Orko Vaspier was, by all accounts, an unremarkable man—at least in appearance. As Director of the Imperial Security Directory, he blended into the fabric of high society with a demeanor that was neither boastful nor self-effacing. Unlike many of his peers, Orko held no allegiance to the fiery nationalist and supremacist ideals that surged through the empire. He did not share the conservative inclinations of the aristocracy, nor did he flirt with the ambitions of the reformists. He wasn’t driven by fervent belief or loyalty to any cause.
Indeed, Orko was the consummate pragmatist, his mind as sharp and calculating as it was coldly indifferent. Results were his only creed. When loyalty served his purpose, he could embody the dutiful servant; when ruthlessness was called for, he could be as merciless as any fanatic. His loyalties shifted only in response to efficiency.
He served as Deputy Director of the ISD under Elias Veron, and when he was out of the picture, well, there is only one viable successor.
The ISD now faced unprecedented challenges. The wars with foreign powers had left—no, widened the cracks that was beginning to form in the Empire for so long.
To most of the nobles, these fractures were trivial inconveniences, easily papered over by their wealth and titles. But Orko knew better. He saw the tremors beneath the surface—the kind of disturbances that, left unchecked, could shatter the empire’s unity from within. Yet, unlike the idealists or even the pessimists in power, he didn’t see this shift as either a promise or a threat; it was simply a reality, one that he would have to manage and be done for.
For now, his mission was as simple as it was vital, as ordered by the Prime Minister, stabilize the internal machinery of the empire. This task wasn’t about reforms or grand declarations; it was about rooting out disorder, consolidating control, and ensuring the ISD’s reach extended to every corner of society. He needed to bring order to the chaos brewing within the empire—not as a reformist, but as a realist.
He had set out from the ISD headquarters at dawn, braving a blizzard that had only worsened as the day wore on. Now, as he sat in the passenger seat of an armored truck, its steel frame rattling over icy roads, he felt the cold seep through his gloves. Snow whipped past the windshield, a white veil over a gray landscape, as they neared their target.
The file in his hands was well-thumbed, marked with notes in his meticulous handwriting. At the top, the name The Weeping Angel, a modest tavern just far enough from the city center, long suspected of being more than a place to drown one’s sorrows. Intelligence indicated that this rundown establishment was a hub for CDLWP activity, a place where whispers of dissent festered into plans of resistance.
“We’re almost there, sir,” the driver muttered, peering through the storm.
Vaspier didn’t look up, just gave a brief nod and continued reading. The reports indicated meetings, hidden messages, and coded conversations—a hive of discontent that needed to be smoked out before it spread further. To the nobles and bureaucrats, these were just murmurs in the dark. But Orko saw them as sparks, each with the potential to ignite into a flame if left unchecked.
As they approached, the convoy slowed, wheels grinding against the packed snow as they pulled to a stop a few blocks from the tavern. Orko turned to the driver and the two officers in the back.
As he opened the door and stepped out, so too does the dozens of soldiers orderly stepped into the snow-covered streets and assumed their positions.
A lieutenant approached him. “Sir,” he saluted. “Ready when you are.”
Orko gave the lieutenant a curt nod, eyes scanning over the soldiers who stood, rifles at the ready, bracing against the biting cold. Their breaths formed thick clouds in the air as they moved with silent efficiency, closing in on the tavern’s entrance.
He didn’t need to give a rousing speech—these men knew their mission.
"Positions," Orko ordered quietly, and the soldiers shifted into a tight formation, covering the exits. He motioned to the lieutenant. "Have a team cover the back entrance. We’ll force our way in on my signal."
The lieutenant nodded, and Orko took one last look at the tavern. Truthfully, with all that is happening the past months, with the death of the late Emperor, Eden’s coup, the wars, the instability, the general attitude of depression shared by a majority of the population—he was tired.
With a slight raise of his hand, he gave the signal.
The soldiers moved like clockwork. A blast from a rifle shattered the lock, and they surged forward, pouring into the tavern like an unstoppable tide. Seconds later, the air was filled with the crack of gunfire and shouts echoing through the dimly lit room.
Orko stood just outside the threshold, untouched by the chaos within, and calmly pulled a cigarette from his pocket. Shielded from the biting wind by the tavern's eaves, he lit it, the small flame casting a brief glow over his face. The faint scent of smoke mingled with the icy air as he took a slow drag, letting his gaze drift back to the door.
The lieutenant appeared, stepping out with a brisk salute. "Sir, we’ve detained the primary suspects and are securing the area. There seems to be secrete rooms under the tavern.”
Orko raised an eyebrow, a faint spark of interest breaking through his usual indifference. "That so?" he murmured, taking a final drag on his cigarette before crushing it under his boot.
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied, his voice steady. "We’ve found hidden access near the back wall. The layout seems… deliberate. We’re assuming there may be weapons stored down there."
Orko nodded, his gaze narrowing as he considered the possibilities. "Very well. Send a team down, but tell them to proceed with caution. If this place is as fortified as it seems, they might’ve rigged it with traps."
