Building a Modern Nation in a Fantasy World
Chapter 87 87: Law and Order

"Good," he murmured under his breath. "Now it's time I meet with the local authorities—the ones supposedly in charge of this district."

He turned down a side street, boots tapping steadily against the cobbled path. But as he walked, something began to gnaw at the edge of his thoughts.

His brows drew together.

Wait... who exactly is in charge of this district?

He slowed.

Back on Earth, the answer would have been simple—walk into a police precinct, present your case, meet with the commanding officer, and discuss jurisdiction. There were formal structures. Chains of command. Clear expectations, even if they were flawed.

But this wasn't Earth.

This was Keldoria—a kingdom still steeped in the tangled webs of noble privileges, merchant guild autonomy, and centuries-old customs that blurred the lines between justice, power, and politics.

And more importantly, this was Iron Hearth, a city that had outgrown its own systems faster than it realized.

Arthur sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Even in Eldoria, the capital, we don't truly have a functioning law enforcement system, he thought. There's no central city guard, no codified civil law. What we have are privately hired guardsmen, local militias, and noble retainers. Law is enforced by who has the power to enforce it—nothing more.

That realization struck deeper than he expected.

He chuckled bitterly under his breath.

I've been going around giving speeches about reforming Keldoria—about building a kingdom where people can live better lives. I've launched industrial projects, stabilized the jobs, and restructured the tax system so the poor can breathe again.

But I never even thought about building a real justice system to truly help the people.

He stopped walking and leaned lightly against a stone pillar, gazing toward the rising smokestacks of Iron Hearth in the distance. The air was thick with the scent of iron and ash—progress, yes, but also something more volatile. Something unfinished.

A question floated to the surface of his thoughts.

I don't even really know what local authorities are and who is in charge of Iron Hearth.

Have I really made life better for the people? Or have I just made it cheaper for them to suffer in silence?

It wasn't a new voice. It was the same one that had haunted him in his past life—when he was Moe, just another man struggling to find his worth in a world that rarely acknowledged effort, only results.

Back on earth, Moe had the habit of ignoring all the good he had done. He would lend a hand to others, help friends through difficult times, give without asking for anything back. But the moment something went wrong—even if it wasn't his fault—he would carry the weight like it was.

Self-blame. Quiet guilt. The belief that he was never doing enough.

And now, even in this new world—despite helping tens of thousands through reformed taxes, creating countless jobs opportunity, and breathing life into once-dying local businesses—that same creeping doubt clung to him. As if all those achievements meant little in the face of what he had forgotten. What he had failed to build. What still remained broken.

I may have reformed the tax code, he thought. Eased the burden on people. Allowed local merchants and business to compete with foreign traders by controlling tariffs.

But I still left them vulnerable to predators like the Iron Shields.

His hands clenched at his sides.

What's the point of building factories and printing presses if people still have to fear a knock on their door in the middle of the night? If a shopkeeper can't run his stall without bribing thugs?

If law doesn't exist unless it's bought?

Arthur straightened slowly, a familiar fire beginning to kindle behind his eyes.

"This will change," he whispered to himself.

Not just the economy. Not just infrastructure. But the very foundation of society.

If he was going to build a modern nation in this fantasy world, this—all of this—still wasn't enough.

Factories, tax codes, printing presses… They were just the bones of a modern state.

But the soul of a nation?

It was built on trust, on safety, on the promise that no citizen would suffer in silence while the powerful turned their backs.

Arthur's gaze sharpened as he turned toward Ken, who was still briefing the nearby guards. The knight stood tall, issuing precise instructions with the discipline of someone trained in both military order and discretion. It was clear he was already treating the Iron Shields like more than just a gang—he was approaching it like a threat to the kingdom.

When Ken finished and the guards dispersed, Arthur called out.

"Ken," he said, his tone calm but edged with thought, "what do you think the vendor meant when they said they tried to report everything to the local authorities?"

Ken turned, blinking in mild surprise at the question. "Your Majesty?"

Arthur repeated, "The local authorities. Who do you think they were referring to?"

Ken folded his arms, his brow furrowing in thought before answering with measured pragmatism.

