The ballroom was suddenly flooded by a cascade of white and crimson light. Sirzechs, standing at the top of the grand staircase, felt reality itself bend. [Visionary] no longer needed to act; the subjects themselves were shaping their own existence based on the model of civilization that had been imposed upon them. One hundred bone masks cracked in unison—a sound like the shattering of fine crystal.
«Notice. Mass evolution detected.» «Second Generation individuals (100 units) have completed the Individuation Stage.» «Race: Homo-Hollow (Avalon Variant)... Confirmed.»
Where there was once a mass of shadows and smooth masks, there now emerged a crowd of men and women with diverse European features—blonds, redheads, brunettes—all bearing small shards of bone on their faces, arms, or necks. The bureaucratic complexity reached its zenith: one hundred new names, one hundred new dwellings, and one hundred new citizenship records needed to be generated in seconds.
Sirzechs felt the weight of the quill pen on his very spirit, but Grayfia, with an efficiency bordering on the divine, already had [Gabriel] operating at full capacity. She wasn't just recording; she was categorizing. Amidst the light of evolution, one individual stood out. He was tall, with pale blond hair and an expression of calculated serenity. His mask fragment covered exactly his left eye, looking like a monocle of sculpted bone.
«Individual Number 101... Naming: Alistair... Confirmed.» «Skill Acquired: [Silver Tongue / Absolute Etiquette]. Profession: First Diplomat and Royal Ambassador.»
Alistair knelt with an elegance that made even Benedict look rustic. He did not seek the oven or the needle; he sought Sirzechs' gaze.
"My Sovereign," his voice was diplomatic velvet, "Avalon is a secret too beautiful to be kept. The world outside is a chaos of dialects and poor manners. Allow me to be the voice that announces your order."
Sirzechs looked at Grayfia. She already had a new set of documents ready: The External Contact Protocol.
"Lord Sirzechs, Alistair's birth is providential. If we are to expand our influence in the Jura Forest, we cannot do so as barbarian conquerors. We need embassies, non-aggression treaties, and, most importantly, a foreign trade system."
The following day, Benedict Village was buzzing. The "small society" had become a vibrant city. The new citizens, eager to test their identities, rushed to Genevieve's Tailor Shop, creating the first major "demand-exceeds-supply" crisis. Alistair, however, was already at Avalon's North Gate, accompanied by two Gendarmerie guards in gala uniforms.
His first challenge was not a war, but an encounter with an Orc patrol wandering near Grayfia's ice borders. While the guards prepared for combat, Alistair took a step forward, adjusted his bone "monocle," and gave an impeccable bow.
"Gentlemen," Alistair said to the confused orcs, "I believe you are violating the aerial and terrestrial space of the Sovereignty of Avalon. However, instead of a summary execution, my King offers you an opportunity: this invitation to a commercial audience and a tutorial on how not to smell like a swamp in the presence of royalty."
The orcs, having never faced someone who used words like "procedural" or "jurisdiction," stood paralyzed by Alistair's aura of bureaucratic authority.
Meanwhile, back at the palace, Sirzechs faced the largest mountain of paperwork in his life. One hundred new birth certificates, one hundred property titles, and the new Foreign Relations Treaty proposed by Alistair. Grayfia placed a cup of tea in front of him.
"Ambassador Alistair has already sent the first report, Lord Sirzechs," she informed him. "He suggests we create 'Avalon Passports' for foreigners. The entry fee would be ten silver coins to cover the costs of disinfection and basic etiquette lessons."
Sirzechs let out an exhausted laugh.
"Passports, Grayfia? We are in a magical forest, and you already want to implement immigration control?"
"Precisely because we are in a magical forest, My Lord, is why we need control. Otherwise, the marble will be covered in mud within a week."
Alistair returned at dusk, bringing with him not only the orcs (now duly escorted and terrified by the etiquette) but the beginning of what would be Avalon's diplomatic corps. The nation was ready. They had a King, an Iron Governess, a Master Baker, a Stylist, a Maestro, and now, a Diplomat who would turn bureaucracy into the sharpest weapon in Jura.
The consolidation of Avalon as a sovereign nation required the power structure to stop being merely "Sirzechs' will" and become an institutionalized system. With 130 awakened citizens, the complexity of urban life demanded specialists. Sirzechs, tired of signing every minor detail, decided to formalize the Avalon Council of Ministers, transforming his elite subjects into the pillars of the state bureaucracy.
Author's Note:
Orcs meeting a diplomat is like a caveman meeting a lawyer—the confusion is real! Avalon is now moving into the "International Relations" stage. How will Rimuru or the other Demon Lords react to a city that charges an 'etiquette fee' just to enter?