Chapter 578 (Patreon)

https://docs.google.com/document/d/16Z1g6veHf4aZfMXwgUupd5E84IPdkwKdf-nVFxfq5Bg/edit?usp=sharing

Given how the banquet hall is attached to the Central Citadel’s central command centre, which is located at the centre of the Citadel, I figured it wouldn’t take too long to mosey on over to the Legate’s meeting room situated in the eastern wing.

I was sorely mistaken.

Since I knew I’d be travelling indoors with the Death Corps at my side, I didn’t think it’d be necessary to ride Zabu, but after twenty minutes of speed-walking through hallways, gardens, gates, and more, I’m beginning to understand why the Legate prefers to be carried around on a palanquin. It’s hardly imposing to show up at meetings all sweaty and out of breath, though unlike me, the Legate has a fully functioning Core and could probably run a marathon in twenty minutes or less, so I doubt he’d run into the same issues I have.

What I’m trying to say is, I should’ve asked for a horse, quin, or palanquin. Now if I die, I’ll leave a pit-stained carcass reeking of gas and body odour. Also, I ate too much and have to go pee, but can’t keep the Legate waiting...

The long march offers an insightful view into the heart of Central’s Citadel, which is essentially a mid-sized fortress that doubles as the central command centre. From the outside, it looks like one giant, fortified courtyard manor, but inside, it’s not quite as comfy. Behind the banquet hall is a giant kitchen and mess hall, which is ordinarily meant for soldiers staying in the attached guardhouses. After peeking behind the curtains, so to speak, it becomes clear to me that the banquet hall is not a banquet hall at all, but rather a massive gatehouse-slash-foyer to the fortress proper. Those side doors which the servants came in through? They open into a wide stone hallway which leads back to the mess hall and nowhere else, meaning their sole purpose is to allow troops to sally into the foyer from multiple directions instead of funnelling in from one or two choke-points at the back. It’s an indoor killing ground, plain and simple, because steel gates and barricaded doors are a poor defence against Demons and Defiled Champions.

And behind the guardhouses? Another open killing ground and inner wall, and then another one, and another one. The outer walls aren’t built to indefinitely keep the Defiled out, but rather to contain, corral, and direct them into multiple arranged killboxes which work no matter what direction the Defiled are approaching from.

It looks fairly effective, and is probably large enough to house most of the soldiers stationed here, but it also speaks to the lack of confidence Central’s Colonel Generals have in holding the outer wall proper. Plus, it makes me wonder why the Defiled don’t just use their Spiritual Weapons to tunnel through the walls, not just here, but also at the Wall walls. I suppose because climbing is faster, and the Imperial soldiers guarding the walls don’t just stand around doing nothing, but still. Something to keep in mind, I suppose, in case I ever need to assault a fortress, though I can’t imagine a scenario in which that would be relevant. Defiled don’t defend, they attack, and if I ever come across any Imperial rebels, I’d be more likely to join them than take up arms to put them down. The Azure Empire sucks donkey dick, with most, if not all, of its problems stemming from the top, what with the despotic nobility, unmitigated cronyism, appalling social policies, and complete lack of progress and innovation.

Then again, how much of that is intentional? Given the ever present threat of insidious Spectres, raising the standard quality of life might prove disastrous. It’s human nature to never be satisfied and always want more, so if you stick your peasants in dirt hovels and with barely enough to survive, it doesn’t take much to keep them happy. Take Qing-Qing for example. Her life was... well, it was pretty terrible. She made Cinderella’s life look pleasant because at least that girl had a family. In contrast, Qing-Qing only had her fellow villagers, who, in my opinion, only looked after her out of a sense of guilt, rather than belonging. She worked her fingers to the bone to make it through each and every day, and held fast to her dream of escaping from the village to see the world at large. She didn’t want anything fancy, just a happy, safe life somewhere away from where she grew up.

In contrast, entitled nobles throwing shit-fits over verbal snubs is a daily occurrence, which is just plain embarrassing for the human race in general.

