Methamphetamine or Vitamin? (4)

War heroes always exist.

Fairy-tale warriors bravely fighting external enemies, earning honor and legitimacy through their deeds. Naturally, who wouldn’t respect those shielding the nation from outsiders?

Sadly, I see myself as the opposite of a war hero.

I’m fighting internal enemies, not external ones.

Politics, governance, domination—call it what you will, I’m an emperor focused on domestic affairs, not foreign conquests.

It’s not that the role’s too heavy, but if I’m being honest, it’s a bit unfair.

War heroes’ actions are seen as just; mine are met with suspicion.

Their deeds start with righteousness; mine are assumed to stem from power lust.

Here’s the kicker: I’m not even in a position to crave that power.

It’s like performing surgery with a rusty knife, and I’m blamed for the pain.

Don’t wield it, and I’m the original Nikolai of history.

Wield it, and I’m a tyrant, an outdated autocrat, cursed.

Fine, I’ll take the curses. Problem is, in Russia, it doesn’t stop there.

Bombings, protests, riots, revolutions.

That’s Russia’s way of venting discontent.

They can’t directly challenge the Tsar’s power, so they lash out abnormally.

So, I created the Duma.

The results? Beyond expectations.

Give them a sliver of power, acknowledge it, and every troublesome bastard flocks to the Duma, brawling among themselves.

Disgusting, yet beautiful to watch.

Now, I push the Duma forward and prep surgery in the backroom.

Wielding the monstrous power handed to me as a Romanov heir, I’ll carve out the rotting flesh and diseased organs.

1897, my one shot.

Fail here, and Russia’s done. I allowed myself no slip-ups.

“That’s why I only gave bureaucrats tasks, not my full plan. Sounds like a ruler’s arrogance, but I’m the reform’s driving force. Was that wrong?” I asked.

“No one resents Your Majesty. Being your tool is an honor for public servants,” Dashkov replied.

“Then why does it feel like my order to smash the mir isn’t being followed?” I pressed.

My standards.

My inclinations.

My direction.

I’ve hidden them all.

I’m not playing mystic or cutting communication to hoard power—that’s not my game.

I’m a young emperor, barely thirty, with only historical knowledge as my compass. I’m not seasoned like Dashkov or a genius like Witte.

“Your Majesty, bureaucrats are on a train without knowing the destination. The Duma rises, nobles stir, and you issue new orders. They’re paralyzed by fear of the unknown,” Dashkov said.

“Fear of the unknown? That’s it, Count?” I asked.

I promised reformers rewards—wealth, fame, stable elite status.

I’ve got Witte pegged for prime minister, haven’t I?

Still anxious? What more do they want? I don’t get it.

“Should I beg these opinionated bureaucrats on my knees?” I snapped.

“You know that’s not it,” Dashkov said.

“Then what?” I demanded.

“Make them truly yours. Even if their thoughts clash with yours, ensure your will takes priority without hesitation,” Dashkov urged.

Power struggles. I studied countless historical cases, thinking I had it figured out. But diving in? It’s tough.

Three months since I ordered mir dismantled from the west, yet Kuban’s fertile mir show no signs of collapse.

Don Voisko province, under the War Ministry, increased its mir. Unbelievable.

“Don Voisko wasn’t a pilot region, but they should’ve read the room. Instead, mir grew,” I said.

I didn’t set crazy goals: 1.8 billion rubles to convert 15% to self-employed farmers.

That’s a lot empire-wide, but we haven’t touched black-soil or dense regions—it should’ve been smooth.

“If smashing the mir, the empire’s backbone, goes wrong, bureaucrats take the fall. So they play it safe,” Dashkov explained.

“Ugh…” I sighed.

I didn’t fully buy Dashkov’s advice, but I get I was wrong.

Not every bureaucrat bets their life on reform like Witte.

“Not everyone can fully grasp Your Majesty’s will. If you truly want to erase the mir…” Dashkov paused.

“What?” I asked.

“Don’t hide. Step forward,” he said.

Step forward—don’t just order, act. Lead and back them.

But going public risks losing both nobles and the Duma.

It’s not just power loss I fear—one failure, and there’s no second chance.

“Where’s the just, neutral monarch you spoke of?” I asked.

“Be just and fair, but show clearly where your will points,” Dashkov said.

Even as an absolute monarch, pointing fingers doesn’t get it done.

If I step forward and reform stalls… I’m out of moves.

Mass purges or medieval terror politics—my only options. Maybe “Bloody Sunday” becomes “Bloody Week.”

That day, I issued my first official edict.

The mir must die now.

