It's Not Just Me Suffering
What is treason? Denying the state's legitimacy and challenging the throne yourself. Defying the heavens that have lost their virtue, raising an army to save the people mired in suffering. It's the sweetest yet most fatal dream that terrifies every soul who's clawed their way to the top—and one that anyone with real power has fantasized about at least once. Succeed, and history remembers you as the savior who sparked a revolution. Fail, and you lose everything, crumbling into forgotten dust. Across east and west, ancient and modern, even botched attempts warrant the ultimate punishment. Treason is the gravest of the grave.
"At first, I thought it was a joke... but it feels like my magic tool's actually broken."
His ears heard it fine, but his brain refused to process it. No, the message got through clear enough. It was just too insane to accept stone-cold sober.
"I've been wondering when to cut ties with this fool, and it looks like now's the time. Your Majesty, I hereby declare I have zero connection to what this idiot just said."
Jepeto's face was a grotesque half-grin, half-scowl as he knocked back his drink.
The emperor lifted his glass toward his lips, then set it down. Repeat. He kept glancing at the faintly glowing bracelet on his wrist—the antidote magic tool was working perfectly. So did that mean he'd heard the man in front of him right?
"Just to be sure... you're not pulling some academy hazing ritual on me, are you? The price for me skipping your graduation? I'd take it like a man."
"Hazing?"
"You know, all that nonsense they talk about? Those rituals marking your first step from the academy's cozy halls into the real world. Stuff no sober person would do. Like what you just spat out."
"To my knowledge, they do something like that at matriculation, Your Majesty. Not graduation."
"Are you clueless, or was that sincerity I just heard?"
"Since stepping into this room, Your Majesty, I've never once been anything but sincere."
The clear, blazing fervor in Suhwa's eyes. Sure, the academy was founded on noble interests, but it was undeniably the empire's cradle for producing talent devoted to the emperor and the realm. And graduates at the top of such a place? They were something else.
"What I just requested was Your Majesty's permission for a rebellion."
Whether that "difference" was for the better remained to be seen.
"I'm seriously weighing my options right now."
Realizing the antidote bracelet was useless, the emperor tossed it aside and refilled his glass. The liquor sparkled brilliantly, as if savoring its escape from the narrow bottle's neck.
"Whether I signal the guards outside to drag you off now... or at least hear the full story first."
"Either way, I'm getting dragged off, huh."
The emperor shot him a look—like, why ask the obvious?—"Can't just let someone who mouths off about rebellion walk free, can I?"
"I'm still the warden of Utopia prison, after all. Hand me over on your way out, Your Majesty."
Maybe? The emperor pondered with his eyes, then downed his drink in one smooth gulp. The expensive booze—bought with someone else's coin—went down like silk. Or perhaps a velvet whip cracking against a parched throat, courtesy of all that pent-up stress. Without the bracelet filtering it, the warmth spread unhindered. A pleasant buzz wrapped around his spine; he could feel the hot breath cycling in and out. Maybe now, with his mind a touch more open, he could hear the man out.
"Guess I'll hear you to the end. What possessed you to pitch that blasphemy to me?"
"Your benevolence humbles me, Your Majesty."
"Enough with that. Talk like you would with me and Jepeto—no 'Your Majesty' or 'imperial grace.' It's a hassle."
Was it the rebound from ditching the bracelet that perfectly blocked all booze? The serpent called liquor was devouring him faster than usual.
"Then I'll skip the pleasantries and get to it—if I may be so bold. Why the provincial tour, Your Majesty?"
"Why the tour? What kind of question is that?"
"More precisely: why only visit the elector counts' domains?"
The pleasant buzz scattered like dandelion seeds. He instinctively rubbed his wrist, but the bracelet was already off.
"What are you implying? That I've only toured elector territories? Tours aren't decided that simply, nor is there reason to."
"Of course, you haven't only visited elector lands. But excluding those brief stops to avoid the most direct routes... Sachsen, Sukan, Moribwe, Fraia, and now Manrmursk. Every domain where you've lingered over three months belongs to an elector count."
