Zhang Chāo rose from an uneasy sleep.

He had been a light sleeper even in earlier days. Now, with the weight of all responsibility for his homeland squarely on his shoulders, his body carried more tension than it ever had before.

He slid a pair of slippers onto his feet and padded lightly over to the balcony. A stranger observing his steps would have seen that he moved with an effortless grace, like a ballroom dancer. For Zhang Chāo, who had been naturally elegant and eloquent since early childhood, it was only natural.

As he stepped out over the balcony, the wind swept his long, straight hair away from his flawless face.

Zhang Chāo did not need to look out at his city to know the reconstruction of the damaged areas was proceeding well. His aura covered roughly half of the island now. But he liked to see it.

Despite how the world had changed, the beautiful Kaohsiung skyline that he had grown up with remained mostly intact. As the sunrise began to slowly illuminate it, a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

Then an idea struck him, and the smile vanished.

I should probably thank Shàngdi for the state of the city, he thought a little uneasily. His reflex had been to credit the hard-working architects who had rebuilt Taiwan following earthquake after earthquake.

Zhang Chāo had never been a religious man before the System. Even now, when he carried the supreme deity’s Chosen One blessing, he felt uncertain about the cosmology of the System universe. There were inconsistencies to it.

While he himself held a blessing from the deity that his ancestors had believed to be the most powerful in the universe, for instance, he had heard from sailors about men and women who carried blessings from beings that claimed to represent the Christian or Muslim God—which was also supposed to be the supreme being of the universe.

He shook his head. Enough of the religious questions. It’s too early for this. For him, there was really no right time for religious ideas. He had to pay lip service to them, but he found them inherently suspicious.

He felt awake enough to work, so Zhang Chāo walked back inside and sat down at his desk.

A day’s planning is done at dawn, he thought.

He began to review reports that his second in command, Han Jianguo, had compiled for him. The information was mostly positive.

The island is still producing enough food to sustain our population, even after the chaos of Orientation and the changes to Earth. Construction of housing for those whose buildings toppled in the transition is almost completed. Even the power grid is finally back online, although we still do not have Internet.

Zhang Chāo did not expect they would regain access to the Internet in the next year, because his experts had informed him that the world’s Internet infrastructure had likely been thoroughly destroyed amid the general devastation wrought by the System’s transformation of Earth. Cables deep underground had been torn apart, towers toppled, satellites grounded, and more.

That is what happens when the Earth doubles in size. I should be grateful to the Industrial Guild for what they have accomplished.

The Internet was far from a priority for him anyway. In Zhang Chāo’s experience, the Internet was largely a source of decadence. A medium of social decline.

Good riddance. He would de-prioritize trying to restore it until his people were above their previous standard of living in all other respects.

The only item in the reports that frustrated him was the document on shipping. That was proceeding slowly. Far too slowly.

He knew why. It was the least urgent of the tasks he had set his followers.

Though Taiwan had prospered as a trading hub, even more following the defeat of the People’s Republic of China in the Sino-American War—often referred to in Taiwan as the War of Taiwanese Independence—the island did not strictly speaking need ships. It could sustain itself with agriculture.

But it ate away at him.

They required ships to achieve his most cherished long term goal.

We will never achieve our true potential as a nation until we retake the mainland…

The almost obsessive thought returned to taunt Zhang Chāo again. Even before the System, he had felt that it was his destiny to free mainland China from Communist Party rule. When he was around nine years old, before he learned shame and self-control, he had gone around telling anyone who would listen. Only his grandfather had believed in him and seemed to take it seriously. He remembered the era of Chiang Kai-Shek, so for him, the dream did not seem as unreal as it did to others.

When the old man passed, Zhang Chāo was alone.

He had always been bright, but he had missed his window to attend college. He stayed at home, working and caring for his dying grandfather. When his grandfather died, he drifted from day to day without purpose.

Then the System had come, with all its blessings and its curses. The upheaval had reinvigorated Zhang Chāo’s will to live.

The arrival of the System felt like a sign from the universe that his ambition was not insane. Zhang Chāo could indeed overthrow the tyrannical government of mainland China—a task even the much-vaunted United States had failed to achieve in the war that took his parents from him.