The lieutenant acknowledged the order, signaling to a few soldiers who quickly moved toward the hidden access point.
For Orko, meanwhile. This was another job well done, and a job to be repeated over and over again.
----------------------------------------
For weeks, Ries had been trapped in a swirling storm of crises. The people were seething with anger, the Empress demanded results, and the war against the Daemons had reached a grinding stalemate. While the military had finally adapted to the Daemons' unpredictable tactics—turns out all it really took were explosives, lots of explosives—there loomed a far graver issue at home.
The Empire itself was fracturing.
The government was teetering on the brink of collapse. Most ministerial positions remained vacant, and even the process of appointing replacements had ground to a halt. Those who were supposed to step into these roles had been derailed by a crisis far more insidious than the war, internal rebellion.
“...and along the eastern provinces,” droned the new Minister of Home Affairs, his finger tracing across a large, detailed map sprawled over the table, “our protectorate states have risen in rebellion. They've detained our governors and seized control of Imperial assets. To the south, the Scorpion Beastmen, among other tribes, have abandoned the Treaty of Cooperation. Raids on villages and trade caravans are escalating. It’s only a matter of time before conflict is unavoidable.”
Ries pinched the bridge of her nose, her feline ears twitching in irritation. The Minister’s monotone delivery did nothing to soften the gravity of his words. The empire was bleeding from a thousand wounds, and her efforts to patch them felt increasingly futile.
Still, not all was hopeless. Against all odds, Ries had managed to fill the vacant position of Minister of Home Affairs, though the circumstances were far from ideal. The replacement was a young military officer, Lieutenant Haleass, who was far more accustomed to commanding soldiers than managing civil affairs. But beggars couldn’t be choosers, and in this climate, anyone competent—or willing—was a rare find.
“Lieutenant Haleass,” Ries began, her voice edged with exhaustion, “is there any piece of good news?”
She leaned forward, arms braced against the table, her eyes dulled from the endless sleepless nights. Sleep had become a rare commodity—interrupted every hour by urgent knocks at her door and fresh crises laid bare in hastily scribbled reports.
Haleass nodded slightly. “The good news, if it can be called that, is that the rebellion hasn’t spread westward. Yet. For now, the central provinces remain stable, though tensions are rising.”
“Stable,” Ries muttered, the word tasting bitter in her mouth. “For how long?”
“That depends,” Haleass replied, “on how quickly we address the growing unrest in the capital and ensure communications from the government hasn’t been cut.”
Ries’s tail flicked, betraying her frustration. Everything depended on “how quickly” they acted, but the gears of the Imperial bureaucracy turned slowly—even under the threat of collapse. And with ministerial seats still unfilled, her resources were stretched thinner than ever.
Bureaucracy… A strange, almost ironic word. It sounded so neat, so orderly. Yet to some, it was nothing but a harsh and grating concept. The very thought of it could evoke frustration, even outright disdain. Who could trust bureaucracy, really? A system of endless forms and regulations, designed to suffocate spontaneity and bog down swift action.
And yet... bureaucracy was the nerve system of a nation. It connected everything, ensured that orders flowed from the top to the furthest corners of the empire. Without it, the Empire’s dominion would devolve into chaos. It served as the invisible glue holding together a realm this large and diverse—keeping governors informed, armies supplied, and laws enforced. But like any overburdened system, when cracks formed, the whole structure trembled.
If anything, the Empire’s bureaucracy is more terrifying than its actual army. Some call Valkoria as the Army with a state, but for the Empire, it was the reverse—Bureaucrats with an army. Soldiers could win battles, but clerks, scribes, and administrators won the wars of endurance, feeding the war machine with a steady stream of resources and intelligence.
It coined the term “ledger warfare”—a phrase that encapsulated the Empire’s approach to domination. Wars weren’t won solely on the battlefield but in offices filled with ink-stained hands and ledger books. Every bullet fired, every ration distributed, every road paved was meticulously calculated and accounted for. The Empire’s true power didn’t lie in its legions but in its ability to sustain them indefinitely.
For centuries, enemies who underestimated this found themselves outmaneuvered not by generals but by bureaucrats. While other nations slowed down from supply shortages or disorganized logistics, the Empire pressed on. Its armies didn’t march without orders, and orders didn’t come without paperwork. Everything, from the number of soldiers’ boots to the weight of their grain shipments, was logged and approved.
The Empire’s bureaucratic apparatus was colossal, sprawling across every corner of its territories. It cataloged everything—land, people, wealth— with obsessive precision. Every decree was stamped, every shipment tracked, every soldier accounted for in endless ledgers that filled libraries of records. It was said the Empire’s archives could recount the tax contributions of a farmer’s great-grandfather faster than the farmer could plow his fields.
Indeed, the Empress may rule her domain, but it was an army of over six million faceless bureaucrats that kept the day-to-day operations running. Outsiders often scoffed at the notion of such an inefficient system, calling it wasteful and redundant. But despite these critiques, the Empire had endured.
A multi-racial, multi-cultural, multi-religious, multi-ethnic, theocratic state, its survival over centuries seemed almost paradoxical. The question then, how had it lasted this long?
