Ruler System

Admin Override: Sumire, [Chief Military Advisor]

Modeling Feature: Activated

Just as Momo was returning to her seat on the roof, she heard a faint ping in her eardrum.

Sumire…? Modeling feature? What was that all about?

Bruda – De Jure Holding

Control Rating: 70%

* 70% from Friendly relationship with Devola Wraith, President of the New School for Dance.

14,824 non-residents detected

Modeling Feature engaged

As the audio courier spit nonsensical information in her ear, Momo took a seat next to Grimli, who had emptied three popcorn cases and begun strumming a new theme song based on the day’s events. Something called Dance Dance Momo.

His daily ritual of music making was a habit that Momo hadn’t yet decided if she liked or hated. Most of the melodies were good – head-boppable and toe-tappable – but the lyrics were just atrocious. Momo was just glad that Alois hadn't caught onto the idea of reviewing music in the daily paper, or his ego would have been crushed ten times over.

“I’m so lost,” Momo mumbled, slapping at her ear as if she had a hornet trapped in there. “What is this courier thing going on about? It’s like Sumire installed a virus into my Ruler System.”

As if on cue, the audio glitched and began reading out an intro for something called the Sentiment Modeling Feature. Resigned to hear the machine out, she laid her head back on the hot roof tiling, stared into the sky, and anxiously chewed on her lip.

Welcome to the Sentiment Modeling Feature. This feature allows you to model how different actions will affect your approval rating among different populations.

The Model has done the work of identifying the event and the population at this time, and several possible outcomes.

Event: Dance Recital

Population: 14,824 fans

Possible Outcomes:

1. Queen Momo wins.

2. Queen Momo loses.

3. Queen Momo dies.

Modeled Outcomes:

* Queen Momo wins: Due to Dance Recital fans traveling from a variety of cities across the nation, gaining their approval will skyrocket your total control rating across many different territories. If you were to win this dance competition, your Control Rating over the entire continent would hit 30%, compared to its current 10%.

As it read the numbers out, Momo sat up with an urgency.

“That is a huge boost,” she said, mouth agape.

It dawned on Momo at that moment why Sumire sent her to Bruda at this specific, unfortunate time. Despite Momo’s absolute disdain for public displays of embarrassment, being able to sway a gigantic, diverse audience in one go created a ripple effect throughout the entire continent. If everyone at the event went home to their city and told their social circle how great Momo was, word of mouth would increase her control ratings way more than just visiting cities one-by-one.

Sumire is a genius.

Of course, there were other, less desirable outcomes, which Audio-Megan reminded Momo so dutifully.

* Queen Momo loses: The opposite will occur if you lose. Every fan will now think less of you. They will view you as an incapable dancer, and thus an incapable queen. Your Control Rating over the entire continent would go from 10% to 8%.

* Queen Momo dies: Control Rating will go to 0%, and control of the continent will default to [S3]

“Why is me dying even something that this thing is designed to forecast?” Momo grumbled.

Wait. She paused.

“Wait, audio thing, can you play back that last part?”

It obeyed and repeated the last line. Momo’s frown deepened.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

“What the hell is [S3]?” she asked.

That is classified information.

“I’m sorry, aren’t you my system?” she asked. “Why would that be classified? Just unclassify it.”

Classified information cannot be unclassified just because you say so.

“I see you have the same attitude problem as your parchment brethern,” Momo commented dryly. “Can you at least tell me who I’d have to ask to have it unclassified? Can Sumire do it?”

Admin [Sumire] does not have permission to view this classified information.

“Well, great –”

“Momo, Trent’s going on stage!”

Grimli set down his lute, briefly pausing his work on the chorus. He had his finger pointed at the stage, where the Boy-Celebrity was indeed taking his first stand. His small fandom was going nearly dizzy with excitement as he greeted the crowd. He took a bow and waved like a proper English princess.

She was grateful Grimli had pointed him out, because Momo would have never realized it was actually him. The young dancer was dressed to the nines in a proper tuxedo, with all the flourishes of an usher at an opera house. His hair had been slicked back, his fingers manicured, even his shoes – pointy black things that looked very impractical for a fight to the near-death – were shining like miniature suns.

His opponent was a boy Momo recognized, Quentin, another of Trent’s friends at the dance academy. He was dressed similarly, opting instead for a red tuxedo with white trimmings. Most interestingly, he held a wooden staff – some sort of magically attuned thing that glittered with amber magic. It was the first of a kind Momo had seen a competitor use.

