Lancelot had never imagined that his endless, long life might be brought down by such a seemingly simple problem.
Not the terrifying Demon Tide, not visitors from beyond the heavens, not the gods' envoys' disdain, nor the collapse of the world.
Merely a spontaneous decline in population.
What was to be done?
At that moment, one of his advisers, Hert, a man who had followed him through many reincarnations, stepped forward.
"Your Majesty, this problem is actually not difficult to solve. We only need to cast aside some of our glory."
"Go on."
"Pray to the gods to create isolated lands high in the sky. Then exile some of the population—criminals and blasphemers—into them. Give them no support from the Industrial Zone, turn them into agricultural societies, and they will reproduce on their own."
"When one isolated land fills up, create another."
"In short, let them reproduce on their own until they reach the limit of their isolated lands. We need not concern ourselves with them anymore."
Lancelot suddenly understood, then said with some difficulty, "What if some isolated lands perish on their own under self-governance?"
Such things had already happened. Many self-governing lands had experienced severe population decline.
Some had started with tens of millions of people, only to become entirely elderly fifty years later, with merely tens of thousands left after two hundred years.
"Then let them reproduce again," Hert said coldly, as if he were speaking of pigs, cattle, and sheep rather than people.
Lancelot nodded. This was perhaps the simplest and best solution.
Although their reproductive efficiency would be far lower than under the previous refined system, they would not need to invest much effort.
As for rebellion, who could defy the power of the gods?...
Five hundred years later.
Some isolated land.
"Blow this hopeless