——The Village of Rabbi.
In the early morning, before dawn had fully broken, children were working at the public bath, taking clothes to wash within. Until the after-work hours when laborers flooded the public bath, it was kept open for the children. There was no better place to do laundry than a place where hot water flowed infinitely at the push of a button and soap—which would cost a pretty penny elsewhere—never ran out. Under Yu and Tahara’s strict demands for personal hygiene, those who didn’t bathe didn’t work. It wasn’t a tyrannical culture by any means, or even an unreasonable one, considering the threat of disease and infection that came from lack of washing. Those who complied were happy for the daily cash payments, and even the children tasked with laundry were ecstatic at the unexpected income—a true win-win.
In addition to children, women were finding new work in this golden age. Dealings with Suneo had brought in massive amounts of tea leaves that would have otherwise been discarded. By and large, tea could be separated into three categories: green, oolong, and black. Black tea, the variation highly celebrated on this continent, had to be completely oxidized by fermenting and massaging the leaves before drying them out. It was all the rage among wealthy nobles and merchants to drink black tea with sugar. A cup of Suneo black tea, in particular, was treated like a cup of melted gold, reserved only for the chosen few.
Tahara saw a gap in the market and angled to popularize other forms of tea for the commoners—namely green tea, which he was very familiar with. New factories had been built, lined with rows and rows of furnaces, each topped with a slanted metal pot in a setup that almost looked dystopian. Each pot was attended by a female worker who’d volunteered for the shift and some extra cash.
Tahara walked up and down the factory, grumbling about the quality of tea leaves. “These are all shriveled up...and this batch is bone-dry already.” Since these tea leaves were all slated to be discarded, none of them were fresh-picked. Leave it to Tahara to complain about free material. “Let’s fire ’em up!” At Tahara’s command, the Spell Stones within each furnace ignited—the Fire Spell Stones Tahara had confiscated from the central nobles. If Tahara were not so busy conducting all sorts of business for the Demon Lord, he would have made a magnificent bandit. Unlike black tea, green tea needed to be steamed or roasted—Tahara had opted to roast it in the heated pots. Tea leaves were thrown in, and the women began stirring.
After half an hour or so, the entire factory floor had been engulfed in thick steam. Sweat dripping down their faces like waterfalls, many of the women began swaying on their feet. Notably, dizziness was the first sign of a heatstroke, and would soon be followed by headache, vomiting, and muscle cramps if left untreated. This was no cushy job by any means. In factories run in other countries, several overseers stalked the floor, whips at the ready. Constant whip cracks and shouts rang through those torturous factories.
Tahara, however, knew how inefficient such brutal practices were. “Hey, you,” he called to one of the women. “Tag out before you pass out.”
“Y-Yes, sir...”
Under Tahara’s supervision, he made sure that workers were switched off stations before the heat became unbearable, allowing them to take breaks in a room stocked with ice and cold water. Once again, factory overseers anywhere else would not have cared one bit if their workers collapsed or even died from heatstroke.
Tron floated inside out of curiosity, but her eyes went wide as they met the rising steam. She hadn’t expected such a blast of heat in the village’s newest building. “Hot. Like a sauna.”
“Sounds about right,” Tahara said. “But now we can drink some good ol’ fashioned tea whenever we want.”
“Black tea? Sweet...delicious,” Tron said.
“Nah, this one’s for grown-ups with grown-up palates,” Tahara teased.
“I am a proper lady. You are blind, Tahara. So is Demon Lord.”
Even as they bantered, work in the factory continued, workers hauling the roasted leaves to the adjoining facility. There, the leaves were hand-squeezed and carefully packed into crates—all by women. Men were needed for heavy lifting, but Tahara had decided that this kind of delicate work would be best handled by women.
Once the work was done for the day, the women cheered as they received their day’s pay—a whopping seven bronze medallions each. When compared to the five bronze medallions the male construction apprentices were paid daily, it showed how much importance Tahara placed in their work. In fact, there was no other day-labor job around that paid that much. It didn’t take long for women from the neighboring villages to flock to the factory, hoping to work this lucrative job.
While the women were hard at work in the steaming factory of Rabbi’s new business, the Demon Lord snored away in the penthouse where the AC was kept on full blast. He had slept for three whole days, probably breaking some kind of record. Considering how the tea makers were constantly battling heatstroke, his mere existence in the same village was an insult. Aku had finally gotten too worried and notified Kondo. Now they and Tron were taking shifts to watch the Demon Lord sleep.
“Demon Lord sleeps too long. I’ll wake him up,” Tron reached out her hand to do just that.
“Noooo! Abort! Abort!” Kondo swiftly grabbed her wrist before she touched the Demon Lord, moving too fast for someone who was terrified of leaving his room. “Waking the slumbering Secretary...?! Keep me out of your suicide mission!”
“Calm down, Kondo,” Tron said.
“Y-You don’t understand... Imagine the Secretary all sleepy and grumpy from being woken up,” Kondo said.
“I imagined it.”
“What if he demands a glass of virgin blood instead of morning wine?!” Kondo demanded.
“Give him a splash of my blood,” Tron said.
“What?! The Secretary has trained a young, innocent girl like you? He really is the king of depravity—”
“Are you having fun, Kondo?” The Demon Lord sat up, still in his Fallen Angel form, giving Kondo a glare that made him shake in his boots.
“G-G-Good morning, sir! Wh-What a beautiful d-d-d-day we’re having! As beautiful as those dark, ominous wings that make you look like the MC of a hentai game in which you corrupt goddesses and warrior princesses!” Kondo rambled.
“It’s too early for your nonsense. I’m thirsty. Is there something to—”
Kondo shrieked again. “T-Tron! Give him your blood! The blood of a virgin! The Secretary can sniff out any drop of blood from damaged goods like a hound dog!”
“Calm down, Kondo,” the Demon Lord tried again, only for his advisor to yelp in terror.
As raucous as the penthouse had become, it was nothing compared to the big changes shaking up Holylight. Using Propaganda, Tahara and Yu had injected all sorts of rumors throughout the country, backing them up by sending out decrees from the Holy Castle and showcasing caravans piled high with their spoils of victory.