The sky was overcast today, and for once, it didn't feel like an omen.
In Grimsby, overcast meant mercy. No bloodshed. No feathers in the gutters. Just quiet, grey light on windows and fields that were trying very hard not to die.
I sat at the long oak table in the manor kitchen, staring at a slice of toast like it owed me money.
It twitched slightly when I picked it up.
Good. It should be afraid.
The air was still. The oil pots were silent. And the war was over.
But the peace? The peace was unnerving. It didn't feel right.
"Something's wrong," I muttered, poking the bread.
Behind me, Bento, a full-time dog, a war veteran, and part-time soup inspector, snored beneath the table. He wore his soup pot like a helmet even in sleep.
His ears twitched at every creak and every cluck of chickens he heard in his sleep.
The trauma was real.
Timothy, ever the stoic butler, sat in the corner, carefully slicing mold off the last surviving wheel of cheese.
"You've said that every morning since the chicken ceasefire," he noted.
"Because every morning since the chicken ceasefire has felt like the beginning of a horror novel."
I took a bite of the toast.
It didn't scream.
Progress.
I poured tea, careful not to spill. We were down to our last pouch of leaves, and the nearest merchant caravan had been hijacked by bandits who'd declared themselves the new "Beef Kings of the Forest."
Even the toast seemed to flinch when I said their name aloud.
Outside, the village of Grimsby breathed again, but only barely, truthfully.
The roads were nothing more than glorified goat trails, muddy and uneven, filled with potholes deep enough to lose a child in.
Lantern posts leaned at odd angles, with their candles long since stolen, repurposed, or eaten.
The village well remained dry. A "temporary water station" had been set up using barrels, buckets, and what I suspected was an old witch's bathtub.
The economy was worse than dead; it was embarrassed.
Trade was slow, crops were slower, and people had begun bartering with increasingly strange items.
Yesterday, a man tried to pay taxes in raccoon bones.
Last week, someone offered to settle a debt with a mildly prophetic onion.
"I'm not saying it's bad," I told Timothy. "But when a turnip is considered high currency, we've fallen off the economic cliff."
"At least it's not feathers anymore."
That was a fair point. I stood and stretched my sore bones. They cracked like brittle branches.
The System chose that exact moment to awaken.
[DING]
A chime rang in my skull like divine sarcasm.
You have awakened: [Disaster-Class Land Management System]!
My vision blurred.
Blue screens burst into existence around me like mocking ghosts.
[Welcome, Baron Harold of Grimsby]
System Type: Land Management (Disaster-Class)
Title:Baron of Questionable Morals, Excellent Seasoning
Population: 143 (Exhausted, Skeptical, Slightly Damp)
Chicken Count: 0 (Featherless Victory)
Food Supplies: Might last 11 Days
Clean Water Access: 8%
Mood: Constipated
Sanity (Village Average): Mildly Feral
Notable Threats:– Bandits, Rain, Economic Collapse, Gregory the Squirrel (Do Not Engage)
A slow, vibrating headache began to form behind my eyes.
"Timothy," I said calmly, staring at the air like a lunatic, "I'm hallucinating again."
"Another celestial prophecy?"
"No, it's worse. A management system."
Timothy put down his knife. "Are there tutorials?"
"Only pain at the back of my head."
The system pinged again:
[New Quest Available!]
→ "Rebuild Civilization: One Poorly Funded Project at a Time."
Objective: Address the following:
– Hunger
–Water Scarcity
–Road Infrastructure
–Trade Routes
– Lack of Toilets (Dear Gods)
Reward: Mystery Box (Contains Bees, probably.)
I sighed and stepped outside.
Grimsby, the village, looked like the creation of a drunk god who had tried to paint prosperity but fell asleep halfway through.
Children chased each other through knee-high mud while yelling "DRUMSTICK!" at one another. I hoped it was a game and not a hunger hallucination.
The bakery smelled like ash and desperation. They were baking "ghost loaves" now. Bread made mostly of steam, hope, and if you were lucky, a hint of flour.
The blacksmith's forge hadn't burned coal in weeks. Instead, he'd taken to pounding metal using the heat of passive-aggressive rage.
Everywhere I looked, the cracks of survival were showing.
I passed a line of villagers collecting water from the barrel system. One old woman whispered to her granddaughter: "That's him, the Cluck Reaper."
She meant me.
I gave them a small wave. The granddaughter gave me a piece of bread shaped like a tombstone.
It was labeled "RIP Cluckles." Touching for sure.
The system kept dinging.
[Mini-Project Unlocked!]
→ Road Upgrade: "A Path Less Deadly"
Estimated Materials Required: 84 units of cobblestone, 16 barrels of tar, 3 miracle-level workers
Village Approval Rating: -78 (Suspicious of Progress)
"Where the hell am I supposed to get cobblestone?"
[New Trade Route Available!]
→ "Trade With Barkridge"'
Distance: 2 days
Risk: High
Bandit Activity: Medium
Squirrel Hostility: Extreme
I blinked. "Timothy?"
"Yes?"
"How do you feel about squirrel diplomacy?"
"..."
We soon reached the town square.
Once a battlefield, which was now a gathering spot. The statue of me holding a frying pan had been modestly defaced with a carrot mustache and the words "Colonel Madness."
It could be worse.
The villagers gathered here for morning announcements, which I had not agreed to give, but apparently now did.
I climbed the podium, which was a stack of bricks.
"People of Grimsby," I began. "Today marks a new era."
Someone coughed in response.
"We have survived war. We have fried our enemies. We have danced on their gravy-soaked graves."
Murmurs of agreement echoed throughout the crowd.
"But we still have no roads. No trade. No clean water. No decent toilets."
Now full silence fell.
I held up a blueprint drawn on a napkin. "So we're going to fix that."
Someone shouted, "With what? Hopes and cow dunk?"
"Precisely," I said. "And gravel. But mostly hope."
Back at the manor, I laid out plans. A simple aqueduct system for water with basic cobble paths reinforced with compacted dirt..
But first… toilets.
Grimsby had one public outhouse.
One.
And last week, a goat gave birth in it. It was time to build a free toilet. No more pooping in the open I must say.
[Toilet Infrastructure Project Unlocked!]
→ "The Porcelain Future"
Status: Unstarted
Materials Needed:– Wood (plenty), Nails (rusty but usable), Dignity (in short supply)
By nightfall, Bento had peed on the System menu twice, and Timothy was sanding wood while muttering chants.
I sat in the dirt, sketching a multi-room bathhouse with proper drainage and scented soap stones.
"This isn't what I signed up for," I muttered.
The system chimed again:
[Quote of the Day:]
"Leadership is the art of convincing people to dig their own toilets while calling it progress."
It was rude but accurate.
That night, the stars glowed weakly, and the tavern served weak broth with strong optimism.
A child handed me a drawing of me wrestling a giant chicken with a plunger.
I put it on the wall.
Timothy joined me under the stars with two cups of mushroom wine.
"So," he asked, "how's the new overlord in your brain, milord?"
"Demanding," I said. "Wants roads, water, and a plumbing revolution."
"And you?"
I looked at Grimsby. Bent, bruised, but not broken.
"I want toast that doesn't flinch. And maybe a town that doesn't rely on potatoes as currency."
Timothy raised his cup.
"To toilets, peace, and unexpected infrastructure."
I clinked mine against his.
"To Grimsby. Where the chickens are dead, the plumbing is pending, and the baron's brain has a menu."