The corridors of the Liria palace were alive with nervous footfalls, frantic whispers, and the radiant colors of recently rewritten walls. It was barely noon, and a day in the life of Prince Caelum Liraeus already felt longer than most monarchs' reigns.
Outside, the Eight Nation Leaders took up residence, each faction with their own tent, ostentatious banners flapping as much to intimidate each other as to impress the modest Lirian locals. Whispered legends about the "Admin Prince" ricocheted between soldiers and servants, ranging from tales of a boy who could bend fate to a trickster who turned legendary weapons into rubber ducks.
Inside, Queen Mira hovered over Caelum, who was now busy stacking cubes that reconfigured themselves into glowing equations. King Alden conferred with his advisors in an adjacent room. On both sides of the palace, the sense was clear: everything old was breaking, and something thrillingly new was being built.
The Council of Eight, Round Two
The great audience chamber was a cauldron of tension. Emperor Magnus presided with controlled amusement. Lady Pyrra and Lord Umbra glared at each other; Sir Zephion bounced as if restraining a tornado under his jacket. High Chancellor Voltinax's hair simmered with static, and Lady Mirene from Mirenia idly swished water in a floating orb to calm herself.
Magnus began, "Today, we move beyond complaints. What do we do about the boy?"
"Test him," snapped Pyrra, still smarting from last chapter's "bubble incident."
"Train him," murmured Lord Umbra, who already eyed Caelum as a potential apprentice for ancient secrets.
"I propose… we inspire him," said Lady Solara, radiating gentler golden light. "Show him empire's splendor and guide his morals with our example."
The court buzzed with debate, but all went silent as Caelum wandered in, trailed by giggling servants. His eyes scanned the room; icons flickered faintly above each leader's head.
To everyone's surprise, he addressed Lord Umbra: "Can you teach… Hide and Seek?"
Lord Umbra blinked, then offered a sly smile. "I suspect, young prince, you'd be tough to hide from—or to find."
The room relaxed, just a little. But then came Emperor Magnus: "Let the boy choose the game. After all—don't our politics always boil down to that?"
First Game: Royal Rules
The council and prince drew lots for a contest. The challenge: "Capture the Flag"—a diplomatic staple in the empire, but now, with powers and rule-shifting child, chaos was promised.
The Eight scattered around the palace gardens, each with a magical pennant.
Caelum, with the faintest twinkle, uttered: "Enable: Rule Customization."
Reality shimmered. Suddenly, the boundaries warped, the gardens turned into shifting labyrinths, and each nation's elemental advantage was neutralized by new, unpredictable "admin protocols."
Lady Pyrra's flames turned invisible—the flag now only visible through reflections. Zephion's wind became sticky air, making speed a hinderance. Terragaard's earth-grown ramparts shifted into soft sand just as he tried to fortify his station.
It wasn't just a prank: it was a demonstration. The boy, giggling, weaved through the confusion, "testing code patches" as fascinated scribes tried to keep up.
An Empire Redefined
An hour later, amidst laughter, bruised egos, and sheep covered in glitter (a side effect of an unintentional "decorate" command gone viral), the dignitaries surrendered.
Emperor Magnus, still picking silver sparkles from his beard, addressed Caelum: "You have a gift no one can control—perhaps not even you. But even power like yours needs friends, wisdom, and perhaps, a few new rules."
Caelum nodded, repeating softly, "New rules. Fun rules."
The council dispersed that day not with confrontation, but a wary resolve. Some plotted, others wondered, but all agreed: the world was no longer as they'd known.
As dusk fell, Caelum watched the segmented sky shift above his home—the "admin" of a new age, unknowing architect of revolution, and, for now, content to play one more game before bedtime.