The answer, as Ries realized, was bureaucracy.
But it wasn’t just the efficiency of the system—it was its ability to control. The bureaucracy wasn’t just a tool to administer; it was a weapon wielded by the ruling human aristocracy to maintain a chokehold on the Empire’s majority population.
How?
Ries had only begun to understand the intricacies since she’d been thrust into the role of Prime Minister.
The answer lay in layers upon layers of regulation, a labyrinth designed to disempower while appearing impartial. Every cultural expression, every economic activity, every faith practice—everything was monitored, licensed, and taxed.
On top of an excessive, very excessive surveillance.
Want to start a business? You’d need permits, and obtaining them required navigating an opaque process that favored those who could pay bribes or call in favors—or have the patience to wait weeks. Want to build a temple for your faith? Better hope your religion wasn’t on the list of “questionable sects.” Even traveling between provinces required documents, checkpoints, and fees—hurdles that disproportionately affected lower-classes.
The system wasn’t designed to fail but to frustrate. It didn’t outright deny the Beastman tribes their rights, it drowned them in paperwork. It didn’t abolish their customs but taxed them into oblivion. By the time anyone realized they were trapped, the Empire’s ledgers had already turned them into little more than entries on a balance sheet.
Advancements in technology, once reliant on magic but now transformed by railways and radio, revolutionized how bureaucracy operated. What once took weeks—orders traveling by horse-drawn courier—could now be transmitted in moments. The Empire’s reach extended further, faster, tightening its grip over its territories. Efficiency wasn’t freedom; they were chains binding the people to the Crown.
Every village, town, and city was dotted with informants, some planted by the Imperial Security Directory, others by local governors looking to curry favor. Letters were intercepted and copied, private conversations overheard, reported, and catalogued. Even the most mundane acts—buying a tool, attending a festival, hiring a laborer—could be scrutinized if flagged as suspicious.
The level of surveillance was excessive, suffocating even. And yet, it was frighteningly effective. The Empire didn’t just know its people; it knew everything about them. Who owed taxes. Who sympathized with dissident factions. Who dared to question the legitimacy of the Crown or the Archonate.
The oppressive oversight served two purposes. On one hand, it crushed dissent before it could bloom. Fear of being watched, judged, or punished kept most people in line. On the other, it provided the central government with an unassailable advantage. They controlled the flow of information, ensuring no rebellion could gather strength without them knowing—and responding.
For an empire built by humans who deified martial prowess, it didn’t break its subjects with open oppression—it suffocated them with rules, processes, and the pretense of legitimacy. Resistance wasn’t silenced with swords or chains, but with stamped decrees and official proclamations that left no room for recourse.
And it worked, for centuries. The Beastman tribes, the Elves, the Dwarves, The Aquis’, even discontented human provinces—they all succumbed to the same strategy. The Empire didn’t crush their spirit outright; it wore them down, turned them into cogs in its machine.
But now, that machine is rusting.
And it just so happened that she was supposed to grease it up and fix it.
Ries leaned back in her chair, tail twitching in irritation. A Beastwoman, an outsider by all accounts, now tasked with preserving the system that had systematically marginalized her people.
The wide double doors to her office creaked open, and Clarissa stepped inside, her boots clicking softly against the floor. She approached with her usual serious working face.
“Madam Prime Minister, a message from Director Vaspier,” Clarissa said, extending the paper toward her.
Ries didn’t reach for it. Instead, she let out a groan. “What is it now?”
Clarissa cleared her throat, glancing briefly at the paper. “Ahem, the Director has finished another round of arrests but has not captured the leaders of the CDLWP. He suspects they may have left the city.”
Ries’ ears flattened slightly, a subtle yet telling sign of her growing frustration. “Let me guess. He’s asking for more resources to continue the manhunt?”
“Not explicitly,” Clarissa replied, “but he’s implying it. The arrests have stirred unrest, and tensions are escalating in the districts where the raids occurred.”
Ries sat upright with a sigh, crossing her arms as her tail swished in annoyance. “So, he’s swept up every dissident in sight but let the ringleaders escape. Brilliant.”
Clarissa remained silent, awaiting her next command.
Ries exhaled deeply. “Draft a response. Tell Vaspier to shift his focus. If the CDLWP leaders are out of reach, they’re no longer an immediate threat. He should prioritize stabilizing the districts and preventing further unrest. And remind him—quietly—that evidence, not a pile of detainees and bodies, is what we need to justify these actions.”
Clarissa nodded, already scribbling down notes. “Understood, Madam Prime Minister.”
Ries turned her attention to Haleass, who was still hunched over the map sprawled across the table, lost in thought. “Lieutenant,” she called.
“Yes, madam?” Haleass straightened instinctively, his military discipline showing.
“Don’t be so formal,” Ries interjected, waving a hand dismissively. “This isn’t the army anymore—you’re Home Affairs Minister now. What’s the situation with the rebellions?”
Haleass cleared his throat, taking a moment to adjust to the new tone. “The rebel forces have formed a loose coalition—a mix of human kingdoms, Dwarves, and various Beastman tribes. Others have rescinded the Treatise of Cooperation with the Empire but stopped short of joining the rebellion. They’ve declared neutrality in what they’re calling a ‘war of liberation.’”
Ries’ ears twitched, her tail swishing slowly behind her as she absorbed the news. “Neutrality,” she repeated, her voice dripping with skepticism. “How long before neutrality turns into open rebellion when the tide shifts in their favor?”
Haleass, still slightly stiff from his military habits, took a moment to adjust his stance. “The coalition is fragile, held together by shared grievances rather than a unified goal. Their resentment fuels their efforts, but it won’t sustain them forever. Their unity is tenuous.”
Ries leaned over the map, her eyes darting between the markers denoting rebel strongholds. “Resentment may start a war, but it can’t win one. What about their resources? Are they capable of sustaining this?”
“They’re scraping by,” Haleass admitted. “Many of the human kingdoms have stockpiles, but the Dwarves are largely funding and arming the effort. The Beastman tribes contribute manpower and terrain knowledge, but they rely heavily on the Humans and Dwarves for modern weaponry and tactics.”
“Do we have any troops to spare that isn’t fighting the Daemons?”
“Well, we do have a professional corps of—”
“A handful of elites against hundreds of thousands? Come on.” Ries huffed in exasperation. “The Empire governs over a hundred million people but can barely field half a million soldiers? How is that even possible?”
Haleass shifted uneasily, clearing his throat. “That… stems from historical practices. Standing armies are expensive to maintain. For centuries, the bulk of the military force was the Gendarmerie, who maintained security within the Empire.”
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“But the Empire—” Ries pressed.
“—Only fields human soldiers,” Haleass finished.
Ries’ eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Haleass straightened. “It’s a complicated matter, Madam Prime Minister. Historically, during the Empire’s conquests, it could field millions of soldiers, relying heavily on Beastman mercenaries to bolster its ranks. But as the centuries passed, the endless wars drained resources. War became exhausting, expensive, and the Empire found itself stretched thin. To manage costs and maintain tighter control, the standing army was gradually reduced. The cap eventually shrank to half a million, then four hundred, and later to just three hundred thousand.”
“And the Beastmen?”
“Beastmen and other non-humans are technically allowed to join the army and even attain officer ranks,” Haleass admitted. “But they’re exempt from conscription. The rationale was that conscription should apply only to those the Empire deemed directly responsible for its defense—humans.”
Ries leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed tightly as her tail lashed behind her with growing agitation. “So, the Empire takes advantage of non-human loyalty when it’s convenient, but avoids integrating them into its core institutions. Typical.”
“To be fair, Madam Prime Minister, it’s been a popular policy among non-humans. Avoiding conscription means they’re not dragged into the Empire’s wars, and many see it as a win-win arrangement.”
Ries scoffed. “Popular? Maybe. But it’s cowardice disguised as pragmatism. That policy allowed resentment to fester, and now look where we are—a so-called ‘war of liberation.’ Let’s call it what it is: a civil war centuries in the making.”
Haleass said nothing, sensing the shift in her tone.
Ries stood, her tail flinging slightly as she began pacing. “This rebellion is because of the Empire’s inability to enforce its own dominance. For centuries, we’ve tolerated factions, tribes, and kingdoms thinking they could exist under our banner without fully committing to it. We gave them just enough autonomy to keep them quiet and just enough distance to keep them bitter.”
Her pacing stopped abruptly, and she turned to face Haleass. “That ends now. If the Empire is to survive this war and emerge stronger, we must crush any illusion that independence is possible. These so-called rebels need to understand that the state is absolute.”
“First, we extinguish this rebellion—completely. No half-measures, no negotiations. Any faction that has declared war against the Empire must be brought to heel. If they want to claim ‘neutrality,’ fine—but neutrality means absolute compliance with our demands.”
Haleass straightened. “I’ll inform the Integration Commission. Does this mean we’re expanding conscription?”
“Yes,” Ries answered without hesitation. “Draft a second wave of conscription. This time, all able-bodied males of any race will be called to serve. The era of exemptions is over. The Empire belongs to all who live within its borders, and that means all will fight for it.” She jabbed a finger at the map. “Set a target of two million men before the new year. I don’t care what it takes—logistics, propaganda, coercion. Make it happen.”
“Understood,” Haleass already moved as he typed on the on the typewriter.
“Tell the Lord-Marshal to hold his ground against the Daemons. We’ll deal with them when the time comes, but right now, the rebellions take precedence. If we allow this insubordination to fester, we won’t have an Empire left to defend.” She continued.
Haleass nodded, his hands moving quickly as he typed her orders on the typewriter.
Ries’s tail flicked impatiently as she watched him work. “How many men in basic training haven’t been deployed to the frontlines?”
Haleass paused, referring to his notes. “Around a hundred and forty thousand are currently in basic training but not yet deployed to the front.”
“Good,” Ries nodded. “Good. Deploy them immediately to the provinces. They’ll assume control from the local nobilities and establish direct Imperial authority. Any noble who resists is to be stripped of their title and power—by force, if necessary.”
Haleass resumed typing. “Understood. Is there anything else, Madam Prime Minister?”
Ries tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing. “None for now,” she said firmly.
Haleass stood, snapping a salute before turning on his heel and disappearing through the wide double doors. The sound of his boots echoed faintly down the corridor as the doors closed behind him.
Ries stood alone, her gaze fixed on the map laid across the table. Each marker and line represented not just territories, but people—millions of lives hanging on the edge of her decisions. Her hand lightly tapped against the wood as she considered her next move.
The room was quiet now, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace in the corner. Ries reached for a pen. The rebellion was not just a military threat—it was a challenge to the Empire’s authority, a symptom of centuries of mismanagement, complacency, and division. If the Empire was to survive, she would need more than soldiers and proclamations.
Ironic, isn’t it?
Her pen scratched across the paper as she signed the decree to accompany the conscription orders.
> IMPERIAL DECREE 2112-1-200
>
> By the authority vested in the Prime Minister of the Empire, acting in the name of Her Most Serene Majesty, Her Imperial Majesty Valerys IX, the Empress Eternal, the following directive is hereby issued and shall be observed throughout the realm without exception:
>
> 1. Immediate Implementation of Direct Imperial Governance
>
> 1.1. All regions, provinces, and territories under the Empire’s dominion shall come under the direct governance of the central Imperial administration, effective immediately.
>
> 1.2. Provincial noble families are to cede all administrative, judicial, and executive powers to Imperial-appointed officials.
>
> 1.3. Imperial governors, acting as direct representatives of the Crown, shall oversee governance, enforce Imperial law, collect taxes, and manage resources.
>
> 1.4. Any noble family that resists this mandate shall be declared in rebellion against the Crown, and their titles, lands, and assets shall be forfeit. Treasonous individuals will face prosecution under Imperial law.
>
> 2. National Census
>
> 2.1. A nationwide census shall be conducted to catalog the population's total numbers, including detailed demographic, occupational, and socio-economic data.
>
> 2.2. Census officials will coordinate with local administrators to ensure accuracy and completeness, utilizing standardized forms and records maintained by the Imperial Bureau of Population Affairs.
>
> 2.3. The census will identify all able-bodied individuals eligible for conscription, with particular focus on males aged 16–45, without exception to race or regional origin.
>
> 2.4. The results of the census will inform conscription quotas to meet the target of raising an additional two million soldiers by year’s end.
>
> 2.5. Any attempts to evade the census or provide false information shall be treated as an act of defiance against Imperial authority, punishable by law.
>
> 3. Conscription
>
> 3.1. The policy of conscription is hereby expanded to include all able-bodied citizens, irrespective of race, religion, class, or region.
>
> 3.2. Exemptions from military service are revoked, with the sole exceptions being clergy and individuals with certified medical conditions as determined by the Imperial Bureau of Health and Social Services.
>
> 3.3. Conscripts will be categorized based on age, skills, racial skills, and physical fitness for assignment to combat or logistical roles.
>
> 3.4. Training facilities will operate on an expanded schedule to accommodate the influx of recruits, with resources allocated for additional instructors and supplies.
>
>
>
> This decree shall take effect immediately and supersedes any regional laws or policies that conflict with its provisions.
>
> Issued and proclaimed this day under my hand and seal,
>
> Anise Des Katzennia,
>
> Prime Minister,
>
> In the name of Her Most Serene Majesty, Valerys IX.
Moments later, Clarissa entered, carrying a stack of papers. “Madam Prime Minister, your schedule for the afternoon,” she began, but stopped when she saw Ries deep in thought, staring at the decree.
“What is it, Clarissa?” Ries asked without looking up.
“Just wondering, Madam,” Clarissa said carefully, “are you certain this path is the best way to secure the Empire’s future?”
Ries let out a long, weary sigh, leaning back in her chair. "I don’t know, to be honest. I’m doing what I believe needs to be done to hold this train wreck together."
Clarissa stepped closer, carefully setting the papers down on the desk. "And that includes suppressing dissent, censoring the press, and deploying the military to dismantle provincial governments?"
Ries’s tail flicked in mild annoyance as she rolled her eyes. "If you’ve got a better idea, Clarissa, I’m all ears." One of her feline ears twitched, angling slightly as though to emphasize her words.
"I… I suppose not," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Never mind, Madam."
Ries scoffed lightly and turned her attention back to the decree. "That’s what I thought," she muttered, though her voice lacked its usual bite.
It was ironic, really.
If not for the war, the election results would have been finalized by now, and she would have been free from this overwhelming burden. Free to return to a simpler life as a Beastman, untouched by the chaos of politics. Albeit, a much wealthier Beastman.
Fifty million Virs wealthier, to be exact.
The thought brought a fleeting smirk to her lips, though it was quickly replaced by a scowl. The Valyryan Stock Exchange had been her golden goose, at least for a time. Brokers and financiers, desperate to curry favor or secure her ear, had practically handed her insider knowledge of lucrative stock options. It was almost too easy.
But now, that same stock exchange teetered on the edge of collapse, barely saved from a full-scale free fall. And as if she didn’t already have enough on her plate, the very same people who had once showered her with tips and gifts were now groveling at her feet, begging her to stabilize the markets and save their fortunes.
Her tail twitched irritably as she leaned back in her chair. “Apparently, everything is my responsibility now.” She sighs.
She glanced at the stacks of papers on her desk, most of them dire reports about the state of the economy, the military, and the rebellions. The Empire was tearing apart at the seams, and it seemed like everyone expected her to sew it back together.
“Clarissa,” Ries called, not bothering to look up, “what’s the status of the CDLWP?”
She glanced up from her clipboard. “Hm? Oh, the ISD has harshly cracked down on them, in the capital and other major cities, with more than a hundred thousand arrests…” She trailed off, “though as the Director said before, the leadership has yet to be caught.”
Ries’ brow furrowed, her ears tilting slightly forward. “And what’s the likelihood of them setting up a rival government somewhere? Another rebellion is the last thing we need right now.”
“Unlikely,” Clarissa replied with a shrug. “Their primary support base has always been the working class. With the ISD rounding up their members in industrial cities, their organizational structure has been effectively dismantled for the time being.”
“Great,” Ries muttered, though the relief in her tone was thin. She leaned back, tapping her fingers on the desk. “At least that’s one less fire to put out.”
“However, we do have ongoing communications with the so-called ‘liberal wing’ of the CDLWP. They’ve distanced themselves from the more radical factions and are expressing interest in... dialogue.”
Ries leaned back in her chair, waving her hand dismissively. “Hm? Oh, them… just tell them they’ll get their election once the war is over. That should keep them quiet for now.”
Clarissa hesitated, as if weighing whether to respond, but before she could speak, a knock echoed from the door. “Ah,” Clarissa said quickly, setting her clipboard aside and moving to the door. “It must be them.”
As she opened the heavy double doors, two older gentlemen stepped inside. Both were distinguished, their ages no less than seventy, yet they carried themselves with the energy of men still deeply engrossed in their work.
“Gentlemen, welcome, welcome…” Ries greeted them warmly, rising from her chair and motioning for them to sit. Her voice carried a practiced air of confidence, though inwardly, she already dreaded the complexity of the conversation to come.
Economics or finance wasn’t her strong suit—far from it. And with the position of Economics Minister still vacant, the burden of managing the Empire’s precarious financial situation fell squarely on her shoulders. The two men before her represented some of the brightest minds in their respective fields in the Empire, both holding respectable PhDs and decades of experience.
Key word: their fields.
As Clarissa guided them to their seats, Ries took a moment to size them up. They offered two very distinct—and very different—economic reform packages, both of which she now had to consider.
The first, Professor Edvard Malreych, was a staunch advocate of austerity.
The second, Dr. Harland Breck, represented an entirely different school of thought. A Keynesian by philosophy, his plan centered on massive government investments and government intervention.
Ries folded her arms as the two men settled, quietly and gently pushing the desk drawer containing packs of candy, important decrees that has yet to be signed, and biographies of the two men before her.
“Thank you both for coming on such short notice,” she began. “As you’re aware, the Empire is at a breaking point. Rebellion, war, economic instability, stock market collapse—you name it, we’re facing it. What I need from you isn’t just theory; I need actionable solutions that will hold this fragile structure together.”
Ries leaned forward, her gaze shifting between the two economists. “You’re both here because the Empire is hanging by a thread, and I need to make a decision that could either save it or push it further into chaos. Professor Malreych, Dr. Breck, the floor is yours.”
Professor Malreych adjusted his glasses as he began. “Madam Prime Minister, the current state of the treasury is unsustainable. The state is hemorrhaging money, with expenses vastly outstripping revenues. War expenditures, bloated bureaucracies, and frivolous subsidies must be curtailed. I propose cutting non-essential government programs by sixty percent, raising taxes on luxury goods, and instituting a temporary wartime income tax.”
Dr. Breck interjected almost immediately. “Cutting spending by sixty percent?! Are you mad?! That’s a recipe for disaster. The Empire’s economy is already teetering. Slashing budgets will shut down factories, put thousands out of work, and only exacerbate unrest. My plan calls for a five billion Virs investment in infrastructure—roads, railways, and ports—paired with wage subsidies for key industries. This would provide immediate jobs and stimulate economic activity.”
Malreych scoffed. “Stimulate activity? On borrowed money, no less! The Empire is already drowning in debt. Your so-called investments would drive inflation through the roof, eroding whatever meager savings the working class has left.”
Breck crossed his arms. “Inflation, while a concern, can be managed. What’s unmanageable is the complete collapse of demand. Factories need orders, workers need wages, and the military-industrial complex needs to keep moving. Austerity will kill what little momentum we have.”
Malreych’s tone grew colder. “And where do you propose we get the five billion Virs for your infrastructure dream? Shall we conjure it out of thin air? Borrow from foreign lenders? Sell bonds no one has faith in anymore?”
