Colorless King (6)

Voting rights: males over 25, tax-paying, no criminal record.

Votes must be cast in the region where personal details, usually tied to occupation, are registered.

Alongside these rules, the Amur Governorate received the Tsar’s order to send a representative to the Duma.

“Uh, Governor, what do we do?” Roman asked.

“Roman, how many adult men in Amur pay taxes?” Governor Sergei replied.

Villages sometimes pool money for maintenance or land reclamation, but that’s not state taxes.

In the Far East, most eligible voters are soldiers.

“There are nomads trading iron or coal as tribute, but… I doubt they know what voting is,” Roman said.

“Whatever, it’s an imperial order. We’ve got to do it,” Sergei sighed.

“But who’s the candidate?” Roman pressed.

“…”

The national Duma, aiming to reflect all imperial voices, allocated seats even to integrating or distant regions like the Far East.

Amur gets one seat.

Sergei paused, deep in thought.

Amur’s people… no, soldiers. Just send a soldier?

Given the region, most are career military, but sending an active soldier to the Duma feels off.

“We need someone to represent us,” Sergei muttered.

They don’t expect Europe to shower them with gifts, but they can’t send just anyone.

Every person’s precious here. Can’t pull a ranked officer overnight.

The Governorate has money, land, and work aplenty, but people are always scarce.

“Should we ask Professor Bunke to spare one bureaucrat?” Roman suggested.

“If you can convince him to part with one, go for it. I sure as hell can’t,” Sergei scoffed.

“Ugh, forget it then,” Roman relented.

Bunke’s Far East crew, self-styled “state-led free-market economic development advocates,” are so intense that Sergei and Roman gave up dealing with them.

“If one of them represents us, I’d rather we had no seat,” Sergei said.

“Agreed. I’m scared all of East Siberia gets branded heretics,” Roman added.

So who the hell do they pick?

Pick a candidate, gather soldiers at the parade ground, hand out ballots, and call it a day.

Someone educated, aware of the Far East’s unique needs, with some political savvy.

“Hmm, no one,” Sergei concluded.

“Nope, nobody,” Roman echoed.

A moment’s thought won’t magic up the perfect candidate.

Anyone remotely educated is already tapped out among the soldiers.

“So we’re stuck picking from those state-led free-market whatever guys?” Roman groaned.

“No way, that’s a disaster,” Sergei said.

After failing to settle on a name, Governor Sergei posted a public notice about the situation.

Maybe a retiree who settled here or a recent migrant could fit the bill.

Days later—

Thud. Thud.

“Here, set it down!”

“Yes, sir!”

Outside the Amur Governorate building.

“What the hell is this?” a soldier demanded.

“Officer, sir, it’s taxes from our settlement, 530-strong. Over four sacks of rice,” a settler said.

“You’re settlers, right? Why pay taxes now?” the soldier asked.

“We heard this lets us pick a high official or even run ourselves. Our settlement’s got hundreds of acres, but not paying a dime’s been eating at us,” the settler explained.

“But—” the soldier stammered.

“The empire doesn’t take taxes in rice…”

The national Duma election sparked effects even Nikolai, Sergei, and Roman didn’t foresee.

Like 30,000 ethnic migrants suddenly paying taxes.

The Duma election, starting in autumn, spanned a month with open ballot counting and every detail reported to newspapers, showcasing undeniable fairness.

The process was so thorough it felt excessive, but by November, the Duma was formed.

Democratic Party: 63 seats, first.

Conservative Party: 47 seats, second.

Labor Party: 38 seats, third.

Progressive Party: 29 seats, fourth.

Minority parties and regional/ethnic seats: 23.

Some grumbled the seat allocation wasn’t fully fair without a census or religious/ethnic surveys, but such complaints were brushed off.

“Fair as it gets. What more do you want?” Nikolai muttered.

The downside? Unlike the original history’s 478 seats, this Duma’s 200, split further for regional and ethnic considerations, yet Democrats and Labor together hold a majority.

Not bad. 101 seats combined. Peel off a couple, and they lose the majority.

The Democrats’ ideology isn’t as rigid as Labor’s, so their 63 won’t easily unite.

New Year’s approaching. A Duma formed a decade early.

Compared to 1906, it’s tamer. Less ideological armor, weaker unity.

More my will than theirs.

Immature. No Social Revolutionary Party openly shouting to topple the monarchy.

Right after the election, I summoned the Duma to St. Petersburg’s Winter Palace.

Some from Central Asia, Siberia, and the Far East won’t arrive by year’s end, but elections are annual, so no waiting.

At the Winter Palace banquet, I stood before them.

Their gazes—less hostile, more curious or skeptical—confirm it.

They think this Tsar’s too different from his father.

I get it. Post-election, nobles who missed out on both houses are raging, and bureaucrats leading the executive are annoyed with an independent judiciary and now a Duma watching them.

Still, I invited them to my palace—an unprecedented move.

To seem approachable, I skipped pomp and ceremony.

Step, step.

In simple regalia, I approached.

They stood, singing the anthem, eyes locked on me, determined not to miss a thing.

Time to play the friendly Nikolai.

“Be seated,” I said.

I began my speech, voice warm, not commanding.

“I’m delighted to meet the empire’s representatives. I’d love to know each of you, but bias might cloud my judgment, they say.”

Like the election, I promise fairness—not just legally, but humanly, to hear your voices.

“This isn’t a social call for busy delegates, so I’ll be brief. My grandfather and father ruled this vast empire but left me no clear answer on its land.”

The answer’s set: late-empire policies fostering a yeoman middle class.

But these delegates won’t say that.

“My first command as Tsar: bring me a land reform plan. Conditions are as follows.”

“First, no innocent victims. Second, land to peasants and stable food prices for workers, immediately, not years from now. Finally, it must be feasible within the empire’s means.”

Noble conditions, music to imperial ears.

They’ll need to scheme or unite for a majority, satisfying nobles, peasants, workers, and me.

“If the Duma delivers a wise policy, I’ll support it fully,” I said.

Because to my young, untrained eyes, it looks impossible.

Speech done, I returned to my seat, sipping to wet my throat.

Eyes once fixed on me now darted among them.

Murmurs rose, some leaning in for hushed talks.

I tossed the bait. Tear into it. I’ll watch.

“Your Majesty, you said this was for introductions! Dumping the empire’s biggest issue on the Duma?” Witte exclaimed.

“What did you expect me to do?” I shot back.

“Land reform can’t be touched now. Why do you think it’s been hushed for decades? To delay the explosion!” Witte argued.

“No, Minister, get it right. You thought it wouldn’t blow up now, so it never would,” I corrected.

It’s wild—Finance Ministers, generation after generation, have been sharp reformers.

Not like a unified movement, just ministers frantically stitching up a tearing empire, but visionaries were always there.

Take Bunke. He saw the empire’s core as peasants, the root of labor. Farmers’ kids become city workers.

Even those at reform’s heart until the empire’s fall were brilliant.

Yet none solved land reform in seventy years.

“Witte, admit it. Land reform’s unsolvable now. In ten years, it won’t be easier,” I said.

“Then you shouldn’t have brought it up! It could shake your power’s foundation!” Witte pleaded, eyes desperate, forgetting he’s before the Tsar.

Is he worried for me or scared his reforms stall if I weaken?

To his overly serious face, I brought up an old story.

“When I was in the army, I tested a miniature version of this. Different context, but a vague idea of perfecting land reform through the Far East’s empty lands,” I said.

A pipe dream: paid land distribution or taxing to buy well-cleared land.

Like that’d work. They wouldn’t go even if paid.

“Not even as Tsar, just a crown prince’s short piece, and the reaction was explosive. Conscripted soldiers asked if it was real,” I continued.

“…The weight of your words is different now. Giving the ignorant masses false hope is dangerous,” Witte warned.

“Keep listening,” I said.

The piece wasn’t about whether Siberia’s vast lands could enable reform.

It was about who reacted, and how.

This issue was always coming for my reign.

From landed elites to workers, peasants, intellectuals, bureaucrats, soldiers—I wanted every reaction.

“I thought at least one group would back me. Nope. They fought each other. Some baselessly attacked my piece, others agreed but twisted it for their gain, some rambled about family sob stories to join a winning side. So varied, I couldn’t categorize them,” I said.

It was chaos. Father shoved me deeper into the army for causing it.

“That’s when I realized: land reform can’t be solved by talk. It needs overwhelming power, pushed through in one go,” I said.

Satisfied reformers become allies; the dissatisfied get coaxed, then crushed at the right time.

That’s how reform succeeds and moves forward.

“I made the Duma, like the newspaper I published that piece in,” I said.

But our Duma, lacking absolute power, must solve it through talk. Can they meet my conditions with a majority?

“Every Duma meeting and detail will reach the people through newspapers,” I declared.

They’ll fight, ally, split, and erode each other’s ideologies. Some will burn out, others charge in.

Good. Perfect. I threw out land reform as bait for a reason.

As I finished, Witte’s eyes, trembling not from despair but something else, locked onto mine.

His graying hair and wrinkled skin showed his years outstripped mine.

Yet he wasn’t just seeing a young Tsar Nikolai.

“Your Majesty… why are you doing this?” he asked.

I gave him a calm smile.

He looked smaller, not angry but shrinking. I approached, patting him gently.

“Just do what I ask, Witte. Believe it or not, I’m rooting for you,” I said.

That’s the truth.

Keeping his bureaucrats from joining parties? Damn impressive.

This is my first lesson.

And our Russian Empire…

Has a long road of learning ahead.