But that’s humanity in a nutshell, so full of hope and promise, but only under the right circumstances. Hard lives make for hard people, because when your existence depends on toiling away at every waking hour of the day, you don’t really have the time to care about much else. While it might seem counter-intuitive, I doubt a modern, technological society would be better equipped to handle Spectres and Defilement than the Empire’s people. I don’t have all my memories from my past life, or even most of them, but the ones I do have are neither rose-coloured nor optimistic. I had to create a second personality just to handle my Spectres, and it’s no accident I envisioned Baledagh as a native, because... well, let’s face it. I’m weak and doughy on the inside. I bitch, moan, mope, and cry all the time, because when I first arrived, I was not equipped to deal with hardships. Hell, I pretty much shut down for two years after arriving in the village and barely talked to anyone besides Lin-Lin. I looked after the twins and spent time with my family, but to this day, I’ve never really opened up to them about my problems, not entirely.

Part of that is because I’ll never convince myself that I’m anything besides a body-snatching outsider who doesn’t belong here, but let’s be real. Even if I wasn’t, I’d find some other excuse to hold back, because that’s just who I am. I’m socially retarded and I like it that way.

My unflattering introspection comes to an end as I finally arrive at my destination, a luxurious walled-off palace situated inside this fortress inside a citadel. Maybe there’s a manor inside the palace and we can keep this joke going, but standing outside the palace gates, I find myself in no mood for jokes anymore. This is it. This is the end of the line. Once through these ornate steel doors, up the paved path lined by immaculate shrubbery, through the marble manor doors, and up a series of posh stairs and decorated hallways, there’s no turning back. Then again, it’s not like I could’ve turned back before this, because one does not stand up the Legate, but at least I could entertain the option.

As if on cue, my Death Corps guards fall into formation just outside the gate, save for Kuang Biao who moves up to my side and follows along. He doesn’t keep a half step back like he normally does when escorting me around, but marches along right beside me with hand on sword and eyes facing forward. He’s not guarding against assassins, not here in the heart of the Legate’s power. No, he’s no longer my protector, but my warden, escorting me to what might well be my final meeting with the Legate. There is no regret in his eyes, nor is there a warning or threat, and in fact, it feels like he’s going out of his way to ignore my inquisitive stare, which as things stand, is probably answer enough.

I stand alone here, without family, friend, or floof to draw strength from, and this terrifies me more than the prospect of death.

Since it appears Kuang Biao knows where we’re going, I let him lead the way up to a stately room situated on the fifth floor of the palace. Instead of barging in through the ornate double doors, he brings me aside and makes me stand at attention with my back to the wall, which is fine by me since it gives me time to catch my breath and mop the sweat from my brow. Though burning with questions, I keep silent and ignore Kuang Biao because the alternative would hurt too much. We never really got along, but I thought I was growing on him, so I’m kind of shocked he didn’t try to warn me or anything. I suppose this explains what he’s been doing with all the free time I’ve recently given him, sneaking off to report to the Legate, because how else would he know his way around the building? They’re not even trying to hide it anymore, because I never would have even considered this if the Seneschal had been waiting outside to receive me like he normally does.

Okay, yea, an argument could be made that Kuang Biao would be right to hate me, since I am kinda, sorta the reason he went from free Royal Guardian to Oath-Bound Death Corps, but in my defence, I didn’t know that would happen when I outed him during new years. Besides, if anything, he should blame the asshole who sent him out to fight Gerel in the first place. Royal Guardians have no place taking part in an outer-province feud...

The double doors swing open without warning and I straighten up to full attention, fixating my eyes on the wall across from me so they won’t wander or stare. Eight elaborately dressed individuals make their way out of the room in pairs, some young, some old, and all but one unfamiliar. Oozing smug disdain in his golden, dragon-motif robes, Yang Jixing smirks as he saunters by while pretending he doesn’t see me standing there, but I can tell he’s watching for my reaction. No idea what he expects to see, but it doesn’t take much to look bored, because I actually kinda am.

I’m sleepy, stuffed, and floof deprived, so death is looking more enticing with each passing minute, because at least then I get to rest.

Unable to see Jixing’s reaction, I continue to stand there until their footsteps fade into nothingness, at which point Kuang Biao grabs me by the arm and pushes me inside. As he shuts the door behind me, I salute and bow while gathering my bearings, but there’s not much to see. The room is as grand and opulent as expected of the Legate’s private meeting room, decorated with several pieces of artwork gifted by yours truly, including the painting Luo-Luo forged to entrap Jixing. I have no idea if anything ever came of it, but then again, I wouldn’t, since the Legate never tells me anything except what I need to know.

The most important thing to note, however, is the complete and utter lack of Concealed Divinities. This is good... we’re alone, so it’s just crippled me against a man whose title literally translates to ‘Divine True Warrior’. I’ve faced worse odds, I suppose...

Once again, the Legate poses for my entrance, but this time, instead of cool and aloof, he’s gone for ‘concerned contemplation’. Back straight and legs crossed, he leans on one elbow with his chin ever so slightly being propped up by his hand, because Mother forbid he actually look nervous or brooding. No, he is quietly considering his options, tapping one finger against his armrest at a slow and sedate pace, to put me in mind of a steady hand and steady heart-beat so as to be sure I understand how calm he is. The only thing that’s missing is a chess table with a game in progress, so I can look at the pieces and see just how complex his conundrum is and emphasize that matters are far beyond my meagre comprehension.

Everything the Legate does, he does with a purpose. Meeting me for the first time in front of all of Central’s bigwigs, feigning fascination with Ping Ping, setting me up as the turtle attendant, gifting me Luo-Luo, they were all moves on a chessboard made after considering his options. I might not understand why he does what he does or what he intends to do next, but after a year of dancing to his tune, I know he never does anything without reason. He wants me to see that he hasn’t made his decision yet, and I’ll bet my fortune it’s because he’s not done with me yet.

I still have something he wants, but I have no idea what it might be. Could be anything really, but this is good. Or at least, it’s not the worst outcome, because it means I still have value. Truth be told, I was half expecting the Seneschal to knife me the second I walked in, though the night is still young...

“At ease.” No offer to take a seat, not this time, so I stand with spear held behind me and hands away from my sword as the Legate puts on a show of consternation. “You present me with something of a conundrum,” he says, still tap, tap, tapping away at a slow and steady pace. “I had planned to have you lie about a recovery to make that the issue of focus, but alas, you exceeded expectations. Between your performance at the opera theatre, survival at the tea house, and your analysis tonight, any claim of good health would actually be believable and you’d find challengers lining up in the streets, but you and I both know you are far from recovered.” Narrowing his eyes, he asks, “How did you survive the tea house, by the way? The poison we picked out was rather unique, and I hardly can believe someone besides the Medical Saint could have treated it.”

Ha. You wanna know? Too bad. “...I was poisoned at the tea house?”

“Fine. I am not an ungenerous man. Keep your secrets.” Not a bad move, letting me be defiant, because it reinforces the impression that he’s on my side. Still leaning on his hand, he offers a small smile and says, “Now, with the outer provinces working together to force my hand, I am left with precious few options. The most obvious move would be to remove your Imperial status and let you live out your life in peace and solitude, but doing so plays directly into my opponents hands. I appear ungracious and lose potential allies, while my foes are free to dictate what benefits an outer-provincial Imperial Consort might enjoy, while their own chosen pawns benefit.”

Yea, like this was ever a real option. The Legate can gaslight all he wants, but he never intended to let me go free. Not just because his opponents would benefit, but also because there’s nothing to be gained from my freedom.

Seemingly aware of his weak argument, the Legate moves on to his next point after a sip of his tea. “Another option is to exert my influence to ensure you are treated as a proper Imperial Consort, with all the respect and dignity the title deserves. Not much, inside the Clan, but out here? You would stand first above all others, for the Imperial Clan stands behind you.” I’m not tempted in the least, but again, I think the Legate knows this, which raises the question of why he’s bothering with the narration. “My third choice is to do nothing and leave you to be trampled by the imminent arrival of your soon-to-be raised peers, which is not much of an option at all, since doing so would be the same as admitting defeat. The Imperial Clan loses face, the outer provinces lose faith, and I will be seen as the man who rewarded a promising young talent with a target painted on his back.”

Which is exactly what he did, but that’s not the problem. The problem is he got caught doing it, and he has the gall to sound annoyed because he has to justify his actions. Jerk.

Perhaps sensing my hostility despite my averted eyes and submissive posture, he moves on from explanations to thinly veiled threats. “My best option would be to permanently remove you from play, a move you’ve made abundantly clear would not be without repercussion.” Letting his displeasure be known with a vexed scowl and suspenseful pause, he flashes his smooth smile once again as he leans back in his chair. “A heavy price, but one I can afford, though it seems like such a waste of a valuable young talent who is in the midst of what appears to be a miraculous recovery. Wouldn’t you agree, Honoured Uncle?”

An older, dapper gentleman with a clean-shaven chin and piercing brown eyes emerges from Concealment and takes me by complete surprise, lounging in his chair beside the Legate and proving that my anti-Concealment detection methods are not without fail. “I would not,” he begins, his tone dripping with condescension. “Thus far, I’ve found your pet ‘Imperial’ savage...” Raising a porcelain teacup to his lips with a hand laden with enough rings and bracelets to buy a country, he sips his tea, smacks his lips, and sighs. “Frankly disappointing.”

Rude, but it’ll take more than that to ruffle my feathers. Knowing better than to speak without permission, I keep my eyes fixed on their knees and study both men in silence. It’s telling how the Legate leans towards his uncle, rather than away, which shows he’s seeking comfort from the older man, or at least comfortable enough to lower his guard. How curious. Even more curious is how the Legate speaks in my defence, and I don’t really know what to make of it. “Appearances can be deceiving, Honoured Uncle,” the Legate says, “And I believe you will find this one full of surprises.”

“Hmph.” Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, Honoured Uncle puts his tea cup down and the Legate moves to fill it. “Tell me,” he begins, picking up a copy of my book from the tea table which until now, went completely unnoticed. Was this because I wasn’t paying attention, or was the book also Concealed? Dammit, and here I thought I’d found a way to spot all the sneaky spies... “Who devised this idea of paper money?”

...Not the question I expected, but not as bad as the ones I imagined. “I did, Great One.”

Honoured Uncle grimaces in displeasure, but thankfully, not because I used the wrong honorific. “I do not believe you,” he says, opening the book up to the relevant sections at the back. “But if you are the architect behind this, then I’m sure you have a proposal to convince the wealthy people of the Empire to hand over all their hard earned gold in exchange for worthless scraps of paper?”

“With all due respect Great One, gold in and of itself is inherently worthless, aside from the value we place upon it. Coins are merely a representation of value, so why gold, silver, and copper instead of jade, tin, or paper?”

“Because precious metals are rare, and therefore not easily attainable.” Waving a hand as if he can’t be bothered to go in depth, Honoured Uncle scoffs and says, “But you would have us use paper instead, which is so cheaply made it can take years to recoup the initial investment.”

Ha. Sounds like someone tried to start a paper-making business without thinking things through. “There are countermeasures against forgeries, which I’ve listed in the book, like using silk paper, rare inks, ciphered messages, or hidden drawings. I didn’t spend too much time on the matter, because the details are best kept secret, but I am confident the theory is sound, Great One.” Seeing Honoured Uncle isn’t quite convinced, I toy with the idea of letting things drop, but this could be my chance to get out of this alive. “What’s more, paper currency won’t have to completely replace coinage, as they can both be used in tandem. Limit the notes to excessively large values and nobles and merchants alike will rush to adopt the new system, since it’s easier to secure a stack of papers than a treasure room full of gold. From there, it is only a matter of time before the practice moves down to the less affluent.”

“So you say, but they would be fools to trade their rooms full of gold for a promise written on paper.”

“Then don’t give them a choice.” Having finally caught his interest, I try not to smile and say, “The Eastern Province is paying for all construction costs along the front lines, so it would be simple enough issue a promise of repayment in lieu of coin, but instead of writing ‘So and so is owed one thousand gold’, you write ‘the bearer of this Treasure Note is owed one thousand gold’, claimable at some place in the Eastern Province which they aren’t allowed to visit. This way, the people of the outer province can freely exchange the notes once they’re in circulation, because a debt from the Imperial Clan is sure to be paid in full. It’s good as gold.”