He would have felt that way even if the last week had not brought some ugly reports. Some of the few ships his band of survivors had managed to send out, looking for trading partners, had been sunk by pirates in the Taiwan Strait.

It was the considered opinion of Zhang Chāo’s advisors that these pirates were actually agents of the surviving authorities of the People’s Republic of China. Without the United States Navy to keep them in line, they were working up their courage to attempt another invasion of Taiwan. Thinking of it made his blood boil.

Even if they aren’t coming, even if all they want to do is sink our boats and keep us on this island, I’ll still punish them, he thought. There were good men on those ships. Two of the captains had been acquaintances of his from Orientation. Their presumed deaths made this personal.

I will pass word to Han Jianguo that we must address our most pressing naval problems today. I will not wait another day to begin putting a solution into practice…

As the sunlight streamed more forcefully into his room, there was a respectful knock at the door.

Zhang Chāo sighed. It was time for his day to officially begin. Time to put on the mask of the dutiful monarch.

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He opened the door, received his breakfast, and expressed his thanks.

After he had eaten and dressed in his ceremonial silks, he took the elevator down to his throne room.

As the doors to the elevator that only he and his household staff used opened, the words of his herald greeted him.

“All bow for His Imperial Majesty, the Heavenly King, Ruler of the Lofty Heights!”

The room full of people dipped their heads and looked at their feet.

To Zhang Chāo, all this felt unnecessary and slightly embarrassing, but it was the level of pageantry that his advisors had settled on. He was willing to accept whatever would strengthen his authority.

He had learned to conceal his emotions perfectly before this crowd.

He walked from the elevator to the throne, which was in the completely redecorated lobby of a high-rise building. What had once been a place of business was now the seat of government. When he sat down, everyone rose to their normal postures.

There were many unfamiliar faces, but court protocols had been explained to everyone before the Heavenly King descended from his penthouse. None of these people, who had been waiting since before dawn to have their voices heard by the Ruler, made a mistake.

“Your Majesty, with your permission, the petitioners will now present their requests.”

Zhang Chāo gave the slightest nod, keeping his face impassive.

The first of the petitioners, a man dressed in a business suit, stepped forward and bowed low.

“Your Majesty, please accept my most earnest wishes for your continued health and the health of the new Chinese state…”

Zhang Chāo heard all of the petitioners’ requests before lunch. Some of them, he granted immediately. Some of them, he declined as graciously as he could. But in most cases, he suspended judgment, which really meant he allowed his trusted bureaucrats to work through the implications of granting requests.

At lunch, he discussed his big idea of the day with members of his inner circle and members of the Blacksmiths’ Guild.

“What do my advisors think of possibly removing all of the remaining automobiles from the streets of Kaohsiung?” he asked.

His close advisors were already nodding, including Han Jianguo, whose role in these meetings was generally to be the one to tell Zhang Chāo “no” if he was wrong.

Zhang Chāo looked over at the other man.

Han Jianguo picked up on the body language and gave him a terse response, “We don’t have oil anyway.”

Zhang Chāo could hear Han Jianguo’s unspoken words. Fucking System.

The two men had fought in Orientation, and though Zhang Chāo had won and established their respective positions in the hierarchy, Han Jianguo was the one man who he could count on to speak with him frankly when they were out from the view of others.

So Zhang Chāo turned to the Blacksmiths’ Guild and moved on to the next, related question.

“So, what can I expect your people to do with the metal from those cars?” Zhang Chāo asked bluntly.

“What would Your Majesty like to see made?” asked Yuan Lim, one of the representatives, cautiously.

“Ships,” Zhang Chāo replied instantly. “As soon as possible. I need them to end this vexatious piracy. It is an affront to the nation. How long will it take you?”

“We—or, I sh-should say I—thought that you might want weapons made from the metal instead,” the same man said, his voice trembling slightly. “That would boost our defense against invasion, and we have the ability to enchant them with—”

His voice broke off as Zhang Chāo stared coldly into his eyes.

