacksmith, Atlas was able to steer the middle-aged woman back onto track with a little effort.

The conversation lasted for ten minutes and its summary was this: one hundred and twenty (120) trees were cut down, seventy-five (75) of these trees were processed and turned into lumber. These numbers, when converted into the Atlas Standard Unit, measured a hundred and fifty (150) units. (1 tree = 2 units of Wood)

After thanking the woman and sending her out, Atlas reached into the stack of parchments laid before him and entered the numbers.

Wood - 150 units.

“Did you finish calculating today’s Wood expenditure, Baron Helm?” Atlas asked.

“Yes, my liege.” The Baron raised his head and read the report that he was writing. “Of the original eighty-three (83) units, twenty (20) units were spent in the construction of the Coal Shed, twenty-five (25) units were spent in the construction of the Medical Center and its accompaniments, and a whole thirty-five (35) units were spent in the reconstruction of the shared residences and pathways.”

“This leaves us with only one (1) unit of wood remaining in storage if we don’t account for today’s gains, my liege.” The Baron finished. “Counting today’s gains, we have 151 units of Wood in storage.”

“How many homes were reconstructed today?”

“Four, my liege.” The Baron replied after checking his report.

Nodding his head, Atlas pulled another sheet from the stack of roughly strewn sheets and entered the number.

Houses Built - 4/25.

‘Forty (40) people have proper residences now. Good. Proper homes mean a better rest which in turn equals higher efficiency in their workplace the next day.’ In the end, what mattered to Atlas wasn’t the well-being or the comfort of his people, but how much work they could get done. And of course, the more they work, the better.

‘I mean really, what purpose do people have if not for work?’

“Has the Medical Center been fully constructed and equipped?”

“Yes, my liege. The assigned people have already reported to the building and have begun their work. The sick have been separated from the healthy.”

“How many of the sick are inside the facility now?”

“Thirteen (13), my liege.”

Atlas raised his head at that number. “Thirteen?” He stared at the Baron.

“That seems distinctly higher than the number you told me yesterday, Baron Helm.” If he recalled correctly, the number of sick people yesterday was still in the single digits.

“It is indeed higher, my liege.” The Baron replied with a sour face. “A few of the workers got sick today.”

“How many?” Atlas asked, his face grim. Manpower was already short as it was. Having workers ending up sick and not reporting to work would begin to impact work efficiency.

“Seven (7), my liege. Three (3) from the Deconstruction Team, and four (4) from the Woodcutting Team.” The Baron then took a peek at another report and continued. “It seems that workers who were infected were in close contact with the six (6) children who were already sick.”

‘A single day and the sick people have already doubled in numbers.’ Atlas sighed. It was unavoidable. In this era where healthcare and proper hygiene practices were still in their infancy, it was inevitable for disease to spread quickly.

Take the Bubonic Plague from Atlas’ previous world’s history for example. It had occurred during a period similar to the one that Atlas was currently in. That single plague alone had killed roughly a third of the European population in a mere seven years!

Millions upon millions of people died due to lacking healthcare and improper hygiene practices.

Rubbing his forehead in exasperation, Atlas instructed, “Ensure that the sick are properly quarantined and treated. We cannot have anyone dying from the sickness.”

“Understood, my liege,” The Baron enthusiastically replied. Inwardly, he thought to himself, ‘His Highness truly cares about the peasants. Look how worried he is towards a person whom he has never met before. Truly, he’s the model of virtue.’

Meanwhile, Atlas’s ponderings were in a different direction. ‘I can’t have these peasants falling sick and dying on me! Do they not understand how short-staffed we are!? I still need them to work for me dammit!’

Capitalistic exploitation knew no bottom lines.

Having finished their discussion, the duo returned to their duties. Atlas yelled out next and another person entered with his report.

Overall, the first day under Atlas’ regime had been… quite good. Moral was high. There wasn't any budding discontent. Everything had gone smoothly for the most part. Old buildings were torn down, new facilities were propped up. Wood had been harvested, coal had been mined.

It was quite a productive day.

In the end, this was the refreshed resource list.

Coal - 17 units. (+17)

Wood - 151 units. (+150)

Metal - 36 units. (—)

Raw Food - 129 units. (—)

Food Rations - 203 units. (-237)

A small fact to note here was that although 21 units of Coal were brought back by the coal miners, after washing the coal to rid it of dirt and impurities, the effectual amount –i.e. the usable amount– only came to 17 units.

In other words, the rate of gain of coal was 17 units/per day.

“Whew,” Atlas slumped back on his seat and let out a tired exhale. “That was exhausting.”

He then looked at the oil remaining on his lanterns and roughly judged the passage of time.

“It’s almost midnight, huh?” He spoke to himself. He then looked up to check up on the Baron, only to find the man missing.

“Where did he go?” Atlas asked himself.

Just as he was about to yell out the Baron’s name, a loud crashing sound startled Atlas. It sounded as if someone or something had smashed through a wall!

It was uproarious and deafening.

Immediately blowing at the lanterns, the young prince put out flames and sunk the room into darkness. He then dropped to the ground from his chair and hid underneath the large desk.

Curling himself up, Atlas covered his nose and mouth with his hands to stifle the sound of his breathing. He then quietly sat.

The office room was almost entirely dark, save for the beam of moonlight that entered the room through the solitary window. Silence hung heavily in the air, turning the previously peaceful room into an oppressive den.

Creak.

The sound of wood squeaking from just outside the room’s door was heard. Atlas immediately stopped breathing.