“‘Treasure Notes’ and ‘Good as gold’, hmph. A clever idea, but the Imperial Clan does not owe debts, not on paper at least.”

Honoured Uncle flashes a hint of a smile, which tells me all I need to know. I bet the Imperial Clan owes money to everyone, but people give face and quietly wait until they’re paid. Stupid way to run a business but I can work with this. “Then instead of directly issuing debt, call it a fund-raising effort. Say that shipments of coin are coming in too slowly, and issue uhh... War Bonds. ‘Pay nine-thousand, nine-hundred gold today, and the bearer of this note can collect ten-thousand gold in one year or anytime thereafter’. Something like that, but with properly calculated numbers. Do this in addition to Treasure Notes without calling them debt so it becomes more palatable, especially if you let them buy bonds with notes, but make sure you have both because this lets you limit the number of war bonds you sell. Dress them up as a fixed-rate investment tool and emphasize that this is to help support the Empire in this time of difficulty and save costs on moving gold around, rather than for the coin itself. Done right, and the wealthy will trip over themselves emptying their treasure rooms to become the Empire’s greatest financial supporter.”

Thereby allowing them to brag about having done something without actually fighting. Ha! Take that, face. I finally found a way to use you against my enemies.

Making a big show of flipping through the only two pages on the subject, Honoured Uncle raises a bushy, salt-and-peppered eyebrow. “I see no mention of these bonds or investment tools in your book here.”

“As I said earlier, I didn’t put much thought into it, so I came up with War Bonds just now.” I assumed the Imperial Clan bean counters would have someone capable enough to figure things out, but apparently not. Still, if this works, it’ll open up a pandora’s box full of financial dynamics, and maybe in a generation or two, once everyone is used to paper currency, someone will try something disastrous and there’ll be a crash to incite widespread revolt, one backed by Spiritual Guns and Runic Cannons.

Maybe that’s asking for too much, but a man can dream...

Continuing his laid-back interrogation with deceptive nonchalance, Honoured Uncle gives no sign of approval even after moving on from paper money. The questions range from the wide-spread uses of cast-iron to what I hope to achieve with non-flammable explosives, and even goes in depth about compound interest and futures trading, with plenty of suspicion cast upon the origins of these ideas. I answer to the best of my abilities until my voice goes hoarse from overuse, at which point, the Legate predictably steps in as good cop and suggests a short break. It’s obvious it was planned because the Seneschal immediately arrives with a piping hot pot of tea, and once I’ve wet my throat, we pick up right where we left off.

Almost two hours later, I stand with sore feet, aching back, and parched throat, but Honoured Uncle has finally run out of questions to ask. “You weren’t wrong,” he says, offering the Legate a wry smile and a shake of his head. “The savage is full of surprises, but I am still not convinced he is worth the trouble.” Speaking as if I wasn’t standing two meters away, he waves a hand as if shooing a fly and adds, “Broken as he is, and a Penitent Brother to boot, it is too much risk to take on.” Why does that second part matter? “Best to be rid of him and start over.”

“Broken, but recovering quickly. I’ll admit his ties to the Brotherhood are troublesome, and I might have acted differently if I’d known beforehand, but the arrow was loosed before I learned the Destroyer stood at his side.”

Mahakala was the Destroyer? Awesome title, but not exactly monk-like, but then again, he wasn’t exactly the best monk. Neither is the Abbot really, but who am I to point fingers?

“Then correct your error and wipe the slate clean whilst you still can.” Patting the Legate’s arm in a familiar manner, Honoured Uncle sighs in heartfelt regret, which I’d feel bad about if he wasn’t talking about having me killed out of convenience. “We all make mistakes. You over-reached bestowing the girl and title upon this savage, and our foes caught you out, so best to cut ties cleanly before they use him against you.” Affecting a fake shudder, Honoured Uncle adds, “Or worse, they go through with their threats and force everyone to acknowledge dozens of new Scions into the Clan. With only one outsider for an Imperial Consort, it was a simple matter to keep closed-lipped about the benefits and leave everyone guessing, but if their numbers grow, we must ensure they are afforded the respect and dignity the title deserves, lest the Clan lose face.” Yes, because that would be so terrible. “Remove the savage, and the title appears worthless, leaving our enemies with no pawns to play with once we reset the board.”

