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Chapter 50
🕑 Added 2025-03-29 00:37:18 +0000 UTCDecree Number Six: “The price of staple goods—bread, milk, and fuel—shall be regulated to prevent exploitation. Let it be known that the needs of the many outweigh the greed of the few.”
John Cartwright sat hunched over at his old wooden kitchen table, a cold mug of tea in one hand, his eyes fixed on the battered television set in the corner of the room.
The reception flickered slightly, but the broadcast was clear enough, allowing him and every other person in the UK and most of the world to know the absolute madness that was unfolding.
John was a farm, had been all his life, as had his father before him, and his father before that. John didn’t really know when his family began farming, it felt like they always had.
Though it wasn’t always easy, with bigger and bigger farmers coming on, pressing prices down, but also up.
He could get less for his goods, but everything just cost more.
The prices of fuel alone were driving him mad, and it didn’t help he had to compete with cheap foreign produce.
He was a simple man who wanted a simple life, but no matter how hard he worked himself to the bone, he didn’t see and ended in sight.
His kids had moved out, all of them wanting something else in their lives then farming. Even his wife had a job outside the family farm. Working as a teacher.
His own mother had gone home, taking care of the farm with his father. And John had never blamed his wife for wanting something more.
But he hated the fact that it wasn’t really a fair choice, she couldn’t just join him on the farm. Sending their kids to university cost a pretty penny, without her extra income, they wouldn’t make ends meet.
When he heard about the tax cut, and the freezing of evictions, he had mixed feelings. He was happy that he wouldn’t have to pay tax for the year, but also sad that he already fully owned his house, old as it might be.
But he did understand that it would no doubt help a lot of people, even if he was slightly jealous.
Now however, as more of these new decrees were listed off he had even more mixed feelings about em. Mostly he liked them, they seemed too good to be true.
This latest one was one that risked impacting him the most.
Fuel prices going down would be great; those were spiking like crazy, and the price of a barrel of oil had never been higher. So that would save him some money.
On the other hand, the cap on his own produce risked cutting into his income. The price on that had been going up, even if he wasn’t the one earning all that much extra.
But it could be bad for him, depending on how things turned out, though honestly, overall, he figured it was all too good to be true, no way those rich fucks in London would allow any of this to come to pass.
Decree Number Seven: “All income taxation is hereby suspended for a period of one year. The fruits of labor shall remain with those who toil, so they may rebuild and prosper in this time of transition.”
In a private office high above the bustling streets of New York City, Norman Osborn watched the announcement unfold on a large monitor. The regal imagery and the poetic decree delivered with reverence all failed to impress him. But the contents of the decree? That was another matter.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping the polished mahogany desk. “No income taxes for an entire year,” he muttered, smirking. “That’ll light a fire under the working class.”
A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts, and his assistant entered, handing him a tablet with projections already being updated. He waved her away and reviewed the data while continuing to think aloud.
“No taxes means more disposable income, at least for a little while. People will be ecstatic. They’ll spend more, businesses will see a temporary boom, and support for Camelot will surge. But after that…” His smirk deepened, his mind racing through possibilities.
He leaned forward, dialing a contact on his phone. A familiar voice answered on the second ring. “Osborn,” came the curt acknowledgment.
“Roger, do me a favor,” Norman said, scanning the economic forecast on the tablet. “Monitor the financial market reactions to Camelot’s decree. And start compiling a list of any businesses or infrastructure projects that could benefit from government contracts or bailouts when this inevitably hits turbulence.”
Roger chuckled on the other end. “Expecting them to crash and burn already?”
Norman chuckled darkly. “I’m expecting the masses to start spending without pause, only for this King Arthur to fail at gaining control, and people having to pay taxes still, which will cause huge amounts of damage to the already hurting economy.”
He stood, walking to the large window overlooking the city. “And even if they should succeed, she fails to understand the heart of people. When you give them relief, they’ll love you. But when you take it away, they’ll hate you twice as much.”
Roger hesitated before asking, “So what’s the plan?”
Norman grinned. “We position ourselves to be able to take advantage of either scenario. One thing is for certain: tomorrow, the stock markets will truly bleed, the already hurting market will crash and burn, and there will be money to be made.”
Roger exhaled, catching the gravity of the moment. “So, you’re saying no matter how this plays out, Camelot’s making it easier for you to win.”
Norman’s grin widened as he tapped a few commands on the tablet, displaying charts and shifting projections. “Exactly. The bursting housing market, the mortgage crash has already been good for business, at least long term, and this will only benefit us more.”
While many people around the world, particularly in America, were losing everything, governments were doing their best to stem the tide of losses, and those with money and power took advantage of that.