The grilled pollack on the table rolled its bulbous eyes, gauging the mood. Convinced Suhwa's rebellion bomb wasn't aimed at him, Jepeto leaned back leisurely and lit his pipe.
"Longer stays don't make a tour 'important,' nor do short ones make it trivial... But setting that aside. Suhwa Romanov—what do you think?"
"About what, Your Majesty?"
"Even granting your point—that my strategic tours prioritized elector domains—what might the reason be?"
"Checks and balances."
"Checks and balances..."
An emperor's tour isn't a solo jaunt from city to city. Attendants, guards, escorts—hundreds easily. Add the Sachsen Duke's contingent, and it's a walking village. Merchants joining variably by season? Uncounted. And that many people? Breathing alone burns coin. Every bite, breath, shit—pure expense.
Here's the key question: who foots the bill?
The noble excuse—"bridging the capital-local info gap, enforcing imperial law and order"—means the emperor can't pay from his own pocket. The Sachsen Duke covering it? Fat chance. So who? The local lords of the toured domains.
Even wealthy ones like Manrmursk's Byeon Gyeongbaek shell out eye-watering sums—raw fish eyes worth. Yet no real backlash from the provincial nobles? Complaints, sure—but nothing major.
Why? Two reasons.
First: the merchants trailing the tour boost trade and cash flow, injecting new life into the domain. Rare local specialties hit markets; capital culture trickles down. A festival for the folk.
But logistics loops don't erase the massive forced spending for the lord. Enter reason two: it's not just me taking the hit.
Without strong centralization, emperor and lords are bound by land contracts—and eternally checking each other. Same between lords. Yesterday's ally under the same flag? Tomorrow's rival over turf and interests.
Post-war, lords hoarded vast wealth, eyeing each other's power warily. Victory privileges swelled coffers; who knew when blades would turn their way? So the emperor's tours force-spend that wealth. On whom? Not just you—the neighbor too. Everyone.
I suffer, but so does Sukan next door, Fraia, Moribwe, Sachsen, Manrmursk. Annoying, but bearable. Childish playground logic—drawing lines on maps—but the purest rationale legitimizing the tours: it's not just me suffering.
"If it's checks and balances as you say, haven't I been doing a bang-up job? Making the big earners foot the biggest bills."
"Spot on... and dead wrong."
"Wrong how?"
"The biggest earner among them? Hasn't paid a dime."
A coughing chuckle rose from the lazy pipe smoke. The acrid haze mingled with the booze, filling the room. Suhwa had drained the last of the fairy tears into his glass. His own lips parched, but he held off—no toasting yet.
"Bold tightrope you're walking, Suhwa Romanov—or should I say, Utopia vice warden. Is this what it takes for top honors?"
"The academy's elite... but maybe I'm just exceptional."
"Insolent to the core. And that top earner—is it who I think?"
"I couldn't presume to guess Your Majesty's suspicions, but mine? Incredibly low."
The one who snagged the empire's main road monopoly as war spoils. Raking cash like a harrow, earning the moniker "the Lowest Duke."
"Sachsen..."
Before his final swig, the emperor slipped the antidote bracelet back on. The buzz—cold shove to the back, sweet haze—vanished. A fleeting indulgence after so long, but enough. Still, the regret lingered. When next could he surrender to the liquor?
"The rebellion I propose is no different from your tours."
"Just a radical check on overgrown electors, balancing the factions."
"Blood and gold will flow, naturally—but it's preemptive medicine against greater future calamity."
And... essential for my revenge.
For a split second, color flecked Suhwa's once-transparent eyes. Too thick, too sticky to dismiss as mere booze—but gone too fast to pin down. As the emperor fiddled with his bracelet, Suhwa's voice rang out again.
"I'll sever the empire's roads. Sachsen's roads, specifically. Chaos will reign; the world will point fingers at Sachsen for the failure. Thus, I humbly beseech Your Majesty: grant permission for this rebellion."