6. Make Empire Great Again (4)
I'm dying right now.
"Whoa, even the emperor has human rights!"
Because the human rights guaranteed by law weren't being upheld. And my father (portrait, inanimate object) said,
Heh heh, you didn't know, son. The emperor's like a president or something. No matter how much work you do, problems keep popping up, so you just keep getting ground down... But what's a president?
Dad, you're the worst. Leaving me planted on this administrative throne to be ground down eternally. No matter how much I glare at Father's portrait with a shit-eating grimace or contort my face in utter contempt, he passed this seat on to me and jetted off to the afterlife on mobile defense duty—he'll never react.
"What's the point of delicious, healthy food if I can't sleep...?"
The immortality treatment is just a 250-year VVIP lifespan version of something that sounds great on paper—like "you can live 500 years." In other words, it's a pathetic way of saying you'll get ground down a bit more healthily. Eight days into my reign, my total sleep time is about nine hours. Not the daily average—the grand total over eight days is nine hours.
I learned that the human brain's cognitive functions plummet sharply after 48 hours without sleep. Does that mean I'm not human? Right now, I'm empirically proving that theoretical limit.
The cause? Obviously, paperwork.
"Haa..."
More paperwork arrived. A ton of it. "Flood" is the apt term. Yeah! "Tsunami" works too.
Not just on the desk in my office—the auxiliary tables beside it, the floor, even the sofa. All piled high. And the papers stacked on the windowsill naturally blocked the sunlight.
"Ah... maybe I can live a little if I see some light?"
I'd hoped that was it after spotting the stacks on the three folding tables the chamberlain had temporarily brought in, but no—the corridor outside was lined with boxes of documents. Only then could I laugh.
"Haha. A dream?"
What, all 85 bills the problem? Nah. This was just the beginning.
Theoretically doable but something adults shouldn't stoop to—like kids throwing tantrums—got unleashed because Father (and Mother in one), the big grown-up emperor, said, "Go ahead." So they vented their pent-up frustrations. Thus, 85 was merely the opener.
Each bill came laden with attachments like grapes on a vine: the main text, clause-by-clause commentaries and impact analyses, budget estimates, related sector data, stakeholder opinions, precedent reviews, and even legal advisory reviews. Averaging twelve attachments per bill. Unbearable.
Rough math: 85 bills meant 1,020 documents buried with me like a sacrifice.
But this was within expectations.
"When the hell am I gonna finish this...?"
Beyond bills, other stuff piled up. Including routine reports from the spiral arm governors. These were standard; previous emperors handled them too. But 240 weekly from the eight major arms? Overkill. Plus sub-sector governor reports, military briefings, inter-alien-nation diplomacy updates, economic indicators, security situations. Weekly routine: about 500 documents.
Average 217 daily. With my personality, I can't skim and ignore, so I read them. Fifteen minutes per read-and-sign? That's 54 hours for 217. A day has 24 hours. No eating, no bathroom, no breathing—still short. Physically impossible workload.
"How did Father handle this?"
Father had the imperial legal advisors and secretariat pre-sort, prioritize, summarize, and send summaries for approval. He still worked 16 hours daily. I'd watched and arrogantly thought, No way, that ignores the details, right?
Yeah. Now originals flood in, not summaries. The secretariat hasn't grasped the new emperor's style—what to summarize. Anyway, I'm dying for real.
Day two, I lobbed a bomb at the Senate. No adjustment time—paperwork tsunami hit. Probably the sorted version. Self-inflicted.
Empowered the assembly, so they prove it by mass-producing bills, all review requests straight to the emperor's desk.
Fuck.
"Even this I foresaw..."
I muttered, forehead thunking the desk. Underneath: Civitas Union Bill No. 17: Promotion of Educational Equity in Border Sectors original.
If I could read with my forehead, approval speed would double. Being the only one sucks.
"Too much. Something's wrong."
It was. My calculations erred. I thought empowering the assembly meant reps would goof off like "We made it to the Human Empire Senate!! 2-3 day variety show!" But reality...
"Hey! His Majesty will handle it all!"
"Exactly! He said he'd take responsibility!"
"Kya~ Our emperor-ham says enjoy guilt-free pleasure! Empire faction footing the bill from the start."
Reps enthusiastically churn bills, dumping final approvals on me for irresponsible bliss. Slight freedom crack? Total frenzy. No prime minister yet, and the system is absolute monarchy anyway.
Prime minister needs election law passed; that needs my approval—buried in the 85-stack somewhere. Chicken-or-egg administrative dilemma.
All-nighter flipping papers: eyes glaze, text doubles, doubles and—Argh fuck dream.
"Gah?!"
Hallucination. Sleep deprivation hallucination. Emperor approving bills amid hallucinations. National hazard.
"Mu-must wake up. Snap out of it!!"
While others brew dandelion coffee substitutes, emperor's privilege: real coffee IV. Eighth cup in, stomach rioted "We'll all die!!" Ignored.
Then, enlightenment.
"I get why this happened. Bureaucrats circle-jerking, so contradictions bubbled from below."
What’s needed?
"...A speech."
A task emerged.
*****
I stood before the mirror.
"You got this. Who are you? Emperor with absolute power, yet divvying work for these fools. Kyaha..."
Self-hypnosis.
Today: ceremony like coronation. National address day.
Black-based ceremonial robes with gold embroidery tracing shoulders—formal but light. No crown; 3kg metal lump would snap my neck mid-speech. Instead, hair slicked back, imperial crest pin.
Mirror me: dark circles heavy, but emperor-ish. Concealer's glory.
"Haa... Probably the only man slapping makeup on his face."
Today's schedule: one item. Empire-wide simultaneous hologram address. Full-color holo, live to 48 million star systems. Gate network real-time, warp comms delayed—emperor's image projected everywhere.
