The Coronation Smile
I was smiling at the coronation.
"Hahahahaha!!!"
I had to laugh. With my lips curved up precisely at a twenty-three-degree angle, eyes softly half-closed, chin subtly lifted—just enough to straddle the line between majesty and approachability—the expression exuded pure authority. It was the exact face that had earned me an A+ in the "Imperial Etiquette and Facial Expression Management" course from imperial studies. After three years practicing in front of the mirror, I could confidently say that right now, in this moment, I was the human being in the galaxy sporting the most flawless smile.
And behind that smile, I was unleashing a torrent of curses at my two older sisters.
Selene, the eldest, and Aurora, the second eldest. Both were truly remarkable women. They'd signed their succession waivers—one fleeing to the navy, the other pulling off a masterful vanishing act in her Giant cockpit.
How the hell do they slip away so smoothly?
Women really are magnificent creatures. Whoever claimed men were stronger was full of shit. In this insane, Confucian-brainwashed empire where the mentality that only men could dream of becoming emperor seemed etched into its DNA, the obsession with me, the youngest, was a spectacle to behold.
Thanks to them, a twenty-one-year-old baby brother was about to plop his ass into the heaviest seat in the galaxy.
In a few hundred years, I could already imagine my father appearing in a hallucination, pointing at the throne—now warped into a golden monstrosity—and bellowing, "Hey! Come sit here!"
Less than forty-nine days after Father's death, here I was, on the verge of becoming emperor. First, I sent a heartfelt thanks to the man who'd hightailed it to the afterlife ahead of me for some preemptive defense.
Fuck... Dad, that's too much.
For some reason, it felt like Father was mocking me from beyond: "Congrats on becoming Emperor of the Human Empire~"
The place where I stood now was the grand coronation hall of the imperial palace Aula Solis, on the uppermost layer of Terra—formerly Earth. Atop this 32,000-kilometer-diameter city-planet, just below the stratosphere, this massive hall had hosted every emperor's coronation throughout 1,200 years of the Human Empire's history.
But the fact that we've never had more than single digits of emperors without a change? That's the real horror story.
Father would have ruled forever if not for that freak accident after his immortality treatment. What a shame.
The ceiling soared 300 meters high. Each pillar rising from floor to ceiling symbolized a past emperor of the empire, wrapped in relief carvings of their reigns. Past the final pillar—Father's, Kaius 7th—stood a blank white one, untouched.
"...Fuck."
My pillar. What would they carve there? I prayed with all my heart it wouldn't read: Reign: Short. Achievements: None. Cause of Death: Overwork.
I had no desire to live long without life's joys. And dying from overwork? Hell no. I wanted to enjoy every pleasure until I'd exhausted them all, then kick the bucket after passing the throne to a son or daughter, whoever.
Ahh. Sounds perfect.
Of course, Father might scold me from beyond for daydreaming like this during a coronation in a hall packed with half a million people... but
Dead men don't talk.
Heh heh heh. Sorry, Dad. Truth is, I never wanted the throne.
Whoever designed or approved a hall for 500,000 had one hell of a sense of scale. And beyond those 500,000, holoscreens outside broadcast the event across the galaxy. Estimated viewers: 200 quadrillion. A quarter of humanity's total population watching my coronation live.
Which meant I had to keep that perfect smile plastered on in front of 200 quadrillion pairs of eyes.
Hah... I don't wanna. I don't wanna. Fuck the golden throne...
My cheekbones were starting to tingle from holding the smile.
The coronation ceremony dragged on for a full six hours. Standing the whole time in a five-kilogram ceremonial robe—this wasn't a ritual; it was torture. The kilogram was the most sacred unit, yet some heretics spouted nonsense about yards and pounds. Didn't change the fact that it was goddamn heavy.
They said Emperor Aurelius I, the founder, devised the procedure—probably thinking, I won't suffer alone. Spin like a top, you bastards, as he crammed it full of steps.
The climax was the crowning itself.
"Ahhh...!"
The imperial chamberlain lifted the 1,200-year-old ancient crown for me to see. A hefty, cold lump of alloy and psionic crystal weighing three kilograms—that monstrous metal slab descending onto my head, and I felt its weight.
It's fucking heavy.
Not just the metal; the weight of 890 quadrillion humans rested atop everything, now perched on a twenty-one-year-old's noggin. The empire was doomed.
"All hail Emperor Kaius VIII!"
The roar of 500,000 voices shook the hall. The massive pillars of Aula Solis resonated, the sound crashing like waves. I adjusted the crown with my left hand, raised my right in a wave to the crowd.