“Doing so would also forfeit our current advantage and give rise to unnecessary friction in the outer provinces. No, the crux of the issue lies in the title itself, which we can work with.” Obviously unconvinced, the Legate presses on as if I’m not there, but I know this whole conversation is being staged for my benefit. Otherwise, they’d throw up a Sound Barrier or converse in Sending to keep me from overhearing, unless of course they think so little of me that they don’t care if I hear them while holding a spear, sword, shield, and more knives than I can remember. “Imperial Consort is the lowest title available in the Clan, so anyone raised to this station will not be worthy of note. What harm is there in letting a select few have this title?”

“Well, your clever savage loses his worth, the Clan is lessened by an influx of undeserving fools, and our enemies gain strength in the outer provinces, all for no benefit.”

“Not if we raise his status and set him above lowly Imperial Consorts. Then we can continue ignoring the existence of these new pretenders and reward our deserving young ally.”

Eyes widening in muted shock, Honoured Uncle snorts. “Give rank to a savage cripple? You’d be the laughing stock of the family for years to come.”

“No, not rank.” Eyeing me with disappointment, the Legate sighs as if I’d failed to live up to expectations. “It would have been so much simpler if he’d been less exceptional, because then we could simply cow the outer provinces by demanding face. If I say Falling Rain is recovered, who would dare argue the fact?” Shaking his head, the Legate continues, “To think, our plans would fall through because the lie would ring too true, but there are other methods to raise his standing.”

I’m not sure if I pick up on the Legate’s meaning first, or Honoured Uncle does, but we both frown and shake our heads at the same time. Raising an eyebrow in question, the Legate almost looks amused as he asks, “Oh? I expected Honoured Uncle to balk, but what reasons do you have to refuse?”

“Sorry, Imperial Legate, but there are some things I simply will not do, and abandoning my family to join yours is one of them.” Saluting and bowing for good measure, I straighten up, shrug, and wait for death. “I already have an older brother and I’ve no interest in a new one.”

Still smiling, the Legate tilts his head and drawls, “Brother? Would Father not make more sense?”

Ah right, I’m only twenty, and not the Legate’s peer. “Er, same thing. I love my family and will not break ties with them. End of story.”

“How filial.” Seeing me bristle at his sarcastic tone, the Legate rolls his eyes and laughs. “You’re mistaken. I’ve no intention of adopting you, however exceptional you might be. No, I was thinking more along the lines of appointing you to Imperial Office.”

Oh, a job offer. Okay, yea that makes more sense, what with the whole twenty questions on finance and stuff. Well now I feel real dumb. “...And this would raise my status?”

“It would, especially with the proper title, one with no basis in combat.” A gold coin appears in the Legate’s hand and he rolls it back and forth across his knuckles with a pleased smile. “What say you, Honoured Uncle? ‘Minister of Finance’ perhaps, so as not to infringe upon the Master of Coin’s authority? A minor title with minimal benefits, but a title nonetheless. We raise his status and ensure he receives the respect he so deserves for his ingenious contributions, which makes the title of Imperial Consort look like more trouble than it’s worth so all those would-be pawns remove themselves from the fray. The provincial Marshals will back him, and as an added bonus, we can even have him implement his Treasure Notes and War Bonds, so the Clan is well-insulated against failure and only stands to benefit.”

No, no, no, this isn’t happening. I don’t wanna become a financial advisor. I’m utterly unqualified for this position. Also, this sounds like it would draw me deeper into Clan politics, which is the exact opposite of what I want. Plus, I don’t want a fucking bank job! Wait. If I’m in charge of this financial stuff, then that means I have to put in safeguards against all the shady things I was planning to do, because it’ll be my ass on the line if something goes wrong. Fuck!

