Chapter 160: A Golden Age!
Kraków, Kingdom of Poland
To the untrained eye of a traditional feudal lord, the sea of humanity flooding the Rynek Główny, the Main Market Square, appeared to be nothing more than a spontaneous outpouring of peasant joy.
The streets were lined with hundreds of state-funded roasting pits, churning out seared cuts of venison and spiced sausages.
Casks of high-quality, government-subsidized vodka and rich mead were cracked open at every intersection, flowing freely into the cups of the common folk.
However, to King Casimir, the newly crowned Sovereign of Poland, this festival was not a mere celebration...
Casimir stood before the towering, gilded mirror in his private chambers within Wawel Castle, his piercing eyes analyzing his own reflectio.
Casimir was adorned in a functional, tailored military uniform of midnight blue, accented with polished plates of standardized steel at the shoulders and chest.
At his hip rested a beautifully machined wheel-lock pistol.
"The crowds have been roaring your name since dawn, Your Majesty," a smooth voice echoed from the doorway of the chamber.
Casimir turned to see his wife, Queen Weronika, stepping into the room.
She was a woman of peerless, breathtaking beauty, her raven-black hair cascading perfectly over a gown of deep crimson velvet.
But behind her striking, gemstone-like green eyes lay a mind every bit as ruthless and strategically brilliant as Casimir’s own.
Weronika was the supreme architect of Casimir’s internal intelligence network.
It was her sprawling web of "Eyes and Ears" that had identified, isolated, and dismantled the treacherous factions of the old nobility over the past two years, paving the path to today’s absolute victory.
Cradled in Weronika’s arms was their one-year-old son, Crown Prince Boleslaw.
"They are cheering for the food and the liquor, Weronika," Casimir replied. "Tomorrow morning, when the hangovers fade, they will associate that full belly and that fleeting joy exclusively with the Crown. "
"The foreign dignitaries are already waiting in the courtyard," Weronika agreed. "The envoys from the Holy Roman Empire, the diplomats from Hungary, and the spies of the Ottoman Sultan. They are all here to measure the length of your newly sharpened claws."
"Then let us not keep the audience waiting," Casimir declared.
Casimir and Weronika descended the grand stone staircases of Wawel Castle, flanked by a phalanx of the Sovereign’s newly reformed Royal Guard.
As the gates of the castle groaned open and the royal procession spilled out onto the Royal Route toward the Main Market Square, the sheer volume of the crowd hit them like a wave of force.
Tens of thousands of citizens lined the streets, waving flags bearing the modernized crest of the Polish Crown...
The moment Casimir’s barded warhorse stepped into the sunlight, the populace erupted into absolute pandemonium.
"Long live King Casimir! The Architect of the North!"
"May God bless the Queen and the Crown Prince!"
Casimir rode with a straight posture, offering nods to the masses.
He listened to the overlapping shouts of praise.
Before Casimir’s violent rise to power, the Polish peasantry had been suffocating under the yoke of the Szlachta... the entrenched nobility who forced the serfs to farm massive estates using back-breaking methods.
Casimir had seized the estates of the corrupt lords, abolished the localized grain monopolies, and mandated the implementation of standardized steel plows...
Furthermore, Casimir had dredged and widened the Vistula River, constructing a state-owned fleet of uniform grain barges.
By centralizing the agricultural output and optimizing the logistical transport routes to the Baltic Sea, Casimir had tripled the Kingdom’s export revenue in a matter of twenty-four months.
He took that influx of foreign silver and reinvested every single coin into constructing blast forges, textile mills, and macadam-paved roads.
He had single-handedly dragged a stagnant, agrarian society kicking and screaming into the dawn of a lucrative economy.
As the royal procession entered the massive expanse of the Rynek Główny, a group of surviving, subjugated noblemen scrambled forward to perform for the new King.
They were men who had secretly plotted to poison Casimir just six months prior, but Weronika’s spy network had intercepted their treason.
Now, stripped of their private armies and reduced to glorified state administrators, they groveled with pathetic enthusiasm.
"Your Majesty! A thousand congratulations on this glorious day of your coronation!" exclaimed Count Janusz, a wealthy landowner whose traditional power had been entirely castrated by Casimir’s new tax laws.
The Count bowed. "The people rejoice in your infinite wisdom! Surely, this is the beginning of a golden age!"
Casimir halted his warhorse, looking down at the Count.
To the south, the Ottoman Empire was marching tens of thousands of elite Janissaries into Hungary.
To the west, the Holy Roman Empire was tearing itself apart in civil wars, while a warlord named Konrad von Frundsberg was allegedly building machines of iron and steam in Alemannia.
"Stand up, Janusz. You look like a frightened dog begging for table scraps," Casimir ordered
The Count instantly snapped to a rigid posture.
Casimir leaned forward in his saddle.
The Count swallowed hard.
Casimir adjusted the reins of his warhorse, signaling his Royal Guard to resume their march toward the center of the square, where the state-sponsored banquet awaited.
The crowds resumed their cheers...
Queen Weronika rode closely beside him, her gemstone eyes gleaming with profound pride as the commoners showered them in praise.
As the royal procession reached the grand dais at the heart of the Rynek Główny, King Casimir dismounted.
A silence rippled outward through the vast crowd, radiating from the center of the square to the edges of the Sukiennice Cloth Hall, as the sovereign stepped toward the gilded balustrade.
Casimir drew a deep breath and spoke.
"Burghers, soldiers, and people of the Commonwealth—
By the grace of Almighty God and the iron resolve of our sovereign nation, we stand today not at the end of a long struggle, but at the threshold of an epoch forged by our own hands. For generations, this kingdom was choked by the rot of division, her soil bled dry by the shortsighted avarice of those who mistook privilege for purpose, and her people bound to the earth by outdated chains.
No longer.
Look upon these banners, upon the grain that flows without tribute down the Vistula, upon the steel that arms our sons and turns our fields.
The Crown delivers the yield of your labor back into your hearths. The wealth of Poland shall no longer serve the vanity of a few, but the strength, security, and prosperity of the many.
To those beyond our borders—to the envoys, the marshals, and the emperors watching from afar—let it be known across every court in Christendom and beyond: the era of a quiet, stagnant North has passed.
Poland does not cower behind her rivers, nor does she beg for peace at foreign gates.
Let the old order crumble. Long live the Crown, and God preserve the Commonwealth!"