I have decided to write a few books first.

In the old king’s office, Li Daniu sat upright in a somewhat worn office chair, studying the documents provided by Burns.

“Your Highness, based on the information we’ve gathered over the past few days, our options are virtually nonexistent.”

“Really? I remember quite a few countries sell islands,” Li Daniu replied, without doubting Burns’ professionalism. Though their acquaintance was brief, Burns’ attitude toward his work, at least on the surface, was earnest and dependable.

“You’re correct, many countries do sell islands. For example, Australia, which is relatively close to us, Greece, which is mired in economic crisis, and even superpowers like the United States have islands for sale,” Burns explained. “However, all these sales are from nations to private parties, be they individuals or corporations. And these sales always retain state sovereignty—like buying a house: you may have the right to use and even modify it, but the land beneath remains the property of the state in essence.”

“So you mean, there are no state-to-state sales?” Li Daniu furrowed his brow; this was turning out to be far trickier than he’d imagined.

“Strictly speaking, the last territorial transaction between nations was when Russia sold Alaska to the United States.”

Indeed, even in this world, that transaction had occurred: Russia sold Alaska, which was about one-fifth the size of the current United States, for $7.2 million. But that was in 1867.

“So, for over a hundred years now, there hasn’t been a single case of a country selling its territory, complete with sovereignty, to another country.”

Now Li Daniu was genuinely worried. What he’d thought was a matter of simply making enough money was, in reality, much more complicated.

Before his transmigration, Li Daniu had often seen news about countries selling islands. For example, Greece sold off a batch of small islands due to its debt crisis. Though called “small,” some of them spanned several million square meters, and even the priciest didn’t exceed two million euros. At those rates, Li Daniu’s two hundred million dollars could buy a place much larger than Tuvalu’s current territory.

One square kilometer equals a million square meters; Tuvalu totals just a bit over twenty square kilometers—at most, it would cost a few tens of millions of euros.

And it wasn’t even newsworthy for private individuals to buy islands; back in the old Celestial Empire, plenty of tycoons owned islands in Australia.

But now, it seemed Li Daniu’s thinking had been far too simplistic.

As Burns said, these islands, once bought, only offered rights of use, not sovereignty. Li Daniu’s goal in buying an island was to establish his new kingdom, a true kingdom. If he couldn’t obtain sovereignty over the land, could his kingdom ever be recognized? And if not, wouldn’t that be the same as instant national extinction?

Though Tuvalu might eventually be submerged by the sea, that wouldn’t happen for another fifty years or so. If he went to all that trouble to relocate the nation, only to find it immediately dissolved, Li Daniu would be left with nowhere to cry. The system had been clear: if Tuvalu perished, the system would withdraw—and before leaving, might even take Li Daniu’s life as well.

“Of course, the fact that it hasn’t happened doesn’t mean it can’t happen,” Burns continued, noting Li Daniu’s worried expression. “No one knows what’s possible until effort is made.”

For Burns, securing a place with a better living environment would finally allow him to demonstrate his value, rather than languish as he did now—unable to develop anything, forced to beg for aid in the international arena.

“Well said.” Li Daniu gave his approval to this bit of encouragement.

“Your Highness, in the materials you’re reviewing, we’ve already marked some islands that would suit our needs. Once you decide, I’ll begin negotiations with the countries that own them. Success or failure, we must at least try.”

Li Daniu had already finished reviewing the documents: all were about islands, as Burns had previously discussed with him. The people of Tuvalu had lived by the sea for generations. Though they also engaged in agriculture, it was mainly tropical crops like coconuts and bananas—their main livelihood was still fishing.

This meant that most Tuvaluans simply couldn’t survive away from the sea. And though Li Daniu had grandly declared his intention to support all Tuvaluans, the reality was, he was not yet capable. Thus, Burns and other senior officials advised that islands should be the primary target.

“These Auckland Islands look promising,” Li Daniu remarked. Honestly, he didn’t care whether his kingdom was on the mainland or on an island—he had only one requirement: the nation must not perish.

“Yes, at present, the Auckland Islands appear to be the best option,” Burns replied. He was intimately familiar with the details of every island listed in the materials.

“The Auckland Islands are about four hundred kilometers southwest off the coast of New Zealand. The climate is temperate maritime, which suits our needs very well.”

“They cover more than six hundred square kilometers, receive abundant rainfall, have freshwater sources, and are designated as a protected area for flora and fauna. Furthermore, the surrounding seas have far richer fisheries than Tuvalu.”

