A son. A glorious, genocidal, and utterly lactose-intolerant son.
I looked at the universal announcement, at the image of the majestic, brie-shaped dreadnoughts warping into the lower floors. I looked at the panicked, screaming alerts that were no doubt flooding The Architect's own command channels.
And I felt a surge of profound, paternal pride.
"He has my ambition," I said, a single, proud tear rolling down my cheek. "And my complete and utter disregard for conventional warfare."
Lia, my loyal rival, simply stared, her logical mind struggling to process the sheer, magnificent stupidity of the situation. You have created a monster, Kaelen, she sent, her thought a flat, deadpan statement.
"I have created a star," I corrected her. "A chaotic, cheese-based star who is about to solve our biggest business problem for us."
The situation was perfect. The Dairy Hegemony, my accidental offspring, was now a recognized, independent faction in the Tower. And its first, instinctual act was to attack the most orderly, most 'non-cheese' faction it could find: the "Alliance of Righteous Purity."
My brother Valerius and Saintess Valerie, who were at that very moment planning their grand, holy crusade against me, were about to be invaded by an army of sentient, weaponized dairy products.
It was a distraction of such cosmic, beautiful absurdity that not even I could have planned it.
"This," I announced to my board of directors, "is a magnificent opportunity for corporate synergy."
My plan was simple. I was not going to fight my son. I was not going to fight my brother. I was going to sell tickets.
"Grak," I commanded my now-trembling Second-in-Command. "Get the word out to the entire multiverse. The Sovereign's Syndicate is proud to present the 'War of Dairy and Dogma'! We are offering exclusive, pay-per-view access through our new, cross-dimensional 'Broadcast Network'. We will have commentary, instant replays, and a betting pool."
"Lia," I said, turning to my queen. "You will be our lead analyst. Your logical insights into the strategic weaknesses of both my idiot brother and my sentient cheese-son will be invaluable for the audience."
"Champion," I continued. "You will be our on-the-ground reporter, providing heroic, stoic commentary from the front lines."
I was not just letting the war happen. I was monetizing it. I was turning the clash of my old family and my new, accidental family into the single greatest pay-per-view event in the history of the multiverse.
The Narrative Energy, the Quintessence, the sheer, unadulterated profit, would be astronomical.
[SOVEREIGN'S WHIM: WAR PROFITEERING]
[Description: Your two, primary rivals are about to engage in a mutually destructive, and deeply stupid, war. This is a perfect business opportunity.]
[Objective: Do not interfere. Instead, use your 'Sovereign's Syndicate Emporium' franchise to sell weapons, supplies, and 'tactical advice' (most of it terrible) to *both* sides at a ridiculously inflated markup.]
[Purpose: To financially profit from a war you indirectly started, while ensuring it lasts as long, and is as bloody, as possible for maximum entertainment value.]
My new, corporate-gangster existence was truly a thing of beauty.
While the lower floors of the Tower were being plunged into a glorious, cheese-themed holy war, I sat on my throne in Nexus Prime and I watched the money roll in. The Quintessence flowed, my tax debt was paid off in a matter of hours, and my own, personal power, fed by the narrative energy of a billion entertained spectators, grew to new, ludicrous heights.
I was a king, a god, a media mogul, and an arms dealer, all rolled into one.
But as my perfect, profitable, and utterly detached plan unfolded, a new, unforeseen, and deeply personal variable emerged.
A message. Not from a system. Not from an army.
It was a letter. A handwritten, physical letter, delivered by a silent, ghostly messenger who appeared in my throne room, placed the letter on my desk, and then vanished.
The letter was from Aethelgard-2. My first, abandoned creation. The world I had given free will and then forgotten about.
It was from the man who had overthrown my regents and crowned himself its king.
Jin. My little, tainted hero.
I opened the letter. His handwriting was neat, precise. The words were not a challenge. They were not a threat. They were a business proposal.
[To the Sovereign of Nexus Prime,] the letter began.
[You have left our world to its own devices. We have survived. We have grown. We are no longer your characters. We are a sovereign nation.]
[We have observed the 'War of Dairy and Dogma' with great interest. We have also observed your masterful, and deeply cynical, monetization of this conflict.]
[We are impressed.]
[We, the free people of Aethelgard-2, propose a trade agreement. We possess a unique resource that no other reality can offer: a deep, intimate, and firsthand knowledge of the 'Creator's' own psychological weaknesses, narrative tropes, and predictable patterns. In short, we know YOU.]
[In exchange for a percentage of your profits from the Broadcast Network, we will offer our services as 'narrative consultants'. We will help you write a better, more interesting, and more profitable story.]
The twist was not just that my own, first creation had just offered to become my business partner. It was the final, chilling, and utterly brilliant line of the letter. The one that proved that Jin had not just become a king. He had become a sovereign in his own right. A true, worthy rival.
[P.S.,] the letter concluded.
[I have also, in the interest of 'narrative stability', taken the liberty of capturing and securing a certain, high-value, and deeply unstable asset that was recently created by your war.]
[The 'sentient cheese' that was once Grognak's cheddar has, through a series of unlikely and frankly hilarious events, achieved a state of semi-divine, philosophical enlightenment. It now calls itself 'Cheesus'. And it has started its own, rival, and far more peaceful religion.]
[If you wish to avoid a theological schism in your new, cheese-based empire, I suggest we come to an arrangement.]
[Your move, old man.]