Decree Number Eight: “No rent, mortgage, or housing cost shall increase for one year. No family shall be evicted from their home without the express permission of the Crown. Camelot stands as a shield for the people.”
The TV flickered across the spacious office of Charles Whitmore, casting the room in an eerie glow. His fingers gripped the edge of his desk as Agravain’s voice rang out over the broadcast.
Whitmore’s scowl deepened when the decree was read. “No rent increases? No evictions without the Crown’s approval?” he muttered, his grip tightening. “Who does this King Arthur think he is?”
He paced back and forth as the camera cut to Arthur silently sitting on their throne, the gleaming armor and helm obscuring any glimpse of their face. The golden sword rested in their hand like an unspoken threat.
Whitmore’s phone vibrated against the desk, and he snatched it up without looking. “What?” he snapped.
“Charles, it’s Mark from investments,” came the nervous voice on the other end. “Are you seeing this? They’re freezing the entire housing market for a year.”
“Of course, I’m seeing it,” Whitmore barked, his eyes glued to the TV as Agravain continued the proclamation. “This isn’t just bad—it’s catastrophic.”
“We’re getting hit already. Property shares are tanking,” Mark continued. “Landlords are calling, panicking. Worried that they can’t adjust rents, can’t get tenants out if they stop paying—”
Whitmore slammed the phone down on the desk, cutting Mark off. “Idiots.” He turned to the screen as Agravain continued reading out decree after decree, though it hardly mattered, that one alone was bad enough.
The market was bad enough, people defaulting left and right, house pricing dropping like stones in water. People sitting with mortgages for more than the value of their property.
Banks about to fail, government aid, it was all a mess. But this? This only made it worse.
He knew what it meant: people would not pay rent or pay off their mortgages for a full year.
Even if this King Arthur weren’t legitimate, people would likely claim he was, just to get out of paying both income tax and for their homes.
The entire market would fall apart, banks left and right would fail, and the government would struggle to deal with it. This truly was a major financial crisis, likely to be worse than the great depression itself.
And all because some ancient magical knight and king didn’t understand why the system had to be preserved, even if those poor fools suffered a bit.
Decree Number Nine: “The sovereignty of Camelot is absolute. It shall stand apart from foreign debts and obligations, answering to no power but itself.”
In Castle Doom's grand study, Victor Von Doom sat alone, the flickering glow of a crackling fireplace casting shadows against the ancient stone walls. His fingers drummed softly against the arm of his chair as he watched the live broadcast on a sleek, custom-built screen.
Doom’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Absolute sovereignty,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly. “How quaint. They’ve declared themselves immune to the world’s leash.”
He tapped a small control panel embedded in the arm of his chair, pulling up a live financial feed showing the global markets’ response. Currency fluctuations. Trade agreements thrown into question. Investment firms scrambling to interpret what Camelot’s withdrawal meant for their debt portfolios.
A soft knock echoed through the chamber, and Boris, Doom’s loyal servant, entered quietly. “Your Excellency, I’ve received reports from the Latverian Treasury. It appears the European banking union is already shifting its attention toward Camelot’s announcement. Some speculate that similar demands for sovereignty could ripple across smaller states.”
Doom chuckled softly. “Let them. The West has grown fat, comfortable on its throne of debt and dependency. Camelot’s declaration will disrupt that balance—perhaps even break it.”
“But, my lord,” Boris continued cautiously, “does this not present a danger? If they destabilize the markets, it could affect our own projects.”
Doom stood, his imposing frame casting a long shadow across the room. He walked to the window, where the view of Latveria’s capital city stretched beneath him. “It is not danger, Boris. It is opportunity.”
He turned back to face the screen, where the image of Arthur standing stoically behind Agravain still lingered. “Arthur understands what few modern rulers do. A nation bound by foreign debts is a nation enslaved. Latveria knows this truth well.”
He clenched his fist as he thought of his own struggles. “So long have we struggled with this very issue, forced to work hard and play around it. but this? This might just be what we need to allow us to do this without too much undo attention.”
Boris nodded respectfully. “Then you approve of their stance, Your Excellency?”
Doom’s gaze darkened, and his smile faded into something colder. “I respect the audacity. But whether I approve depends on how long they can hold their ground.”
He took a step forward, the flicker of the fire casting shadows against him. “The world will not sit idly by while Camelot tears up contracts and nullifies obligations.”
His voice lowered, sharp and deliberate. “Banks will retaliate. Governments will conspire.”
Doom’s eyes narrowed beneath his mask. “If Arthur is not prepared for war—economic or otherwise—then Camelot’s sovereignty will collapse faster than it was declared.”
“Still,” he added thoughtfully, “there is power in a symbolic gesture. The West will see this as rebellion. I see it as a test. If Camelot survives the storm, then so can Latvia.”
Decree Number Ten:
