003 The Nation on the Brink of Ruin

The country spans only twenty-six square kilometers; you could easily circle it on a bicycle without spending much time—provided, of course, that a bike can traverse every path. Upon leaving the airport with Burns and his group, Li Daniu came face-to-face with his new royal palace. There was no need to ask why the palace was so close to the airport; Li Daniu thought that, had it been elsewhere, he would have refused to move in altogether.

Being an island nation surrounded by the endless ocean, Tuvalu’s waves can reach heights of 3.6 meters. For avid surfers, this might seem a bit modest, but for Tuvalu, whose highest elevation is only 4.5 meters, a single large wave could mean a catastrophic flood across the entire country.

Naturally, the airport was built where such waves were least concerning, so the palace’s location made perfect sense.

Standing before the palace gates, Li Daniu gazed at the two barefoot guards in slightly tattered uniforms stationed on either side. His heart sank. Even the security at Cuihua’s engagement banquet in their county town hotel had looked more professional.

The three-story stone building, compared even to the one-star hotel from Cuihua’s engagement, felt hopelessly humble.

“Well, at least I can say I own property now. Not only is it a villa, but I don’t even have to pay a mortgage,” Li Daniu consoled himself again and again.

Upon entering the gate, Li Daniu was dumbfounded.

This was supposed to be a royal palace? Why did the ground floor look more like a company’s office space?

What was the point of the sign reading “Chief of Police” above the door to the right? And the “Foreign Affairs Office” posted above the door to the left? Why did the people working in the hall look so familiar? Hadn’t they just met at the airport?

“Your Highness, as much as I’d like you to rest first, I must ask that you come to my office. There are pressing issues we must resolve,” Burns said, watching Li Daniu stare in a daze. For the first time, Burns wondered if he should resign and emigrate. After all, he had served as Prime Minister—surely such a resume would be impressive anywhere.

“No need, I don’t require rest.” Li Daniu was in no mood to relax. The palace had turned into a government office; the heads of police and foreign affairs shared the same workspace. Was this the prelude to ruin?

He waved to the staff who stood and saluted him as he followed Burns upstairs.

“Your Highness, you needn’t respond to every salute. If you’re to reside here long-term and do this daily, you’ll soon be exhausted,” advised Burns. As Prime Minister, his ability to read people was extraordinary—just two awkward waves from Li Daniu were enough for him to notice the newcomer’s discomfort.

“But wouldn’t that hurt their feelings?”

Li Daniu thought to himself that his homeland was famed for its etiquette; even the highest leaders were approachable. As a fallen monarch himself, who was he to act aloof?

“Not at all, Your Highness. You are our prince, and after the coronation, our king. The entire country is your private domain. There’s no need for excessive politeness; otherwise, you’d lack the dignity a sovereign should possess.”

Burns’s explanation left Li Daniu without a retort.

Wasn’t it the Prime Minister’s main goal to diminish royal power, to replace the monarchy’s rule with government authority? What was Burns really up to, encouraging this?

Li Daniu’s mind wandered through all sorts of courtly intrigues as they reached the second floor of the palace, which was, in name, his.

The layout was much the same as downstairs, except the central hall was now an open meeting room.

Entering Burns’s office, Li Daniu couldn’t help but sigh, “This is barely on par with a village office.”

Those following them upstairs included the Chief of Police and the Head of Foreign Affairs, whom Li Daniu had already met, along with several others.

“This is Phineas, head of our Finance and Industry Department,” Burns began, once Li Daniu was seated at the head of the table. “Sitao, Minister of Home and Rural Development; Luca, Minister of Education, Sports, and Health; and Samko, Minister of Natural Resources, Energy, and Tourism.”

Though small, the government covered all essential departments. Each person wore many hats, but as a nation, the basic structure was there.

“Your Highness, the first matter we must address is the king’s funeral,” Burns began his report once everyone was seated. “His Majesty and the Queen have been confirmed deceased in a plane crash. As the crash occurred in the central Pacific, their remains cannot be recovered. I suggest we hold a funeral using their clothing and personal effects as a substitute.”

Li Daniu had already read about the deaths online. Tuvalu, though small and poor, was still a recognized sovereign state; the tragedy of a national leader and his queen dying in a plane crash was certainly headline news.

“Won’t that seem rather hasty?” Though Li Daniu felt no connection to the late king and queen, he was, after all, inheriting their legacy. He was hesitant to endorse such a perfunctory funeral.

“I apologize, Your Highness, I know this is irresponsible,” Burns said quietly, deeply grieved for the old king who had elevated him to Prime Minister. “But we simply lack the means to search for their bodies in the Pacific. The airline and insurance company can only offer some compensation.”

