Chapter 11:

Taxes & the Nobles' Feast

Reincarnated as a High Elf Sage, I’ll Burn Down This Rotten Kingdom from Within



Morning in the Southern District began with a commotion—not from the marketplace, but from the pounding of steel boots in the narrow streets. Lyselle woke before the sun had fully risen, her ears catching the sound of harsh commands mingled with the cries of townsfolk.

She pulled on a thin cloak, drew back the curtain, and saw three men in deep crimson uniforms, each bearing the crest of a winged lion—the emblem of the Kingdom of Virelion—going door to door with scrolls of parchment and large leather sacks.

Not a regular patrol.

These were tax collectors.

But something was off. They weren’t just taking coins. Several times, Lyselle saw them leaving houses with jewelry, even cookware. At one home, an old man knelt in pleading, only to be shoved back with the butt of a spear.

“Short on your quota? Add more—or your house gets sealed!” one guard barked.

Lyselle drew a slow breath.

(First morning here, and I’ve already seen the kingdom’s true face.)

---

When she came down to the inn’s dining room, the air was no less tense. Guests whispered to each other, some clutching their coin pouches as if afraid they might be snatched away.

The innkeeper, Mrs. Harwen, set down a bowl of porridge in front of Lyselle without meeting her eyes.

“If you plan on going out, miss, be careful. Today’s the Southern District’s turn for the collectors. They… won’t hesitate to check an outsider’s bag.”

“Does this happen every month?” Lyselle asked.

“It’s supposed to be once every three months. But since last winter, they’ve been coming twice a month. They claim it’s to fund the ‘construction of a new tower.’” Mrs. Harwen’s eyes flicked toward the window in worry. “And tonight, there’s a grand feast at the West Palace. Every noble in the city’s invited. Funny, isn’t it? They squeeze us dry, then toast to themselves.”

Lyselle bit back her thoughts.

A noble feast on the very night heavy taxes were collected? That was more than irony—it was open provocation.

---

That afternoon, once the collectors had left the district, Lyselle decided to head to the Adventurers’ Guild—ostensibly to take on a light job, but also to gather news. The streets still carried the aftertaste of tension: doors shut tight, merchants packing up early. Two traders were even loading their wagons, perhaps leaving the city entirely.

Inside the guild, the mission board was plastered with low-grade jobs: delivering parcels, hunting warehouse rats, escorting local merchants. But in one corner, half-hidden beneath other notices, a crumpled scrap caught her eye.

It bore a single line:

“Wanted: witness to Southern District tax seizure. Payment: 1 gold coin. Contact R.”

No guild seal. Clearly not an official posting—more like a covert message from someone fishing for information.

Lyselle didn’t touch it, only committed the words and initial to memory.

---

While pretending to browse jobs, she overheard a group of adventurers at the bar.

“The feast’s tonight at the West Palace, right?” one young man said.

“Yeah. Even the City Governor’s supposed to be there. They’re calling it a celebration of the ‘success of the new tax program,’” his friend replied, with heavy sarcasm on tax program.

“Success? Ha! They plunder the people and drink wine from gold cups.”

The conversation lodged a thought in Lyselle’s mind.

If that feast truly gathered the nobles and city officials, she might be able to pick up valuable pieces of information without waiting months.

The only problem: getting into a noble’s feast without an invitation.

---

By late afternoon, back at the inn, Lyselle found Mrs. Harwen speaking to an older man in a worn suit. He carried several rolls of fine fabric—clearly not meant for sale in this poorer district.

“Ah, Miss Lyselle,” Mrs. Harwen said. “This is Master Branis, a tailor for the nobility. He’s looking for a temporary assistant to deliver orders to the West Palace tonight.”

Lyselle’s eyes narrowed.

This… was the opening she needed.

“I can help him,” she offered without hesitation.

Branis looked doubtful. “You don’t seem local. Ever delivered to noble estates before?”

“No. But I can carry goods safely, and I know how to speak politely,” Lyselle answered, her voice steady with confidence.

At last, Branis nodded. “Very well. But keep quiet inside. You’re just a servant.”

---

By sunset, Lyselle had changed into a plain black dress with a white apron, her hair tied neatly. She helped Branis load three long cases—robes and ceremonial coats—onto a small carriage. The ride to the West Palace took nearly an hour, passing through progressively stricter guard posts.

The palace rose in gleaming white stone, its towers crowned with magical crystal lights. In the front court, guests arrived in gilded carriages, jewels catching the torchlight.

At the service gate, a guard checked Branis’s delivery papers before waving them through. Lyselle kept her head bowed, playing her role as a silent attendant.

---

Inside, the feast was in full swing: the strings of an orchestra, laughter echoing under high ceilings, the scent of expensive wine and more food than Lyselle had seen in a year. Branis busied himself handing over orders to palace staff, while Lyselle discreetly took in stray conversations.

Fragments drifted to her:

“…the Astralis Tower construction will be finished next year…”

“…tax revenues from the southern and eastern districts have exceeded targets…”

“…gold ducats sent straight to the Central Tower, as per the Mage Council’s orders…”

Each word was another puzzle piece. This tax surge wasn’t just funding banquets or city works—it was feeding the Central Tower. And the Astralis Tower… likely not an ordinary project.

---

When Branis was ready to leave, Lyselle found an excuse to linger. She “lost her way” in a back corridor that led to a balcony where a handful of nobles smoked and murmured over drinks.

From behind a curtain, she caught a snatch of conversation between a rotund older man and a young woman in a deep green gown.

“…and Lethia? I heard her execution went smoothly,” the man said.

“Yes,” the woman replied flatly. “But before she died, she gave a message meant only for Lord Agrae.”

“What message?”

“‘The Tower never has one face.’ That was all she said.”

Lyselle held her breath. The words confirmed her suspicion—Lethia had been only a small part of something far larger.

---

Before she could hear more, a servant spotted her. Lyselle slipped back to the service area and rejoined Branis for the return trip.

In the carriage, Branis seemed unaware. “You work neatly. If you want, you can help me again next week.”

Lyselle gave a brief smile. In her mind, she was already planning her next move: investigate Astralis Tower and the Mage Council—without drawing attention to herself.

---

But as the carriage rolled past the main square, something caught her eye. The tax collectors from that morning were handing over bulging sacks to a group of men in deep blue uniforms—not the kingdom’s colors, but those of the Central Tower.

The sacks were loaded into a covered wagon, which headed north—toward the elite district, along the road that would soon lead to the Astralis Tower site.

Lyselle watched until they disappeared from view.

(From Ardellon to here… the Tower’s shadow is never far.)

That night, in her small room, Lyselle wrote a single line in her slim notebook:

“The taxes aren’t for the kingdom. The taxes are for the Tower.”

It was no longer a suspicion.

It was the first thread that would lead her straight into the heart of Virelion’s corruption.

Ramen-sensei
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