The city never witnessed anything like it.
The avenues were washed, banners were unfurled, and new flowers decorated the avenues. Citizens streamed from rural countryside and townships, shoulder to shoulder, eager to see the coming of kings and queens from distant lands. It was not often that history came marching into the gates.
And march it did—although not as the citizens anticipated.
The elves arrived first. Their coaches were made of living wood, charmed so that flowers burst forth along their wheels. Pale, tall silhouettes in green and silver robes sat inside, their eyes calm and chilly.
Then the dwarves. Their carriages were compact and robust, iron-plated and studded with gems. There was a sound of hammer on anvil coming from inside that seemed to reverberate through the air, though that was probably imagination.
Then came the beastmen. Their carriages were not as refined, made of raw wood strengthened with bones of massive beasts. Giant warriors crept beside them, half-lion, half-wolf, half-bear, their very presence sufficient to silence the crowd in awe.
All three delegations had arrived in what they believed was glory.
And then they saw around.
Sharath's engines rumbled in every direction they looked. Tricycles zoomed past the carriages, their propulsions not horse or ox but pistons and plates inscribed with runes. Steel and brass carriages whirled with unseen power, no beasts at all hauling them. Guarding the gates stood tremendous steam-haulers, their barrels glistening in sunlight like chariots of war from the gods.
The elf ambassadors cast worried glances.The dwarves scowled and murmured among themselves.The beastmen growled low in their throats.
Within the ornate carriages, the rulers themselves were quiet. What they saw beyond was not pomp—it was power.
The Welcome
Before the palace gates stood Sharath, attired not in gilded robes but in plain imperial uniform. Madhu stood at his side, untroubled and keen-eyed, her presence anchoring the moment. Behind them, banners emblazoned with the Rising Engine emblem streamed proudly.
Sharath bowed to each delegation with respect, but with the haughtiness of one who bowed to none.
"Welcome, noble leaders of the Elves, the Dwarves, and the Beastmen," he proclaimed. His voice boomed out in the courtyard. "Today, history is not written in war, but in unity.
The people cheered and the visiting leaders alighted from their carriages, their faces schooled carefully, but their eyes lingering on the motionless carriages that moved without horses.
Within the palace, tables creaked under the burden of delicacies. Spiced meats, fruited sweetness, golden pastry, and shining wines from across the empire were spread out.
Sharath walked them to their seats, giving them sweets first. It was only after they had tasted food that he spoke again—blunt, assertive.
The Goblin Question
"You wonder," Sharath started, "why the goblins are not among us."
The rulers looked at him.
"Because they betrayed trust before I ever gave them trust. My machines—these engines you see—are the future of my people. Goblin spies crept into my lands to steal them." His voice grew stiff. "I killed them on the spot."
The rulers shared knowing looks. None spoke up. In reality, the lack of goblins was a welcome relief. One fewer rival at the table.
Sharath smiled weakly. "So, let us discuss progress, not pests."
Engines for All
With a flick of his hand, servants pushed aside curtains to show a line of cars that shone in the light of the torches. Some sported dwarven styling of steel and stone, some streamed with elven patterns of vines and leaves, and a few were great, heavy things suitable for beastmen warriors.
I show you," Sharath boasted, "the engines of the future. Each can be made in the likeness of your people, each can be carriage, caravan, or instrument of war. Unshackled by hunger, disease, or death as beasts of burden are. Unadulterated, boundless motion."
The rulers leaned forward, wonder barely concealed.
The queen of the elves spoke first, her words gentle but firm. "If we are to take such gifts, we make one condition. That your machines do not desecrate the forests, that for each tree you fell for wood, ten are planted as its replacement."
Sharath bowed his head. "Then so it shall be."
The dwarven king stroked his beard. "Engines we shall purchase. But more than that—we attempted to duplicate your innovations. We were unable to produce the typewriter. But the printer… that we rebuilt, and improved."
He clapped his hands, and servants brought forward a gleaming device—shorter, wider, runes etched into its framework. "Faster, longer-lasting. Prints cleaner, sharper."
Sharath's eyes lit up. "Then set your price. I will purchase this printer, and so will every empire that is represented here."
The elves and beastmen shook their heads instantly, not wanting to be left behind.
Identification and Trust
In that moment, the beastman emperor Ronan halted with his hand raised. His voice was rough, flavored with challenge.
You construct engines, weapons, and walls. But say, Sharath—will beastmen have their place in your empire? Will you employ us, or will you fear us?
Sharath did not reply. Instead, he drew from his robes a pile of rune-inscribed, golden cards. He placed them on the table, one at a time. Each carried not only a name, but a shining impression of the owner's face, and a magical imprint of what they were.
"Identification cards," Sharath stated. "Henceforth, anyone—elf, dwarf, beastman—can wander freely in my realms with this. With the exception of some off-limits areas. With it comes rights, acknowledgement, and opportunity."
The beastman emperor took the card, examining it. His gaze gentled just a little.
The Oil Revelation
The trade turned to negotiating. The elves provided holy water, flasks that cured poisoning and mended wounds. The dwarves provided armor of runed steel to withstand even spells.
Next Emperor Ronan of the beastmen rubbed his head, clearly perplexed. Finally, he set a tiny black flask on the table. Within sloshed a greenish, pungent liquid.
This," he growled. "It oozes out of the ground in our territories. Useless. Toxic. Stains everything. But. perhaps you, Sharath, perceive some application?"
Sharath opened the bottle, took a sniff, and his eyes opened wide. Crude oil.
Lightning flashed through his mind—engines, fuel, lanterns, plastics, power itself. The arteries of the future flowed black, not gold.
"How much of this do you have?" he asked, voice firm though his heart pounded.
"As many as you desire," Ronan shrugged. "But at what cost? Even a single silver per barrel might be too high a price for such rubbish."
Sharath winced. "Then make it one silver per barrel. And I will buy all you can provide."
The beastman emperor stiffened. Gradually, a smile spread over his face. "Agreed."
The dwarves and elves scowled, sensing they had made a misstep—but they could not yet see what Sharath saw.
The Warning
As the summit reached its climax, Ronan addressed them once more.
"My people despise the goblins. Their raids kill our children, destroy our villages. We require mercenaries, engines, machines—assist us in destroying them once and for all."
The hall went quiet. Everyone's gaze fell on Sharath.
He stood up, his shadow stretching long under the torchlight. His voice was measured, yet cutting as steel.
"I do not want war. But pay attention to me: if the goblins take up arms, if they try to spread destruction, they will be destroyed. Not conquered, not beaten—erased."
The words lingered in the air.
The rulers nodded gravely, feeling the weight of honesty in his voice.
Closing
Finally, the conference was over. Agreements had been made, deals sealed, destinies rewritten. Engines would rumble into every realm, printers hum in every palace, and black crude would pour from beastman soil into Sharath's empire like blood into arteries.
As the monarchs moved to their carriages, they looked once again at Sharath's machines—silent, tireless, unstopperable. Their hearts pounded with trepidation, jealousy, and covetousness.
Sharath paced at the balcony of the palace, Madhu beside him. She questioned softly, "Do you trust them?"
"No," Sharath replied bluntly. "But they will trust me. Until it is too late."
And down below, the people cheered once more for their emperor, for their engines, for their future.