Thankfully, the Mother is smiling down on me and Honoured Uncle doesn’t seem convinced. “You always were a clever boy,” he sighs, making it sound like a bad thing. “Too clever for your own good. Better if you never learned...”

“But I did, Uncle, and I will not go quietly without a fight.” Eyes burning with intensity, the Legate clenches his fist and the coin disappears into his grasp, no doubt flattened into an unrecognizable blob. “This will work. Giving Falling Rain a title seals him to our side, and leaves his allies poised to take over their respective factions or in commanding position over their rivals. Through him, we unite North and Central and bind them to our cause, which in turn puts an end to the political infighting and reassures the Southern Marshal enough to stop threatening to withdraw. With three provinces united behind us, he will have no choice but to agree, or...”

I think someone forgot I was listening, because the Legate’s jaw snaps shut and his eyes widen ever so slightly in alarm before covering his bases and going on about the Prime Minister kowtowing before them. Thankfully, I’m really good at playing dumb, though it’s hardly playing since I have no idea what he’s going on about, besides the fact that he obviously wasn’t talking about the Prime Minister, though he would like me to believe it. Whatever. This job though... I have my reservations, but it sounds like this will put an end to all the infighting and let us get on with fighting the Defiled, so... I hate to say it, but I don’t see any way out. “Um, Imperial Legate? Are there any other options?”

“Yes. I could do as Honoured Uncle suggests and spike your heart before cremating your corpse.” Though he tries to keep his tone light and breezy, the Legate is obviously infuriated I’m not beside myself with gratitude. “Refuse, and nothing will save you. Not Nian Zu and his Famed Fifty posturing for the crowds, not the Marshals and their endless appeals regarding your worth, not the Peak Experts preparing to fight to the bitter end, or even your soldiers standing ready with oil and flame to cover your escape. You will die, and even if all the outer provinces unite to protest my actions, I will scour this city clean of you, your family, your allies, and anyone else you hold dear. Your father and Grand Mentor will die next, their throats cut and heads displayed alongside all ten-thousand of their remaining tribesmen before word of your death arrives, and all this will merely be the beginning.” Sinking back into his seat after the heated delivery, the Legate spreads his hands and says, “But I prefer the carrot to the stick. Accept, and I will ensure you are afforded the respect your new Office deserves, which will be on par with the Marshals, if not exceed it. Your enemies will no longer trouble you, your detractors will no longer dare speak ill, and Broken Blade Pichai will no longer ignore your missives at the behest of his Marshal. These are but a few of the boons I offer, and a clever young man such as yourself will no doubt find a plethora of more benefits to be had.”

Intense, but I like that he failed to comment on Siyar, who already slipped into his kitchens once, and spent the last few days disguised as a servant on the Legate’s staff in order to do so again. If shit goes down and fighting breaks out, then he has orders to deliver a fatal dose of poison into the Legate’s tea, the same undetectable, indefensible stuff that almost killed me in Nan Ping, generously provided by MuYang. If I die, the Legate dies with me, but that seems like a terrible trade overall, especially since he’s implying I can use my Office to my advantage in ways I’m not sure he anticipates. “Message received,” I say, doing my best to appear cowed, but I think we both know it’s all an act. “So... Minister of Finance. What exactly would my responsibilities be?”

Not that I expect it to matter much, but maybe this time, I can at least learn about what I’m diving into before jumping in head-first. I don’t want a desk job, but if it’ll unify the outer provinces, then I don’t see how I have any other choice. Make no mistake, this is a band-aid at best, and the Legate will be rid of me the second I’m no longer of value, but as far as band-aid’s go, it’s not... terrible.

Falling Rain, Minister of Finance.

Wow, never mind. I was wrong. That sounds horrible.

Ugh. This sucks. I thought being a cripple was bad, but being a banker somehow seems so much worse...

Chapter Meme

- End of Volume 31 -

In case yall concerned im about to go all financial snoozefest on you, I dont intend to go into the minutia of Rain handling the new role. Which means something that rhymes with lime tip is incoming, so don't worry too much.