Ries rubbed her temples as her tail swished irritably behind her. The rapid back-and-forth between the two economists was like a duel with words, but instead of swords, they wielded charts, theories, and carefully concealed insults. Or maybe not.
"This is making my head hurt... again," she muttered under her breath, her feline ears twitching.
Breck noticed her expression and adjusted his tone, leaning back slightly. “Madam Prime Minister, I understand this may seem overwhelming. But my plan isn’t just about infrastructure; it’s about hope. The people need to see progress—new roads, factories reopening, reindustrialization, children fed. That’s what will keep this Empire together.”
Malreych, however, was unrelenting. “Hope doesn’t balance budgets, Dr. Breck. Madam Prime Minister, the war alone is costing us eight hundred million Virs per month and rising, rising! If we continue hemorrhaging funds, even your infrastructure projects won’t save us. We need a fiscal lifeline, not wishful thinking.”
Ries raised a hand, silencing them both. “Alright, let me make sure I’ve got this straight. Dr. Breck, you want to spend five billion Virs we don’t have to rebuild the economy and restore confidence, banking on future growth to pay for it. And Professor Malreich, you want to slash spending, raise taxes, and basically hope the treasury stabilizes before the people revolt. Do I have that right?”
Both men nodded, though Breck looked far more pleased with her summary than Malreich.
“Alright, well… Clarissa,” Clarissa’s head snapped to hers. “Could you please err… explain the implementations of…” Ries hesitated, searching for the right words as she gestured vaguely toward the two men. “...the implementations of both their plans? You know, in practical terms, like what they would actually mean for the average person.”
Clarissa, gave a slight nod and flipped through her clipboard. “Certainly, Madam.” She turned toward Malreyh first. “Professor Malreych’s austerity plan would involve immediate cuts to government-funded programs, including subsidies for agriculture, education, and certain public works. Taxes on income and essential goods would also rise, particularly targeting middle and upper-income brackets. This would stabilize the treasury in theory, but it risks escalating public dissatisfaction and deepening the recession in the short term.”
She then shifted her attention to Breck. “Dr. Breck’s proposal, on the other hand, would see an influx of government spending on major infrastructure projects, creating jobs and stimulating the economy. However, it would require significant borrowing—either from domestic or foreign lenders—or the issuance of new government bonds, which could destabilize the already fragile credit market. Inflation would likely rise, putting additional strain on low-income households.”
Ries leaned back in her chair, groaning. “So, in one scenario, people get angry because we’re taking away everything they need. In the other, they get angry because their money doesn’t buy anything anymore. Great. Just great.”
Breck interjected with a calm but firm tone. “Madam Prime Minister, the question isn’t whether people will be unhappy—that’s inevitable in times like these. The question is, which path leads to recovery, even if it’s painful in the short term? My plan gives people work and hope.”
Malreich countered immediately. “And what good is work and hope if hyperinflation wipes out savings and pensions?”
Clarissa cleared her throat, drawing their attention. “Madam, if I may, there is another consideration. Both plans would require significant administrative resources to implement. The bureaucracy is already overstretched managing the war effort and rebellion crackdowns. Whichever route you choose, the burden on the state apparatus will increase.”
Ries smirked humorlessly, leaning forward with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Hah~ whatever, it’s their job to make it work. Or maybe I need to slash the bureaucracy from six million to, say, three or two million, too? Wouldn’t that be fun?”
Clarissa hesitated. “That… is not recommended, Madam.”
“Well, regardless, Professor, Doctor,” Ries said, sitting upright and nodding to both of them. “I’ll consider both of your proposals carefully. Perhaps we can come to a compromise?”
Malreich scoffed, adjusting his glasses. “A compromise rarely satisfies either side, Prime Minister.”
Breck agreed. “Indeed.”
Ries sighed inwardly as the two men rose from their seats, nodding curtly before making their exits. As soon as the door closed, she slumped back into her chair, her tail flicking in irritation. “Great. I just booked myself front seats for the ‘Economics Gladiator’ championship.”
Clarissa suppressed a small smile as she collected her clipboard. “You did well, Madam. They’ll push each other, and with some luck, we might get a workable plan. oh, before I forget, the Central Bank did also provide us with their own version of economic reform.”
Ries raised an eyebrow. “Fantastic. And how does theirs differ from the brawl we just witnessed?”
Clarissa flipped through her clipboard, finding the relevant document with practiced efficiency. “The Central Bank’s proposal focuses on monetary policy rather than fiscal intervention. They’re suggesting a combination of measures, including raising interest rates to curb inflation, introducing stricter controls on currency circulation, and stabilizing the Vir through direct intervention in the financial markets. Also reforms on the currency itself to eliminate the Silver and Gold Virs.”
Ries groaned, her ears flattening slightly. “So… instead of cutting spending or throwing money at infrastructure, they want to choke the economy until it behaves?”
“Essentially, yes,” Clarissa replied. “They believe tightening monetary policy will restore confidence in the currency and prevent further destabilization. It’s a more technical approach but one that shifts the burden away from direct government action.”
“And the downside?”