“If it’s such a good place, why is it uninhabited?” Li Daniu wondered. Both the documents and the photos suggested the islands were very suitable for human habitation and quite picturesque.

“Because the waters around them are riddled with reefs and the coastal terrain is extremely complex, making shipwrecks and loss of life all too likely. A British social reformer once led a group to settle there, but they lasted only two years. Even the meteorological station New Zealand established there was closed down sixty years ago.”

Though Li Daniu had read about this, hearing Burns explain it was a different experience. He began to suspect Burns might be leading him into a trap.

“If that’s the case, why would they be suitable for us?”

“First, the previous settlers were only part of a social group, unable to form a complete, functioning community. At the time, technological development was limited and material support was lacking, so failure was inevitable. Our situation is different: Tuvalu, though small, is a complete society, and today’s world is rich in resources—we can secure sufficient support.”

“Second, although the terrain around the Auckland Islands is treacherous and prone to shipwrecks, today’s technology can completely mitigate that risk. We only need one safe route.”

“Finally, New Zealand has no need for this land. Every year, they spend significant effort and money maintaining this natural heritage but receive nothing in return. Thirty years ago, there were already high-level proposals in New Zealand to sell the islands for private development.”

Burns’ explanation cleared things up. New Zealand had once been unable to develop the islands, but now simply had no reason to.

“So, what’s your estimate for the value of these islands?”

Burns, who had been so enthusiastic just moments before, now grew visibly troubled.

“The price is impossible to estimate right now. It’s a seller’s market. But based on current international island sales, two hundred million U.S. dollars should be about right for the Auckland Islands. However, the subsequent costs would be tremendous. Apart from a single airstrip, there’s no infrastructure at all. Establishing basic facilities for Tuvalu’s eleven thousand people would require at least three hundred million U.S. dollars—we’d have to start from scratch.”

“Three hundred million? In U.S. dollars?” Li Daniu was stunned by the estimate. And that was just for basic infrastructure—surely further development would need even more. How much more would upgrades cost?

He almost wanted to toss three hundred million dollars at Burns and simply divide it among Tuvalu’s eleven thousand citizens; that would mean nearly thirty thousand per person.

“Yes. All building materials would have to be imported, and Tuvalu currently has little to move over. Still, later on, our investment could decrease, as the Auckland Islands are relatively resource-rich. We could develop industry there and become self-sufficient, reducing reliance on imports.”

Burns’ reassurance improved Li Daniu’s mood a little. Given Tuvalu’s current situation, if they didn’t relocate and kept living as they were, relying entirely on imports, how long would three hundred million dollars last?

With the sea level rising, a single big wave could submerge a third of Tuvalu. In recent years, production had dwindled, deficits had grown, and the country was constantly in the red. The lack of proper healthcare meant life expectancy was only forty years. Perhaps, before the land was all underwater, the entire population would have left.

No matter how deeply one loved their homeland, how many could endure in the face of disease and death?

“Three hundred million is not a problem. Even if the two hundred million for purchasing the islands proves insufficient, that’s not an issue either. I need you to expedite these matters. What I can provide is funding.” Li Daniu wasn’t boasting. To purchase such a large island and secure sovereignty would certainly take more than a few months, but Li Daniu had the advantage of being able to travel to another world once a month—who knew what fortune he might return with next time?

Besides, since he had resolved to moonlight as a writer, Li Daniu was confident that with the right works, earning several million a year in publishing was entirely feasible. The world’s top fifty publishing houses together made over sixty billion euros a year. What did that mean? Setting aside textbooks and non-copyrighted works, the remainder must yield at least several billion to authors.

For Li Daniu, bringing masterpieces from the other world to claim a share of those billions—maybe not all, but several million—was certainly achievable. He was full of confidence.

“Your Highness, if you have more treasures like that necklace, I don’t advise you to reveal them. It could bring disaster upon us,” Burns said cautiously.

“I understand, but I truly have nothing left.” Li Daniu had no choice: he’d sold the necklace because, in this world, no one would follow you without money. But without the means to protect himself, revealing more would be asking for trouble. Who knew how many desperadoes lurked in the world? If you had only one item and moved quickly, fine. But if you kept producing treasures, you’d be painting a target on your back.

“Then how will you…?” Burns was curious. If there were no more treasures, how could Li Daniu come up with so much money?

“Oh, I’ve decided to write a few books first,” Li Daniu replied, utterly unabashed.

Burns: “…”