I had just left Matei not yet fifteen minutes ago.
The sky was still a dull gray, a thin fog clinging to the tips of my boots, and it felt like the world hadn't fully woken up yet. I, of course, was completely awake. Too awake. Too aware that every step away from that city was either a step toward something better… or something far stupider.
And then, I saw it.
A small, shabby tent by the roadside, with a banner hanging at an odd angle. A man stood in front of a folding table, clad in an oversized tattered suit and a hat that stood far too straight for someone who clearly didn't major in taxation.
The banner read—and I'm transcribing this exactly, including the obnoxious capitalization:
"THE LAND TAX FOR WHAT YOU'RE STEPPING ON™ – FOR THE STABILITY OF OUR NATIONAL ASPHALT & GRAVEL ECOSYSTEM"
I stood.
Again.
Still.
Again.
"...Sorry?" I asked, with a tone half-dead from logic failure.
He smiled warmly, as if I'd just asked where the restroom was, not questioned the sanity of the current governmental system.
"Good morning, miss. Kindly contribute to the maintenance of this path. You've stepped on it for 6 meters now."
I reflexively looked down at my own feet.
Dirt road mixed with gravel.
No asphalt.
No paving.
Even ants probably avoided this place.
"This land... belongs to who?" I asked, suspicious.
"Ah, the kingdom's, of course."
"And why is the tax paid to you?"
He looked offended. "We are Independent Road Tax Officers, certified by… the Free Merchants Association. Legal—in certain limits."
In certain limits.
Words that should be a warning, not a guarantee.
"And the money's for?"
"To fund the retraining project for wild gravel, prevent invasions by unauthorized rocks, and to preserve the natural texture of the path."
I stared at him.
He was serious.
For a moment, I considered taking a detour. But honestly, I was too tired to argue with a man in a suit who believes gravel might revolt if not properly nurtured.
I sighed deeply and handed him a silver coin.
"Thank you for your cooperation," he said, handing me... a sticker?
Yes.
A sticker.
With the king's face crossed out and the words.
"I'm a Good Road Taxpayer™."
I slapped it on the back of my backpack.
Better safe than sorry with these kinds of weirdos.
As I walked on, I started mentally taking notes:
✓ Forced labor.
✓ Sold fingerprint.
✓Land tax for stepping.
✓ Tax sticker as proof of national integrity.
One more and I'm officially qualified to host a show called Scam or Tradition?
And hey, if this is all part of a simulation... I demand to speak to the scriptwriter.
I'd been walking for almost an hour since leaving Matei and—miraculously—I still had energy.
Fresh air.
No signs saying "Sell your organs for a bread discount." No government workers pretending to be shamans.
Peaceful.
I almost started thinking this world was normal.
Until I saw… a bridge.
Small.
Short.
Tiny.
It only connected two sides of a shallow ditch I could've easily jumped across—if I used a little bit of will to live (which I was saving for later).
In front of that bridge stood two people in silver-gray uniforms, complete with clipboards and hats like overly serious bakery clerks.
"Good afternoon, miss," said one of them, raising a hand. "To cross the Bridge of Social Responsibility, we ask for a voluntary donation of at least two silver coins."
I stopped.
"…A mandatory voluntary donation?" I asked, glancing at the sign behind them that read:
"Build the Future! Support This Bridge Fund, So Our Children Can Cross Into a Brighter Tomorrow."
I pointed to the wooden bridge already standing proudly, not a single nail out of place. "But the bridge is already here."
"Correct," replied the other officer with a smile that made me want to punch optimism. "That's the bridge of the past, miss. We're talking about vision."
I stood silent.
Took a breath.
Tried to comprehend the circus logic.
"So… I'm paying for a bridge that hasn't been built yet, even though the one I'm crossing has been, but you're not calling it a payment, it's a 'voluntary donation'… that's mandatory?"
They both nodded enthusiastically, like kids hearing the words "free ice cream."
"Exactly!"
I stared at them. Stared at the bridge.
Stared at the shallow ditch below.
Then I muttered:
"…So if I jump in, it's free?"
One of them quickly replied, "Oh, of course not. That river water is part of the Public Ecosystem System! There's a National Wet Tax™."
My jaw dropped. "I'm stepping back ten steps. I'm scared my IQ might get left behind if I stay too close to you two."
In the end, with a heavy heart and an even lighter wallet, I handed over two silver coins, crossed the so-called "bridge of the past," and silently swore to myself:
If I make it to the capital alive, I'll take any job—as long as it doesn't involve being on a Future Bridge Committee.