Stirring Up a Storm by Force (2)

Background, faction, social status, ideology.

Without these, can a lone individual win an election and stand tall among the victors?

No way. I’m dead certain it’s impossible.

Especially in backward 19th-century Russia, no matter how talented, those four define you.

But there’s always a freak albino who changes their own skin.

“…Veren? My old aide-de-camp, Veren Volkov?” I muttered.

A name I’d vaguely heard now rang clear as a bell.

“Veren Volkov, the officer Your Majesty met in the army. He’s the Duma’s hottest star, hogging a third of the headlines. We confirmed his legitimate election in the Far East,” Dashkov reported.

“Legitimate, my ass. The voting was on a parade ground,” I scoffed.

Last I saw him, he was thrilled to ditch the broke soldier life for a cushy civilian gig.

“This guy’s got that kind of talent? What, he’s some master orator now?” I asked.

“Some criticize him, others say he’ll burn out fast,” Dashkov replied.

“What’s your take, Count Dashkov? As Interior Minister, you’ve got an eye for people,” I said.

Serving since Grandfather’s days, aiding Father, Count Dashkov’s the longest-serving minister, meeting every type of character.

“…He’s a demagogue,” Dashkov said.

“A demagogue? Why?” I pressed.

“No ideological grounding, just bipartisan popularity. He’s got fans, not a real base,” Dashkov explained.

“Just a guy with a fan club, huh?” I said.

If Dashkov says so, Veren’s name’s got some hype.

Still, I don’t think it’s all hot air.

“Then why the hell did this proposal make it through both houses to my desk?” I asked, glaring at the document.

[National Land Development Project]

I’m losing sleep over how to reduce peasants, and some genius pitches maximizing them? And it’s from a guy I know?

“Fine, the lower house, sure. It could pass. But the upper house? How?” I demanded.

Not one of the 25 senators saw the flaws in this?

“The upper house isn’t split by party but by expertise. Military senators backed Veren for his roots. Labor-friendly ones, peasant-friendly ones, those who think he’s chummy with Your Majesty, and others who just didn’t know better voted yes. Oddly, liberal university senators threw in, too,” Dashkov explained.

“…”

Is Veren a soldier? No, he’s retired.

A liberal? Nah, he made his fortune on military contracts, not free markets.

Pro-monarchy? Sure, but not out of conviction. In the army, he’d straight-up tell me, the Tsarevich, “I want scraps from the big shots’ pockets.” So I sent him to the Far East.

So why did the Duma—especially independents and this Asian import—vote for his plan?

Maybe they voted thoughtlessly to recruit him.

The real issue?

“…Count, three proposals hit my desk,” I said.

One: extend Duma terms from one to two years.

Two: expand Duma seats to 450.

Three: this national land development nonsense.

Land reform—I told them to bring ideas, knowing they’d fail.

Election’s coming, so they rushed to pass something?

That tracks. They can’t agree, so they threw up anything to meet my demand, feasibility be damned.

That’s annoying, shoving it up without a taste test.

But I can’t ignore it. I said I’d seriously consider Duma proposals and act like I’d pass them.

“What do I do with this?” I muttered, tapping my desk, eyeing the title I already hate.

“The Veren I knew… he wouldn’t plan this. He wasn’t some wild colt running amok,” I said.

If he was, he’d never have made senior aide—stuck at major, discharged.

“Your Majesty, shouldn’t we at least review its feasibility, even for show?” Dashkov suggested.

“The outcome’s set. It’s got zero merit,” I said.

Why? Original history tried something similar.

Unable to boost per-acre yields with mechanization or fertilizers, the empire’s fallback was expanding farmland.

Siberian land reclamation. They moved millions to ease overpopulation, but migrants returned, causing chaos.

Siberia’s cold isn’t for half-assed developers.

The empire’s not starving, and we don’t need more farmland obsession.

Agriculture’s so strong, we break export records yearly.

“Most workers now are day laborers or grunt workers,” I noted.

“Construction’s booming—railways, especially—drawing workers,” Dashkov said.

“Right. Those are state projects. When they end, workers are left hanging,” I said.

I want to shift them from construction to factory work.

That needs gradual prep for private capital growth.

It’s all connected—middle class growth, land reform, export diversification, domestic market boost, labor conditions, national progress.

But a state-led farmland project now?

It’d collapse everything, set us back 30 years.

This belongs in Grandfather’s serf emancipation days, not now. It’d ruin the empire’s future.

“What’s your call? The Duma needs an answer. If you’re rejecting it, do it now,” Dashkov urged.

“Ugh, call Witte first,” I said.

“You mean the Finance Minister…” Dashkov trailed off.

“I know nothing, but Witte and the bureaucrats will flip out and oppose it. I’ll ask for a rethink. With elections soon, that’s enough,” I said.

“It could spark friction between bureaucrats and the Duma,” Dashkov warned.

“Tell Witte to meet him,” I added.

“Who, Your Majesty?” Dashkov asked.

“Who else? Veren Volkov,” I said.

Officially, to hear the proposer’s grand vision. Really, to check if this is the same army grunt Veren I knew.

“Making Witte, who’ll take the heat for Your Majesty, face the culprit. I fully understand,” Dashkov said.

“Huh?” I blinked.

“I’ll take my leave,” Dashkov said, exiting.

That was weird, but with Dashkov gone, Veren’s unexpected rise pulled me back into thought.

Did this guy exist in original Russia?

Even I, confident I know Russia inside out, had to rethink Veren’s sudden Duma stardom.

No matter how I racked my brain, Veren Volkov’s name never appeared in history books.

“With that demagogue talent, no record?” I muttered.

Must’ve been stuck in the army.

A rare moment praising the army’s upside.

“…I’m fucked,” Veren muttered.

After a grand speech, basking in the thrill, his smile didn’t last.

“Let’s vote!” a member shouted.

“No debate needed! It needs tweaks, but I agree with the core!” another said.

“Full support!” a third yelled.

“Ten out of ten!” another cheered.

“Huh? What?” Veren stammered.

He didn’t expect a vote right then.

He stayed chill, thinking, No way.

Until the count: 102 yes, 77 no, rest abstained.

It passed the majority.

“We’ve taken a monumental step for land reform!” a member declared.

“Veren! Veren! Veren!” the crowd chanted.

“Wait, hold on—” Veren tried.

A snap vote like that, and it passes?

Shouldn’t experts bicker over finances, splitting the room again?

Why? Why the hell did this pass?

Actually passing, his hands shook, no laughter left.

Testing his influence was fun, but now he’s got responsibility.

Sure, everyone wanted something passed before the election.

A mild, non-oppressive proposal seemed “good enough,” but Veren never considered that.

He just thought headlining would force Sergei to cough up that port lease.

Labor and rights? He’s from the anti-labor, rights-crushing army.

Capital? He cozied up to bourgeois for Far East investment, not greed.

Liberalism—rule of law, checks and balances, separation of powers?

The fuck’s that, you bastards? Does it dock more ships in Vladivostok?

The only “ideology” Veren knew was the state-led-free-market-whatever-ists he saw in the Far East.

He barely got that either. Just nodded when smart folks like Chairman Bunke pushed it.

Still, to sound legit, he tweaked Bunke’s State-Led Free Market Economic Development to National Land Development Project.

“Haha! The Tsar ordered a feasibility review today! We can’t let this pass quietly! Volkov, celebrate with us!” a member urged.

“Nah, it’ll just be a tavern. I booked a hotel banquet hall—let’s go!” another said.

“No, sir! Thousands of St. Petersburg workers are gathering tonight! Please, give them a hopeful speech!” a Labor member begged.

“Oh…” Veren froze.

This wasn’t ending at Sergei’s level.

Your Highness!

No, His Majesty now. This proposal’s hitting the Tsar’s desk.

And that means…

“Volkov, got a minute?” a voice called.

“…Uh, who—” Veren started.

“Yep, I’m Sergei Witte, Finance Minister,” the man said.

The Tsar’s envoy had come.

“I’m dying to hear your expert insight. Spared no time rushing here. Please, make time,” Witte said, words clipped, like he’d tear Veren apart.

“Oh…” Veren gulped.

“Let’s have a nice, long chat somewhere,” Witte said.

Witte looked desperate to hear Veren’s “wisdom.”

Or just kill him.