Tino City's inns brimmed with banners and accents. The delegations of Wallace and Gunther, the Kingdom of Wakan under Waum, and the six other orc realms all took quarters there to rest before proceeding to Ross City for the imperial proclamation. In courtyards, musicians practiced; in alleys, cooks stoked braziers; on rooftops, work teams hammered scaffolds into place. The city moved like a giant clock.
For Wallace IV and Gunther III, it was like stepping into tomorrow. Years ago—when the Nord Kingdom still stood—they had seen Tino as a rough gateway town: muddy streets, sour beer, thin faces. Now the same streets were paved and clean, strung with telegraph lines, patrolled by calm soldiers in green-gray, and dotted with workshops that hummed day and night. They kept sneaking glances at the people too: rosy cheeks, clean coats, quick steps, and clear eyes. You could read a nation's strength in the faces of its poorest; by that measure, Ross was thriving.
It wasn't only the order that stunned them. It was the food.
They had come as kings and ate like schoolboys—standing on sidewalks with skewers dripping glaze, dumplings burning their fingers, tea sweets sticking to their teeth. "By the saints," Wallace IV mumbled through a bite, eyes watering, "this tastes like a holiday." Gunther III nodded violently, trying not to cry. Compared to this, their palace kitchens seemed like a cruel joke. They ended a long tasting walk misty-eyed and converted, half laughing at themselves. The Empire conquered stomachs first.
They were still dabbing at the corners of their mouths when two familiar figures drifted toward them—an elven prince and his companion, both walking with hands clasped behind their backs in a very dignified manner. Unfortunately, each was also hiding a half-eaten skewer behind his cloak, and the grease on their lips spoiled the pose.
"Your Highness the Prince of Jinjing City," announced the companion with serious pride (and a mouth he hadn't quite finished chewing with). "We are looking for our sister—Lieutenant Angelina. We may have… temporarily lost her."
The "temporarily" had lasted most of a day.
Wallace IV and Gunther III straightened at once. "An honor," they said together, also attempting the hands-behind-back posture—and also hiding skewers. The four of them stood there in solemn silence pretending not to notice anyone's food. Only their beards and lips betrayed them.
"Are you envoys bound for Ross City?" Angelis asked at last. "We… should probably join someone who knows the way."
"Of course," Wallace IV said smoothly, shooting Gunther III a look that said say yes before we lose him again. "Walk with us."
As they moved, the two kings learned the prince's favorite phrase: "brother-in-law." When he mentioned Gavin Ward, he did it with a cheerful confidence that made the kings share a glance. This elf had no intention of stopping… and somehow, it sounded less like a boast and more like the way the world was going to be. They laughed, traded flatteries, and folded the elves into their procession.
"It seems the brother-in-law line works," Angelis whispered, pleased. He had already forgotten that the same line at the border had ended with him in a holding cell.
---
Three days later, Ross City received the world.
Over one hundred thousand Ross soldiers filled the capital's boulevards. For days they had drilled formation on the wide central avenue, boots striking stone like a drumline. Truck-mounted anti-air guns rumbled past in perfect intervals; field artillery rode high in truck beds; armored cars squatted like steel bulls; companies of infantry rode standing in the beds with rifles at the ready. Their lines weren't as clone-precise as the guard of honor Gavin remembered from Earth, but for this age they were astonishingly straight, crisp, and confident.
In the center of the city rose the new colossus: the Empire State Building, 100 meters from base to roof, with a footprint as massive as its height. The crown was a ring of glass, catching the sun like a bright helmet; above the entrance, cast in iron and pride, four characters spelled "Empire State Building." From some angles, the long low wings and inner courtyards gave it the presence of a pentagon laid in stone. Gavin Ward stood on the review terrace and nodded, satisfied. This was the face he wanted the world to see.
The final delegations streamed in—orcs in bronze, border kings in improvised finery, merchants with formal gifts, Tongsley envoys wrapped in stiff pride—and everything slotted into place with Ross efficiency.
One card, however, made Gavin laugh.
It bore the great golden lion in heavy ink. Duke Leonhart had sent a formal gift post, rich with compliments and empty courtesies. "A weasel bringing New Year greetings to a chicken," Gavin thought, amused. A friendly grin hiding sharp little teeth. Next to the card lay an intelligence brief in a plain folder: Leonhart accelerating troop deployments along Ross-facing roads.
"He thinks I don't see his left hand," Gavin murmured, smile narrowing. "Fine. Let his right hand deliver my audience." He tossed the gilded card aside and reclined, looking for a moment like a man enjoying a joke that hadn't landed yet for anyone else.
Stephens entered with more papers. "Your Majesty, two sealed posts delivered privately by Wallace IV and Gunther III." He presented the envelopes on a tray. "They request to leave the Tongsley Alliance and enter the Empire as tributary realms. They offer to pay taxes annually and accept imperial reforms."
Gavin's eyes lit. "Good."
He thumbed the edges, thinking through lines and maps. Two small stones dropped into a lake made bigger ripples than their size suggested—if the timing was right.
"Shall I draft discreet responses?" Stephens asked.
Gavin shook his head, a predator's grin returning. "No. I'll answer them in public."
Stephens blinked. "Public… as in—"
"At the coronation. On the platform." Gavin rose, hands on the table, voice going flat and iron. "We'll do what Leonhart won't dare do in the open. We'll say what everyone whispers."