This is fucking exhausting.
Was this really necessary?
*****
After the official rites ended, the highlight awaited. Or rather, for me, true hell.
The audience.
A formality where the empire's power players pledged loyalty to the new emperor—but as I'd learned in imperial studies, it was the real start of political power plays. Who approached first, their expressions, the angle of their kneel, omissions in the oath wording—all crucial. I'd thought it useless trivia at the time, but now it was invaluable.
I had to memorize names, faces, careers of over 3,000 senators, hundreds of sector governors, top generals, religious leaders, corporate heads—and deliver tailored greetings to each.
Fuck...
Like Father, I'd memorized it all. Ten-plus years of education assuming I might become emperor. Couldn't erase it if I tried. Occupational hazard, I guess.
I could've used an AI, but humanists would cry about alienating people, so emperors minimized tech aids.
First up: Senate Chairman Marcus Valerian. 180 years old, Corona Imperial heavyweight, head of the empire's top noble house in Primus Arm. Silver hair slicked back, in the finest robes, he knelt and swore.
"Emperor Kaius VIII, Senate Chairman Marcus Valerian pledges his loyalty. May the empire's glory endure, carrying forth the late emperor's will!"
Carrying forth the late emperor's will. A phrase slipped in, absent from the standard oath. Translation: I knew your dad—get the hint? Let's play nice.
Politicians were exhausting by nature.
"Chairman Valerian, I thank you for your loyalty. The Senate's wisdom shall be my sturdiest pillar."
Emphasizing "Senate's wisdom" was deliberate. Ammo for pushing Senate empowerment bills later. Sow seeds early for quick growth.
The old fox either read my intent or his eyes were just tired—he squinted faintly in response.
Next: Imperial Army Chief of Staff, Eisenhardt Marshal. 70-year-old veteran, ramrod posture, scarred face—core of the military Corona Imperial faction.
"All hail Emperor Kaius VIII. The Imperial Army is ever Your Majesty's sword and shield."
Soldiers gonna soldier. Smooth so far.
"I thank you for your loyalty, Marshal. With my two sisters serving under you, my heart is at ease."
A smile as I name-dropped them. A reminder to the military: You know my sisters are there, right? Don't get cute.
He nodded and withdrew.
Third: Vice Senate Chairman Livia Castellana, Civitas Union leader. 95 years old, rare high rank for a progressive. Border world native, lifelong fighter for citizen rights and hetero-species equality.
"Emperor Kaius VIII, I pledge my loyalty. For all citizens of all stars..."
Bold as hell for a Civitas member—Corona would frown, but she didn't care. I liked that. She seemed the type who'd say No! (Thank you!) Stop! (I wanna work till 60k!) in my stead.
"Vice Chairman Castellana, I share your will. Heeding the stars' voices is an emperor's foremost duty."
Bit of a stretch for a canned response, but Corona stirred behind me. Whatever. Strengthening the assembly needed Civitas support—early goodwill toss.
Surprise flickered in her eyes. Probably didn't expect that nuance from a twenty-one-year-old kid emperor. She bowed extra as she left.
That's a solid like. Tasty.
The line didn't end. Primus Arm Governor Gaius Nero (Corona core), Secundus Arm's Star Path devotee Hassan al-Rashid, Tertius Arm border count Chrysler Han (ex-soldier), Quartus Arm patrol commander Jake Morrison ("Ship-kill-itchy-captain-sir"), Holy Light Church Pontifex Benedictus XVII, Universal Buddhist Order Abbot Wusang Daoin, Star Path Grand Imam Yusuf ibn Kashir, Stella Industries head Victoria Krupp.
What a parade of ridiculously long names and medal-draped titles like vendor badges.
After 472, my head throbbed. Six hours standing for the ceremony, three-and-a-half more for audiences—a symphony of agony.
But I held the smile to the end. Pride, since my wise sisters dumped this on me—I wouldn't fuck it up like an idiot.
And so the coronation concluded.
*****
The grand doors shut, I passed the guard-lined corridor, reached the palace depths' office. The chamberlain opened the door.
"Your Majesty, rest easy. Congratulations—"
"Out."
"Uh, y-yes."
He bowed out. Guards gripped rifles, staring ahead outside the soundproof door as it sealed.
Alone at last.
"...Hmph."
I yanked off the three-kilogram crown, plunked it on the desk. Unbuttoned the five-kilogram robe, shrugged it off, collapsed into the chair.
And muttered,
"Hah... fuck. I want a constitutional monarchy."
On my first day as emperor, I wanted to ditch it all for a figurehead gig and coast.