890 trillion humans plus 120 quadrillion hetero-species residents: galaxy chunk watching.
Nervous? Hell yes. Palms sweaty, feels like dead Dad's snuck back from afterlife for joyride viewing. But must-do.
Reason simple. Past ten days? My guess: "communication deficit." Talked to bureaucrats, but not the trillions trusting us below. Mismatch.
Workload explosion: muscle soreness from unaccustomed exercise. Fix soreness? Stretch first—communication.
890 trillion (or more) citizens clueless. News snippets: "New emperor visited Senate," "announced reforms," "parties formed." Only coronation greetings from me directly.
Problem. No comms breeds misunderstanding, questions, paperwork. Governors: "What’s His Majesty's true intent?" Reps: "Can we interpret reforms thus?" Root: no direct words, so guesses. Guesses spawn interpretations, factions, conflicts, paperwork x1000!
Slay paperwork boss? Cut source. Hence, speech.
"At least no more duplicate questions."
That simple motive led to the podium.
Aula Solis decree hall. Smaller than coronation grand hall, but vast. Historic spot for imperial declarations.
Podium front; behind, hologram imperial eagle embracing eight spiral arms.
Twelve holo-cams semicircle front, 360° capture. Feeds via quantum entanglement and gates to 48M systems. Relays project to planets, stations, ships.
Primus Arm fancy restaurant, Tertius Arm outpost, Quartus Arm pirate deck—anywhere, my full holo.
Podium: minimal staff. Chamberlain, six guards, two holo techs, one speech advisor.
Advisor thrusts script: "Your Majesty, th-this honor."
Sweating, groaning: "Such glory to me—!"
"Haha, honor’s mine. How could I miss your loyalty?"
"Haaa...!"
Ignore his melting face, eye script.
"Ah, advisor. One thing. Situation might irk you. Can you bear it?"
"Just touching my script glorifies my house!! Tear, burn, trash—it matters not!!"
"Right. Sorry in advance then."
"I know no displeasure!!"
Chat ends. Tech raises hand: "Your Majesty, 30 seconds to broadcast."
Two deep breaths.
"Broadcasting!"
Red lights blue—galaxy watches.
"Citizens of the Empire. I am Kaius VIII, Leo Astraea. As you know, ten days ago I succeeded my predecessor here. Today, I tell you three things to make the Empire great again. What I’ll do. Why. And what I ask of you."
Straight-backed, fury-glint eyes front.
"First. I will tear this Empire apart and rebuild it."
Senate speech expanded.
"Many of you feel it. The Empire’s greatness. 48 million star systems, 890 trillion humans, galaxy’s mightiest military. Our fleets crush foes, tech remakes planets, civilization spans thousands of light-years. We are great. Incredibly so."
Pride first. Pride opens hearts.
"But you feel blockage too. I did. Our Empire’s got arterial sclerosis we didn’t notice. Border petitions take months to center. Governor swaps change nothing. Laws from 1,200 years ago linger; capable citizens denied chances. Especially hetero-species neighbors—same streets, lesser rights. The Empire proclaims equality under its banner. But some citizens slightly less equal? No different from repulsive Nazi racial supremacy from Earth history, as aliens claim."
Concrete examples. Not abstract "system issues"—daily gripes. Border folk nod at petitions; mixed areas perk at autonomy.
"I’ll change it. All of it. Cancer demands harsh chemo or full machine swap. But none want machine slavery. That’s basic right of intelligent life. Citizens, you have freedom: 'I’ll invest more time for family, nation, self' or 'Too hard—guarantee my death’s freedom.' I admit this ordinary reality failed before. Solution: assembly makes laws; your reps voice-to-legislation."
Mic-roar, index finger waving dynamically:
"Your taxes? Managed by your chosen prime minister. Governors need your consent. No more parachute drops breeding corruption. That’s first: remaking Empire great."
Folk love beneficiary framing: not "I’ll do," but "You’ll get."
"Second. Why? As emperor, honestly: I’m twenty-one. Alone, deciding 890 trillion lives daily. Frankly, staking my authority... I feel my inadequacies deeply."
Silence blanketed decree hall. Beyond cams, trillions’ hush echoed.
Words land—you feel the ripple.
"But duty binds: my fear can’t hobble Empire. Delay change for my dread? Who bears pain? You paying that cost guts me. Uncrossable line."
Fear admit, then duty roar. Weak-to-strong contrast amplifies.
Emotions relative, not absolute.
"So I change system. Not emperor-reliant, but self-running. Not my wisdom, but structure-inducing wise choices. That answers why remake great."
True heart: Hate solo workload. Unsayable.
"Third. As emphasized, I’ll make Empire great again."
Senate slogan redux. Repetition births motto, movement.
"Make Empire Great Again—not past glory. Greatness we, together, build now and tomorrow. Not me alone—with you. Esteemed citizens. I believe in you."
Emperors command, permit, recognize—not "believe." Belief equals; not for subjects. Intentional.
"I believe you superior humans with free thought, emotion, choice of faith and rejection."
Layers, but core: Self-judge? No emperor-ping. From "Sire, how?" to "Sire! We’ll handle."
Autonomy severs dependence. Less dependence, less paper. Less paper, my ease.
Overly repressed society sucks too.
Beautiful speech’s endgame: my sleep.
"Together, with our hands, make Empire great again! Thank you."
Cams off, chamberlain hands water.
"Majesty, superb speech."
"Thanks. First time—throat’s parched from nerves."
No savoring praise. But relieved. No duplicate Qs now—answers public.
Exiting, first light steps in ten days.
"Ah, nice. Feels like joyful paperwork today."
Paper drops, questions drop, assembly works, citizens self-judge. Auto-farm foundation laid.
Good mood.