Unlike the previous matches, which commenced with the ring of a bell, Devola stood to address the crowd. They all quieted in reverence, looking at her as if she was a goddess gracing them with a very rare visit. She had the look of one too – her hair spread out like a hydra, nine heads of red curls floating in mid-air as she spoke, hands extended.

“As you all know, my dear Trent, one of my finest disciples,” she said, pausing for an excessive amount of cheers from a certain area of the audience. “He lost by just a smidgen in the previous season. A technicality, really. But he has been training every single day since then, working himself tirelessly to put on a delightful show for you all."

Momo looked from Devola’s face to Trent’s, watching as he desperately tried to control his reaction. His face was schooled into something completely apathetic, but the edge of his mouth gave him away. He’s trembling. It didn't surprise her. Momo could only imagine the amount of pressure he felt.

Actually, she didn’t have to imagine it. She’d been there before. Very recently.

But this felt more intense than saving the universe, somehow.

“I know he’s going to give us quite the performance today. So,” Devola clapped her hands together. “Give it your all, Trenty. Show Morgana what a wonderful student you truly are.”

The bell rang out – and the competition began.

Quentin was the first to move. He did a simple back-and-forth motion as he conjured something with his staff. Telling from the furrowed look on his face, it seemed that his type of magic required a period of intense concentration. It only made sense that he kept his dance moves simple (but still qualifiable.)

Trent opted for a different approach.

The boy leapt into the air, curling into himself as he did three consecutive somersaults.

"What athleticism!"

"He's practically flying!"

Trent landed squarely in front of his opponent, who hadn’t expected him to travel the distance in such a short amount of time; as a result, Quentin squeaked with surprise, firing his spell prematurely. Vibrant red magic shot from his staff, flying in all directions. Some of it hit Trent on the shoulder, but most of it spiraled out weakly into the crowds, doing no damage.

“Did I scare you, Quenty-boy?” Trent laughed, shrugging off the pain.

“Not in the least,” Quentin said, his voice small.

But then he grinned.

In one swift motion, Quentin jutted his staff forward, shoving it directly into Trent’s ribcage. Trent groaned, clamoring backwards.

“This staff is good for a lot more than casting spells,” Quentin laughed as he leapt into the air, staff facing down like a battering ram, poised to level Trent right into the stage. “You’re not going to be Devola’s number one anymore, Trenty-boy.”

With a maniacal scream, Quentin slammed downwards. Trent rolled out of the way at the last second, a terrible splintering echoing out from the stage as the staff drilled straight through the wood foundation. Wood splinters rained over the audience, generating a misty cloud of debris.

“What was that?” Trent teased, his physical form lost somewhere in the mist. “You were saying?”

Quentin scowled. He pulled at his staff uselessly. It was properly wedged in the stage, unmovable. “You stupid, pretentious idiot. My staff –”

“Is broken,” Trent said. “Time to get a new one.”

Trent emerged from the cloud of debris mid-air, his feet pointed upwards, his head downwards, in some kind of perfectly aligned ballerina-esque position. He reached out his arms to grab at the top of the staff, then used the rest of his momentum in his somersault to unlodge it and send it soaring off-stage. It collided with a building and exploded on impact – shattering into a hundred pieces.

"My.... my..." Quentin mumbled. "I've had that staff since I was a Novice."

He had gone completely still, frozen in disbelief, his eyes glued to the crime scene.

Meanwhile, Trent landed on both feet, and did a small, polite bow.

The crowd absolutely erupted.

“And Trent’s done it again – completely unarmed his opponent with grace and elegance!” the show’s announcer cried.

The roof Momo sat on began to rock under the immense amount of screaming and gyrating Trent’s move generated. His fanbase had gone buckwild, all trying to imitate him in a complete disaster of coordination. Devola, from her high seat, laughed and sipped her juice. Momo knew a proud smile when she saw it – and Devola's face was positively glowing.

“My staff,” Quentin repeated, eyes as dead as corpses. "My staff."

Devola leaned towards the wand-microphone.

“Quentin has been disqualified for a lack of movement,” she announced. “Trent will be moving onto the next round.”

Quentin didn’t even acknowledge the announcement. He just stared off into the trees, as blank as a sheet of paper. Trent, to his part, took another bow, egging the audience on as they chanted his name louder and louder.

“Wasn’t that guy supposed to be his friend?” Grimli said. "Plenty of other ways he could have beat 'im without destroying his childhood weapon."

“Yeah,” Momo said, swallowing thickly. “I think Devola might have created a monster.”