The Gamer Chapter 1493 – Old Cities, Old Grudges (Patreon)

If the Imperial Harbour had the air of an ancient giant awakening, then the Eternal City was the giant’s chamber.

The city was gargantuan, filling out the entirety of an Illusion Barrier stretched to its technological limit. Typical IBMAs could project an area of control of 10 kilometres. Rome was 15 and the entirety of its area was one centrally organized building project.

In the mundane world, such ideas typically spelled disaster. When overseen by a single, erudite mind over the course of millennia, it worked splendidly. Any hiccups in Romulus’ architectural visions and miscalculations on waterflow or bearing load were cured over the course of history.

The ground floor of Rome was carpeted in buildings, white, gold and silver in general colours, with murals and mosaics adding in much needed colour to prevent it all from becoming too monotone in its unity. The street layout was a beacon of efficiency and beauty. In a way, the city itself was a mosaic, separated into evenly sized blocks, often with surrounding or encapsulated greenery. Five walls broke the city up into concentric districts, buildings growing larger, more elaborate, and beautiful as one moved towards the centre, and the gargantuan Roman palace at the centre, itself holding at its core the truly titanic obelisk that stood in the middle of Romulus’ personal park. From there, the weather of the entire barrier was for him to govern.

Seven hills further broke up the monotony. Features of the landscape that Romulus, rather than smooth them over, had integrated into the city planning. From personal experience, John knew that many of the building sizes were deceptive. Spatial warping enchantments were, albeit still expensive, more commonplace here than anywhere else in the world and earth magic made it easy to expand underground.

Even that was not enough to deal with the wants of the Eternal City. Massive flying islands hung in the sky, connected by pathways of flowing mana, that transported people like conveyor belts. Noble estates could be found up there and structures too large to be proper on the ground level, such as the airport. The shadows such islands would cast were counteracted by the radiant spheres embedded in their bedrock, each glowing with the might of a gentle sun.

Every breath taken was that of splendour. The city was vast and developed, but far from dense by mundane standards. The city had a rough surface area of 176 square kilometres, not including the flying islands, which meant there were about 1’278 people per square kilometre. A population density about half that of the actual city of Rome, a sixth of Tokyo, and notably lower than that of the capital of any notable power in the mundane world.

Whether this spoke to the instability of the Abyss or the post-scarcity of a supernatural society encouraging a diminished birthrate, John did not know. By all material means, Abyssal Europe should have been experiencing continuous explosion in its birthrate, but it just did not. Similar trends could be observed in most post-industrializing societies, where the birthrate exploded and then collapsed – despite there being more than enough food.

‘Just goes to show that man does not live off bread alone,’ John thought, as he beheld the city below him. ‘Fusion will likely go through a baby boom over the next thirty years, then similarly collapse to a steady level of replacement birthrate… until something else happens and the wheel of history keeps turning.’

The group was travelling via a series of connected islands that arched over the busy streets below. It made travel between the major districts much easier than using the roads, which therefore were free for short-distance and commercial usage.

The sky paths that connected the various islands were about ten metres across. Bisected by a railing at the centre and two rods at the side, these mana roads (or Arcan Pavimentum as they were officially called) created a circular manaflow that flowed upstream on the right and downstream on the left side. Simply standing on them pushed one forwards at considerable speed.

The whole process was powered by Romuglehn, the metal the railing and rods were made from. Reportedly, it was some kind of Poseidury alloy that Romulus himself had created. For all their tries, Fusion had not been successful in mimicking it. It was an incredibly efficient mana conductor, for the specific purpose of creating these pathways, and it only took a few travellers touching the railing every now and again to provide enough mana that the whole thing kept going.

Had Romulus had access to more Poseidury, this kind of infrastructure perhaps could have been found elsewhere. Just one of the reasons that the Sons of Rome would have benefitted from a relationship with Fusion and its reliable creation of the Celexiums.

The path had been cleared. Whether it was the mana road itself or the stretches of the islands that they traversed, the only people encountered were confined by a row of soldiers and golems. Rodaclam dictated the pace they walked at, a leisurely one that left John with a little too much time to think.

‘Now where is it?’ John wondered, his eyes wandering over the horizon. He looked for the fairly small island in the sky that held Mansion Hohenstaufen – the estate he had stayed at during the tournament one and a half years ago. Before he could find it, Rodaclam suddenly raised his voice.

“So, why are you taking over America? Still because of your patriotic heart?” Rodaclam asked.

John chuckled. The only real conversation he’d had with the man before had been following the battle of Warsaw. At that time, he had asked him what his goals had been. John had retorted that he wished to take over the USA, for the reason that his patriotic heart could not bear to see his homeland be an international laughing stock. A lie, one that Rodaclam had smoked out before John could even realize it was one. It had been a reality check for the Gamer, at that critical juncture where he started to transition from powerful to hegemonic.

“More than before,” the Gamer responded simply. “You were right about me, I wasn’t patriotic – not in the proper sense. Nowadays… well, I have seen a great many people from a great many lands. A plurality of worldviews, inside my Federation and outside. Everyone in Fusion is trying their hardest and for that country I will be patriotic.” He stopped for a moment and chuckled. “Although I understand it might be easier to be patriotic for a land one governs.”

“Not for presidents, in my experience,” Rodaclam returned.

“Pardon?”

“You fashion yourself servant of the people and the people are fickle. No one likes to work for a boss that’s schizophrenic.” Rodaclam’s voice was occasionally underlined by the sound of crystals cracking in his throat. “A good king, however, who leads the nation, will find it easy to be patriotic. After all, who is not proud of seeing their project grow and excel?”