He paced once, then spoke the words as if testing their balance:
"To all human kingdoms within the Tongsley Alliance who wish to stand on your own: the Empire of Ross will support you—openly and without reserve."
Stephens nearly dropped the tray. "Your Majesty, the Tongsley Alliance holds hundreds of millions across more than a hundred minor realms. Our total population is ten million. If you make that call… won't we be challenging all of them at once?"
Gavin's answer came quick, certain:
"They are not one. They add their heads together for boasting and subtract their hearts when it's time to act. Fear of Tongsley is the rope that keeps them tied to the post—not loyalty. All it takes is a knife at the right knot."
He planted both palms on the map spread across the table. Rivers, roads, and little flags stared back.
"Today, maybe two kings dare slip their collars. Tomorrow, after Leonhart lunges and fails, ten will write to us at night. Next month, twenty. Next year, the whole rack of pots comes off the shelf."
He looked up, eyes hard. "Beat the Duke once, in the open, and the mountain of Tongsley will crack. The weight is their own—we just give it a shove."
Stephens exhaled slowly. He had served Gavin's father and Gavin after him, through famine and invasion and the first trucks rattling down dirt lanes; he knew the difference between madness and vision. This was the latter. Risky, yes—but coherent in its risk.
"Then," he said, voice steady now, "shall I prepare the announcement order for the printers?"
Gavin nodded. "Seal it until the hour. Before that moment, no leaks."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Have our signal officers ready," Gavin added. "When I speak, the words go across every loudspeaker in Ross—and into every embassy within an hour. I want the phrase 'stand on your own' painted inside men's skulls."
Stephens's mouth twitched. "Painted it shall be."
They both glanced at the folder stamped with Leonhart's lion.
"Let the Duke's envoys see our parades," Gavin said. "Let them count our guns. Let them hear the cheers. If Leonhart's clever, he'll tighten his belt. If he's vain, he'll loosen it."
"Which do you wager?" Stephens asked.
Gavin's smile was ice. "Vanity spends faster."
---
Back in Tino, Wallace IV and Gunther III found themselves marveling again. They had been led through orderly barracks, past classrooms where orc recruits learned letters, past clinics where medics bandaged without asking for coin, past warehouses labeled so clearly a child could find a crate by reading. Every corner seemed to whisper the same idea: we are building something that lasts.
At a street stall, Wallace IV stopped without meaning to. A radio sat on the counter, glowing faintly. The shopkeeper twisted a knob, and a march leapt into the air—crisp brass and steady drums. Shoppers stopped to listen. A boy in a school cap stood very straight, as if already in a parade. Gunther III watched the boy's face. It looked like hope with the edges cut off, so it fit in his pocket.
"Do you hear it?" Gunther murmured.
"What?" Wallace asked, still staring at the tuning needle.
"The future," Gunther said simply.
They bought the radio. Kings, and giddy as children.
---
The day before the proclamation, Ross City flexed and settled. Review routes were chalked on stone. Banner order was posted for allied delegations. The orcs of Wakan polished armor to a moon-bright sheen. The elves finally reunited with Angelina, who announced dryly that if Angelis said "brother-in-law" within earshot of a guard again, she would assign him to latrine duty in the cavalry yard. He offered her an egg tart and survived.
In his office, Gavin read the final run of the Imperial Founding Edict, crossed out two flowery sentences, and added one line in a plain, sharp hand:
"The Empire of Ross stands for the freedom of nations to rule themselves."
He capped the pen. Outside, the city roared like a sea.
"Say it where all can hear it," he murmured. "And watch who answers."
Stephens re-entered quietly. "All envoys are now in Ross City. Duke Leonhart's convoy delivered its gift."
Gavin didn't turn. "Let it sit. We will unwrap it after the music."
"And Wallace IV and Gunther III?"
"Seat them where the cameras will find their faces," Gavin said. "If we're going to teach the Tongsley Alliance a new word—independence—I want everyone to watch two kings mouth it."
Stephens allowed himself a rare grin. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
---
On the morning wind, rumors slid like kites. Ross will promise protection. Ross will cut Tongsley in half. Ross will take every border king who defects. The Golden Lion envoys sniffed at the talk and made careful notes anyway. Leonhart's staff read the same wind and tightened their formations by a hair.
In the barracks yard, Waum addressed his heavy infantry, voice low and even. "We march for show, but we stand for oath. Remember why we came—to belong to something that makes our grandchildren proud." The orcs pounded their chests once, a single bass note.
In a modest guesthouse, Wallace IV practiced the sentence "The Empire offers us a future." In another, Gunther III practiced "We will pay our taxes on time." Both men tried the words in front of a mirror. Both believed them more than they had expected.
In the foreign quarter, Angelis practiced not saying "brother-in-law." He failed twice, then bribed himself with a promise of roast duck if he succeeded during the ceremony. Angelina pretended not to hear and tightened her cap.
And in the quiet at the center of it all, Gavin Ward stood behind the heavy curtains of the review platform, listening to the orchestra tune, and rolled the sentence one last time through his mind:
"To all human kingdoms within the Tongsley Alliance who wish to stand on your own: the Empire of Ross will support you—openly and without reserve."
He smiled—not kind, not cruel, simply sure.
"Beat a duke," he whispered, "and watch an empire buckle."
— End of Chapter 104 —
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