"Well… it depends on who's speaking," he said. "For vendors with ties to nobility or influential figures, they'd probably reach out to a knight-retainer, or try to send word to the district steward's office—assuming they have the coin or favor to make the message worth reading. That is… if they even have those connections to begin with."

Arthur's gaze didn't waver. "And if they don't?"

Ken gave a slow shrug. "Then… they might try appealing to one of the local lords—marquises or counts who still hold ancestral control over certain sectors. If the lord is decent, he might send a retainer or a warning to the offenders. But most of the time?"

His voice dipped, quiet but laced with disdain.

"They're ignored. And the few brave enough to press the matter? They either end up punished for disturbing order… or disappear from sight."

Arthur's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.

Ken continued, voice low and deliberate. "Some also turn to the church. The temples have influence—and a few priests who genuinely care. But if the matter isn't religious, the chances of intervention are almost nonexistent. Faith helps heal hearts, Your Majesty, but it rarely confronts blades and blood."

There was a pause. Wind tugged gently at Arthur's cloak.

Ken shifted his weight and looked toward the direction of the marketplace. "Then there's the town watch—or whatever patchwork version of it exists here. In truth, Iron Hearth's guards aren't like those in Eldoria. Most aren't paid by the Crown. Some are loyal to trade guilds, others to merchant families with deep pockets. A few still answer to aging knights with too much pride and not enough oversight."

He shook his head. "It's fragmented. Everyone enforces the law… but no one's truly accountable."

Arthur's eyes narrowed, the silence between them growing heavy.

Then Ken said what they both already knew.

"For the common folk—the ones without names, wealth, or titles—they don't report to anyone. They whisper. They endure. And they pray that someone with a sword and a conscience hears them before the wrong sort of men do."

A slow breath left Arthur's lips, his hand lowering to rest on the hilt of his blade—not in threat, but in quiet contemplation.

So even justice had a price tag here.

Hearing it spoken aloud, standing among the very streets where it happened—where injustice walked openly in daylight while good people cowered in shadows—it stirred something else in him.

Frustration.

No, not just frustration.

Resolve.

It was one thing to build factories and workshops. To lower taxes and stimulate trade. But all of it meant little if people still had to live in fear. If a man could pay less in taxes but more in bribes… then nothing had changed.

He clenched his fist briefly, then loosened it with a slow breath.

"I see," Arthur muttered.

Ken's expression grew sharper. "Should I begin pulling names from the guard registry and steward's office?"

Arthur didn't answer immediately. He looked up, eyes drifting toward the smoke columns in the distance—factories churning, forges burning, progress rising. But beneath all that, there were cracks. Cracks only justice could fill.

"Yes," Arthur finally said, his voice quiet but firm. "Pull their names. I want everyone who holds influence over public order in Iron Hearth—be they retired knights, district stewards, guild-appointed enforcers, or noble-backed militia leaders—identified, reviewed, and accounted for. If they're part of the system, I want to know what role they play in it."

He paused, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.

"And also," he continued, "gather the names of those in the town watch who serve without bribes. The ones who genuinely volunteer to keep this region safe. The good ones—we'll need them."

Ken nodded, his expression solemn.

Arthur's eyes hardened slightly. "Because soon, I'll be launching a recruitment campaign. I want to assemble a new corps—fit, trained, and capable individuals, drawn from the people themselves. Men and women with discipline, integrity, and a real stake in their homeland's future. Not thugs-for-hire. Not lapdogs of nobles."

Ken bowed low. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Arthur exhaled slowly, but before Ken could turn away, he added, "One more thing. Prioritize finding out who's backing the Iron Shields. They didn't just appear out of nowhere. I want names, financial links, and motives. Dig up their roots. If someone's feeding them power behind the scenes, I want their head before they grow bold enough to choke this city."

Ken's boots clicked together again. "Understood. I will personally oversee both investigations and the foundation of the new recruitment initiative."

Arthur nodded once. Then he turned away, but his mind churned with frustration.

This… was my mistake.

No—this was my negligence.

He had been so focused on expanding production, stabilizing taxes, and launching innovations that he had overlooked the one pillar of civilization that held everything together: law and order.

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