John took a deep breath and nodded. “But I am not king.”

“You are indeed not.” Rodaclam let a hint of disapproval flow into his aged voice. “You’ve become a much better liar.”

It wasn’t John who reacted to that barely veiled insult first. Neither was it Aclysia nor Claire, the two who John would have normally anticipated to storm forwards. It was Rave, whose aura ignited for the split second she needed to get ahead of the man. Rodaclam stopped, the various crystals all over his body changing from a pale blue to radiant silver and gold.

“Ya know, he’s playing this game with you, but I ain’t liking the tone you take with my man.”

John glanced around. Currently they were on a mana road, so no one was observing them directly. For an altercation, a better spot could not have been chosen. The likelihood of an incident blossoming even from threats made here was minimal.

“The Abyss is a world of strong leaders,” Rodaclam responded flatly, like he was reading data off a spreadsheet. “Your pretension of republicanism is a weakness you cannot afford, if you are to inherit the world.”

“How about ya stop shame-caring and worry about your own realm?”

“I am,” Rodaclam continued his calm retort. “I worry deeply about what comes next. You’re going to rival Romulus in strength and you would put that power to the will of the people? If they voted for you to go to war, would you personally pick up arms?”

“No,” John responded from behind the chancellor. He turned his head and the two stared at each other for a minute. “I have considered that question before. It was odd, at first. Where I come from, the worry isn’t that the many will send the few to fight their battles, but that the few will decide that the many should step into the meat grinder. In the end, I ask of my people that they face the challenges of life willingly. If they ask of me that I be pressed into a war I do not believe in, then the nation has rotted at its heart.”

Rodaclam smiled upon hearing those words. “You’ve matured greatly.” His tone was suddenly entirely different. Upbeat, approving, downright happy to be conversing with the Gamer. “It’s good that your character has caught up with your magical talent.”

“I’d rather not be remembered for a continent breaking temper tantrum,” John responded with a wry smile of his own.

Rave furrowed her eyebrows. “What, was this all one those ‘feigning disapproval to test someone’ thingies?”

“Yes and no,” John responded for the chancellor, while his girlfriend trotted back to his side. “He wanted to see if I am the kind of character that can be trusted on the world stage. I don’t think he particularly approves of the rule of the people, though.”

“I’ve governed the Sons of Rome in Romulus’ absence, I have seen what the people do left to their own devices,” Rodaclam said and shrugged. “Heed the lessons of the Abyss or learn them yourself. The end result is the same.”

John had better things to do than engage in a talk where neither party was going to budge on their belief. Instead, he let the mana road take them to their target.

They stepped off in front of the gate that connected the second to the innermost circle of the city. None of the sky paths were directly connected to Romulus’ palace. A precaution, John could only assume, made for security reasons. Even if none would have been idiotic enough to try and assassinate the Apex (something John doubted, crazy and determined people were a constant), there were many other things worthy of stealing or destroying within those walls.

The praetorian guard let Rodaclam and the rest of them pass. “Nathalia.” The chancellor glanced over his shoulder, while they entered the outermost building of the truly massive complex of ancient and newly constructed Roman architecture. “May I request that you do not engage in your usual bout with the Lady Sol?”

“The bitch will get what is coming for her,” the dragoness growled.

“I understand the fervour, I do, but the building will already be under enough stress…”

“Why would that be?” John asked.

Rodaclam elected not to answer, which gave John a very good idea. He wasn’t the only one who connected the dots. Eliana, who had been draped across his arms until that point, growled and jumped off. She took a deep inhale, stopped for a moment, and just when she was about to sprint off, the Gamer took her by the shoulder.

“Don’t face him alone,” he insisted.

Trembling, Eliana nodded slowly. The blueish tint of her skin was replaced by a bony white in large patches, the early signs of her pores secreting the particles that hardened into her bone carapace. Rodaclam let out a deep sigh. Knowing that the international incident was unavoidable, to have it escalate right now was their best choice.

“If we kill him here, that will radicalize the Purest Front against us,” John told Eliana.

“Will you stop me?” the goddess of genocide growled.

“No,” he assured her, just like he had last time. “This is your decision and I support you whatever you do. Just be aware of the consequences. You’re better than blind rage.”

Whether she nodded or just trembled, John was not certain.

They were guided to a room in the depths of the palace’s sparring areas. Walls were thicker here, wall decorations simpler, and the stones were bound together with magic as much as mortar. One final door pushed open, to lead them into a room that was, among these combat areas, ornate and doubly reinforced among all metrics. For as beautiful as the decorations among the walls were, the square space was empty.

In it stood six figures.

One was Romulus, as tall and imposing as ever. Two and three were Sol and Luna, the celestial deities flanking their beloved. Four was a figure nearly as tall as Romulus, entirely covered by a crimson robe and cowl. Five and six made John’s blood freeze and boil. Both were familiar faces.

One had brown hair, slicked back, and deep brown eyes. He wore a three-piece suit of creamy brown colour, a black shirt underneath, and a red tie between the two. He seemed no older than thirty, was of slightly below average stature, and similarly unimpressive build. John had met him before, on a night out with Maximillian and Magnus. The revelation that Mengele had been in front of him, alone and helpless, might have shaken him more if the last person had not been in the room.

Around John’s height, built a little broader, with short blonde hair and lifeless, blue eyes, stood the traitor. He wore a trench coat over a black military uniform. From his hips dangled an unused gas mask. An enigmatic smile spread the lips of the last face that John had ever expected to see again: Herman Glaurum.

With a sky-splitting scream, the goddess of genocide charged her creator.