The first cracks in Christian's new Denmark appeared not in the halls of power, but in the muddy fields of Funen. The Land Consolidation Act, a dry legal document in Copenhagen, was a tectonic shock in the countryside. Bailiffs began serving notices, and the first families, who had farmed the same small strips of land for generations, were being evicted to make way for the new, larger, "efficient" plots.
The flashpoint occurred near Odense. A respected family, the Johansens, refused to leave their farm. When the bailiff arrived with local constables, the entire village turned out to support them. Church bells rang in alarm, and within an hour, a mob of several hundred angry farmers, armed with pitchforks and hunting muskets, had driven the lawmen off in a humiliating retreat.
The act of defiance was a spark on dry tinder. Word spread. Agitators, secretly encouraged and funded by sympathizers of Count Ahlefeldt's faction, traveled from village to village. They spoke of the godless industrialists in Copenhagen, of the young, arrogant Count Eskildsen who sought to turn them into slaves for his factories. The simmering resentment boiled over. The mob, now thousands strong, marched on Odense and set fire to a newly constructed grain silo, a symbol of the new economic order.
The news arrived at the committee's headquarters via a frantic telegraph message. "CIVIL UNREST IN FUNEN. RIOTERS HAVE BURNED THE ODENSE GRANARY. LOCAL CONSTABULARY OVERWHELMED. URGENT ASSISTANCE REQUIRED."
An emergency meeting was called. The mood was grim.
"This is insurrection," Baron Fievé stated, his voice cold as steel. "It must be crushed, and crushed decisively. We must dispatch a regiment of the army, put down this mob, and hang the ringleaders. An example must be made, or this disease will spread to every corner of the kingdom."
"These are Danes, Baron!" Admiral Løvenskiold retorted, his face flushed with anger. "They are farmers, many of them veterans who fought at Dybbøl. You would have us turn the army on our own people for burning a building?"
Christian listened to them, caught between the industrialist's cold logic and the admiral's moral fire. He knew Fievé was right that weakness would invite chaos. He also knew Løvenskiold was right that a massacre would create martyrs and ignite a civil war, destroying everything he was trying to build. He needed a third path.
"We will dispatch the troops," Christian said, silencing them both. "But their mission will not be to crush, but to contain. They will restore order, protect property, and arrest only the most violent instigators. Their rules of engagement will be strict. There will be no massacre."
He looked at his allies. "But that is not enough. A show of force must be paired with a show of leadership. I will go to Odense myself."
"That is madness!" Fievé exclaimed. "They will tear you limb from limb!"
"They see me as a distant tyrant in Copenhagen," Christian countered. "I will not allow my enemies to paint that portrait. I will face them myself. And I will not go empty-handed."
He spent the next hour drafting a series of new decrees. He then summoned the editors of the city's largest newspapers. By nightfall, a special edition was on the streets. It announced the "second phase" of the Five-Year Plan, a direct response to the economic anxieties of the rural population.
The decrees established a National Granary system, promising to buy surplus grain from all farmers at a guaranteed fair price to prevent famine and market collapse. It announced a massive public works program, offering well-paying jobs to any displaced workers on new roads, canals, and in the burgeoning factories. It was a perfectly timed combination of an iron fist and an open hand.
The next morning, Christian prepared to depart for Funen. A battalion of soldiers had already been dispatched by train. He would follow, with only a small personal guard.
"Be safe, my boy," the Admiral pleaded, his concern genuine.
"Order must be maintained, Count," Fievé insisted, though his face also showed a flicker of worry.
Christian nodded to them both, his expression calm and resolute. He boarded the special train, the newspaper heralding his new social programs tucked into his briefcase. He knew he was heading into a storm. Count Ahlefeldt and his enemies were surely fanning the flames, hoping he would be swallowed by the very fire he had ignited.
As the train began to move, carrying him toward the heart of the riots, he reflected on the cold reality of his position. It was one thing to move armies and industries like pieces on a map. It was another thing entirely to face the messy, angry, and unpredictable emotions of the people those pieces represented. He was about to find out if his genius for systems could withstand the raw, chaotic power of a mob.