None of the rest of them are speaking up, he thought. They want this man to represent their view, then. Trying to avoid presenting a disunited front in dealing with my government. In a way, he admired it—the guilds had been created, because members of the same System-granted Job or pre-System profession had wanted to band together and avoid too much competition in the wake of the collapse of society—and they were just doing what Zhang Chāo expected.

But I can’t have them all speaking with one voice now. I need them to try to outdo each other. Compete! An idea struck him.

“I understand what you are saying,” Zhang Chāo said stiffly. “It is difficult to be told ‘no, something is too difficult or impossible’ when you are a head of state. And I recognize that everything is difficult in the beginning. It is too demanding to ask you to turn automobile parts into ship components when the System-granted Skills are specialized in other areas.”

A look of relief passed over Yuan Lim’s face.

“Which is why I will not burden you with this task,” Zhang Chāo added.

The look of relief changed to one of horror.

“What do you mean, Your Majesty?” asked one of the other guild representatives.

Yuan Lim shot him a look, as if trying to tell him to shut his mouth, but the damage was done.

They want the work—and access to the material—badly, then.

“I mean, the Industrial Guild has been champing at the bit for me to assign them some responsibilities,” Zhang Chāo said slowly, relishing each word. “I think it would be good for them to be assigned a new task. They performed so well in getting the power back on, after all—” He gestured at the electric lights in the dining room, which were now functioning. “In the present national crisis, I cannot allow my loyal subjects to go without work.”

The Industrial Guild was composed of the capitalists, plant managers, and engineers who had created and maintained Taiwan’s industrial capacity before the System. They were still around, and they still had all the same competencies they had trained in before. Some of those who had previously specialized in computer work had even begun learning to weld and perform other, more physical tasks.

Where magical blacksmithing was apparently not specialized in the area Zhang Chāo needed, old-fashioned human engineering and manufacturing might fill in the gap.

I don’t care how the task gets done, or who does it. Only that it is accomplished quickly and well.

“Your Majesty,” Yuan Lim said, his voice pleading. “You can’t give the metal to them. I mean, of course, Your Majesty can do whatever it strikes your fancy to do, but…”

“Is it truly so impossible for you to do what I ask?” Zhang Chāo asked.

Last chance for you to get in on this work.

“Impossible… well, perhaps not,” Yuan Lim said.

“There you have it,” Zhang Chāo said, finally allowing himself to smile at the other man. “If you work hard enough at it, you can grind even an iron rod down to a needle.”

“You will give the work to us, then,” Yuan Lim said cautiously.

“I will allow the Blacksmiths’ Guild and the Industrial Guild fifty percent of the materials each, to start with. Then I will judge you both by the quality of your product in making future allocations.”

There were pained expressions on the representatives’ faces as they heard this. Zhang Chāo returned his expression to a careful impassivity. He wanted to smile even more broadly, but this moment seemed inappropriate.

The guild members who had hoped to avoid competition by organizing together wound up forced into a new rivalry despite their best efforts.

Cheer up, he thought. By enduring deep pain, people can ascend.

As the Blacksmiths’ Guild members rose to leave the lunch table, their expressions twisted as if they had eaten something bitter, Zhang Chāo pulled Han Jianguo aside.

“Gather my ten thousand for this evening,” he said quietly. “It is time that we deal with the threat in the harbor. Permanently.”

Han Jianguo nodded. The shadow of a smile played at the edges of his lips.

Yes, my friend, Zhang Chāo thought. Today will end with real combat. Like back in Orientation. I know you’ve missed it too.

The two men shouldered the burden of governing a nation between them.

Sadly, they could not go out to fight, train, and defeat monsters nearly as often as they would have liked.

But if they took the ten thousand men and women of the Imperial Army with them, and they solved a genuine problem of national importance, no one could have the misapprehension that Zhang Chāo was in any way shirking his responsibility as Heavenly King.

He touched the Mandate of Heaven where the sword hung at his side, then looked discreetly at the clock on the wall.

It read two in the afternoon.

Very well. I will have to make my afternoon appointments first… But it’s nice to have something to look forward to, waiting at the end of the day.