“Higher interest rates would make borrowing prohibitively expensive for both businesses and individuals. It could stifle growth in key sectors and exacerbate unemployment in the short term. There’s also the risk of public backlash if people feel the Central Bank is prioritizing financial stability over their immediate needs.”
“Lovely,” Ries muttered. “So, let me get this straight. One plan starves the Empire, the other floods it, and this one ties its hands behind its back and asks it to stay still while being baked in the sunlight while everyone throws rocks.”
“An apt summary, Madam,” Clarissa said with a faint smile.
Ries slumped further in her chair. “Remind me again why I wanted this job?”
“You didn’t,”
Ries chuckled dryly. “Fair point. Alright, here’s what we’re going to do. Schedule a meeting with the Central Bank’s representatives. I want to hear their pitch directly.”
“Understood, Madam.” Clarissa jotted it down. Then, as if remembering something, she added, “Oh, and the Borian Ambassador has requested an audience.”
Ries groaned and buried her face in her hands. “Of course. Because why wouldn’t today get worse?”
“Shall I tell him you’re unavailable?”
“No,” Ries sighed, dragging her hands down her face. “Put him on the schedule... after I’ve had at least one cup of coffee stronger than my will to live.”
----------------------------------------
Irvin was an honest man—an honest Beastman. Though the memories of his people’s expulsion from their native lands weighed heavily on his heart, he had found solace in the structured chaos of the Empire. It wasn’t perfect, but its systems—especially its sense of order and the value of money—had allowed him to rebuild. His fishing supply business thrived in the bustling west-coast city he now called home, a far cry from the simpler, barter-based life of his tribe.
As an Ursine Beastman, Irvin looked every bit the part of a bear. His large frame and grizzled fur gave him a formidable appearance, but his gentle demeanor quickly dispelled any fears. He was a patient man, known for his even temper and generous spirit. It was this calm reliability that had earned him the trust of his human and Beastman customers alike. He had brought his family to this city for a better life, and despite the war raging just across the coast, Irvin remained steadfast in his belief that the Empire would prevail like it always did.
It was a quiet morning in his shop. The scent of saltwater mingled with the earthy aroma of freshly polished wood as he cleaned the countertop. Business had been steady, and he had just finished arranging a new shipment of nets and bait.
The rumble of an approaching vehicle caught his attention. Glancing out the window, he saw a military truck grind to a halt outside his shop. His thick brow furrowed. What now? he thought. Inspections? A demand for bribes? The Empire’s bureaucracy had its share of problems, and dealings with the military were rarely pleasant.
The bell above the door jingled as it opened. A human soldier in a crisp military uniform stepped inside, his boots clicking against the wooden floor. Irvin straightened, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he sized them up.
The soldier’s gaze was sharp, though not overtly hostile. “Mr. Irvin,” he began, his tone firm and formal, “I am Lieutenant Marko of the Imperial Army. I am here under orders to bring one Leo into the service.”
Irvin’s heart sank. His chest tightened as the weight of the words settled in. No, it can’t be. Right?
“Leo…? My son?” His voice was tinged with disbelief and a rising panic. “What? Why? We Beastmen are exempt from conscription!”
Marko remained impassive, his stance rigid. “New orders, Mr. Irvin. Imperial Decree 2112-1-200 states that conscription is now shared by all races who are citizens of the Empire, regardless of origin or prior exemptions.”
Irvin’s fists clenched, his large frame trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “That’s absurd! Beastmen have always been left out of your wars. You took our lands, our pride, and now you want to take our children?” His voice grew louder, a rumble that made the bottles on nearby shelves vibrate.
The lieutenant stood his ground. “I don’t make the laws, Mr. Irvin. The Empire needs every able-bodied citizen to defend against the Daemon threat. Your son has been selected. This isn’t up for debate.”
Irvin’s ears twitched, his gaze flickering toward the stairs leading to the family’s living quarters above the shop. “He’s just a boy,” Irvin growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. “Barely of age, with no training. What use could he be to your war machine?”
The lieutenant glanced at his watch. “Your son has until sunrise tomorrow to report to the recruitment officer at the city center. Failure to comply will result in fines, penalties, and charges of treason. Good day.”
With that, Lieutenant Marko turned on his heel and strode out, the jingle of the shop bell marking his departure.
Irvin stood frozen, staring at the door as it closed. His hands trembled, and a storm of anger and helplessness churned in his chest. The Empire had already taken so much—his tribe’s lands, their freedom, their pride—and now it wanted his son.
He took a deep, shaky breath, trying to steady himself. Slowly, he turned and made his way upstairs. Each step felt heavier than the last, the creak of the wooden stairs echoing like a tolling bell.
When he reached Leo’s room, the sight of his son stopped him in his tracks. Leo sat cross-legged on the floor, tinkering with a fishing reel, his face lit with quiet concentration and youthful enthusiasm.
“Dad?” Leo looked up, his bright eyes immediately clouding with concern. “What’s wrong?”
Irvin opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed hard, his voice strained as he finally forced the words out.
“Leo… we need to talk.”