Or I kill everyone opposing it.

Either way, reform marches on.

The late-learning Emperor, Nikolai II.

People thought he shuttled between summer and winter palaces, busy with heir training.

His three-year reign’s changes were credited to shadow ruler Sergei Witte, checked by the Duma, steering the state.

Like Rome’s consular dual rule.

The empire’s double-headed eagle—bureaucracy and parliament balancing the Tsar’s absence.

Everyone thought so.

Until recently.

“By the Tsar’s edict! The five listed provinces must dismantle mir by next year. Farmers, take loans to buy mir assets!” the decree read.

“What? Who sets land prices? How much are the loans?” a peasant asked.

“This is kicking us out to live as urban slums!” another cried.

“The Tsar’s edict must be obeyed!” an official insisted.

The Tsar, silent for three years, thought to be in training, dropped his first edict.

A bombshell no one saw coming.

“Is this really the Tsar’s order? Not that damn Finance Minister pulling strings?” one asked.

“Think edicts come lightly? It’s law!” another snapped.

In an era where the Tsar’s word is law, debating feasibility or downsides is pointless.

The Duma felt it that day.

“We fight months, years, for one bill,” a member said.

“A single paper from the summer palace does it,” another muttered.

“We dragged too long. Should’ve pulled in the bourgeois sooner!” a third grumbled.

Powerlessness, alienation. Loyal on the surface, they couldn’t openly rage, but the Duma realized who they’re fighting for power.

Even loyalists saw reform, entrusted to them, yanked back. The Tsar’s favor was gone.

Flustered, Duma members could only watch, arms crossed.

But the bureaucrats leading reform?

“Fuck, now we have to succeed!” one shouted.

“Night shifts? Screw that, move to the western provinces!” another ordered.

“Destroy the mir by any means!” a third commanded.

“Purge the old ways! Forward! Smash—!” one ranted.

“Shut up!” another barked.

The Tsar snatched the Duma’s task, handing it to bureaucrats.

The mood flipped overnight, leaving even Nikolai, who issued the edict, stunned.

“This feels familiar. Book burning? Cultural Revolution? Any history of bureaucrats going this wild?” I muttered.

Good is good, Nikolai figured.

Somehow, the Tsar publicly declared, “The Duma’s useless, so you do it!”

Russia’s admin system’s a mess, stuck in old ways, chronically understaffed, but the sheer number of bureaucrats isn’t small.

They dove in, dismantling mir to the molecular level.

“I’m a poor peasant, never included in mir redistributions—” one began.

“How about a loan for up to 6.5 desyatinas, land as collateral?” an official offered.

“I heard that makes you a debtor for generations…” the peasant hesitated.

“Old loans were 6% interest, 30-year terms. Now? Half the rate, no principal for five years,” the official said.

“…How much can I get? Let’s try it,” the peasant agreed.

Post-edict, peasants started eyeing land to buy with loans before mir dissolved.

Land tax? That’s for big landowners.

Poor mir peasants and millions of landless farmers didn’t care.

Blowing the Peasant Land Bank’s entire reserves on five provinces would be reckless, but “Tsar’s edict” changes things.

Those provinces can’t fail now.

More precisely:

“Are we lending to every Tom, Dick, and Harry?” one official asked.

“Land’s collateral! If mir collapse and they starve, we’re all dead!” another snapped.

“Reject? You crazy? Just do it! Who’s got time to check every detail? If they don’t want the loan, pitch it anyway!” a third yelled.

No one wanted to be blamed for failing the Tsar’s order.

In this empire, that label means burial—or worse, death by a flimsy excuse.

A method only possible in absolute monarchy.

No lame-duck phase, just raw power. Defy the law, face punishment. Backed by ample funds.

With this trifecta, Nikolai’s order turned western mir into archaic, sinful relics.

Stolypin’s 1910s reforms lifted peasant restrictions and boosted self-employed farmers’ rights. In 1897, reform was simpler: raw power.

Those fearing that power.

Those craving it.

Those within or wanting to join it.

All became reform’s fuel.

Reform, like a cartwheel on a hill, gains speed once rolling.

“Hmm, still, mir holdouts and defectors might spark rural jealousy and conflict…” I mused.

“Heard that? The Tsar says kick out everyone staying in mir!” an official shouted.

“Open your mouth! More loans coming!” another barked.

“Stay in mir, and you’re a wandering gypsy. What? Gypsies in Russia? Nonsense, we’re gypsy-free. They’re long gone,” a third sneered.

New order, ensuing chaos, watched live empire-wide.

Everyone held their breath, eyeing this thunderbolt reform.