“Then it must be as you say,” Li Daniu conceded inwardly, apologizing to the late king—not for lack of effort, but because the circumstances were too dire.

“The second matter is your coronation,” Burns continued. “A country cannot be without a sovereign, even for a day. There are many matters that require the king’s attention. The situation worsens daily; we cannot afford delay.”

In this world, Tuvalu was a monarchy. Following the trend, the late king had established a parliament and the office of prime minister, but real authority remained with the monarch. Even the prime minister was directly appointed by the king.

“I’d prefer to hold the coronation after the funeral,” Li Daniu said, already imagining how modest these ceremonies would be in such a poor nation. He also needed more time to understand the country.

Burns hesitated. As there were no royal siblings—only a son—the prime minister himself could not conduct the king’s funeral. All authority ultimately resided in Li Daniu; even the funeral expenses could not be approved by the prime minister alone.

“Very well, but you must first accept your rightful authority.”

Li Daniu was in awe of Burns’s professional ethics. What kind of politician was in a hurry to hand over power?

But on further thought, it made sense. Faced with a barren land and existential threats, who would covet such authority?

“No problem!” Shamelessly, Li Daniu accepted Burns’s suggestion. At the very least, he’d be at the level of a town mayor—why refuse? “However, I’ll need you all to brief me in detail on our country’s current situation.”

“Our prince has studied and lived in America since the age of twelve,” Burns replied, “and though he has always cared deeply for Tuvalu, the distance meant he could not be familiar with every detail. Please, inform His Highness.”

Li Daniu mentally applauded Burns’s flattery and was secretly grateful for the late king’s fatherly love.

Prompted by Burns, the other leaders began their reports.

“Your Highness, our emigrant population now exceeds six thousand. The current population is 10,806. New Zealand, the only country willing to accept our remaining, economically disadvantaged emigrants, grants us only seventy-five spots per year.”

“With so many emigrating, only a handful of state-owned enterprises pay taxes. Our main income comes from the Tuvalu Trust Fund, which, thanks to international aid, has reached sixty million ten thousand Australian dollars. Last year, government and royal expenditures consumed twenty-five percent of the fund’s interest.”

“This year’s government budget revenue stands at twenty million and thirty thousand dollars, with expenditures projected at twenty million and ninety-four thousand.”

“Australia’s aid for fresh water is decreasing each year. In future, we’ll need to invest much more in water imports.”

…

Before arriving, Li Daniu, a self-proclaimed nobody, had worried about commanding a room at the highest national council. Yet, as the country’s top officials spoke, his anxiety both diminished and grew.

He relaxed because this nation felt more like a mid-sized private firm with ten thousand staff. Any Chinese “nobody” would believe they could run a company, especially with a professional leadership team handling the details.

But his anxiety grew as he grasped the sheer number of problems facing the country. Though the national assets were more than he could ever hope to achieve in his previous life, in reality, it was like winning a huge lottery—only the prize came with responsibility for ten thousand lives.

With no fresh water sources and almost no industry, the country imported almost everything, making domestic prices exorbitant. Yes, he was king, but when his people couldn’t afford drinking water, was he to tell them to drink seawater or buy it for them himself?

Even with annual income reaching twenty million dollars, expenditures always exceeded revenue. Tuvalu used the Australian dollar, and its foreign exchange reserves were essentially just the sixty million in the Trust Fund—barely more than three hundred million yuan.

An individual could never spend such a sum in a lifetime, but what if ten thousand people depended on it for survival?

There was no way to generate more income; expenses had been cut to the bone. Foreign aid was shrinking, and Tuvalu faced the existential threat of being swallowed by the sea. Now Li Daniu understood why Prime Minister Burns was so eager for him to take the throne—the country truly stood on the brink of collapse.

As for the fantasy of having a money-printing machine to churn out cash, Li Daniu now realized that, even if he could, he wouldn’t use it.

Why? Without real national strength, no one would want your money, no matter how much you printed.

After the lengthy reports, Burns finally got up, opened a safe in his office, and handed Li Daniu a wooden box.

“This is your royal seal. Only documents stamped with your seal have legal force.”

Was this really the handover of power? How absurdly casual.

Li Daniu tried to reassure himself that, though the country was on the verge of ruin, as king he should still be entitled to a considerable sum. He could return to China and live as a tycoon—though, regrettably, Cuihua probably didn’t exist in this world.

He accepted the wooden box and examined it, unable to determine what elegant wood it was made from.

Opening the lid, he saw the seal inside, gleaming gold and palm-sized.

“Could it be pure gold? That would be worth a fortune,” he thought, just about to sneak a bite to test its authenticity, when a voice suddenly echoed in his mind:

“Do you confirm acceptance of the throne of Tuvalu?”