The Emperor appeared.
Trumpets blared in ceremonious unison, and the announcer's voice echoed across the colosseum with rehearsed grandeur, "All rise for His Imperial Majesty, Sovereign of the Nazare Blade Empire, Guardian of the Nazare and Aratat Bloodline, Ruler of the sixty eight Regions and Gates, and the Chosen of the Heavens—His Excellency, Emperor Groa Aratat!"
Every noble rose to their feet instantly—an instinct born of years under imperial rule. The military generals straightened their backs with trained precision. The court officials bowed with dramatic elegance, and the empresses and royal concubines lowered their gazes in humble reverence. Regal garments shimmered in the sunlight as the elite of the empire paid their respects.
But if one looked beyond the upper tiers and royal enclosures, the picture changed drastically.
Among the common folk in the lower stands, the atmosphere was almost surreal in its dissonance. Entire sections of ordinary citizens—farmers, craftsmen, servants, and traders—remained seated. Not in ignorance, but in silent rebellion. Their posture wasn't casual; it was heavy with exhaustion and worn-out hope. Some leaned on each other, some simply sat staring into the distance as though the emperor's appearance bore no meaning to their lives.
It was an unspoken protest.
No one shouted. No one raised a fist. But their stillness screamed.
A few of the nobles glanced toward the crowd, visibly uncomfortable with what they saw. Whispers rippled like a breeze through satin curtains. "Is this treason?" someone murmured. "Or despair?" another whispered.
For the common man, the emperor was no savior. To many, he was a shadow, a figurehead that reigned over riches and feasted on extravagance while they starved under his watch. Rumours of his indulgent escapades and ruthless indifference had travelled far and wide, and now, this assembly felt less like a royal occasion and more like a final performance—one that reeked of irony.
Among those seated was an old man with sun-beaten skin. He hadn't eaten in two days, yet he showed no fear. What was death to him but a relief? A mother nursed her malnourished child silently, eyes hollow but watchful. To her, whether she stood or not, nothing changed—so why pretend?
The emperor saw them all.
He entered not in the flamboyant stride he once possessed, but with a more tempered gait. His richly adorned robe trailed behind him, but there was something diminished about his presence. He didn't seem angered by the crowd's passive defiance.
He understood it.
Ever since that chilling encounter with the Trickster God—a being who had humbled him with mere words and lazy laughter—his heart had shifted. He had stared into the void of cosmic ridicule and survived only by grace or chance. What was the opinion of starving peasants to a man who had been mocked by the divine?
He reached his throne at the apex of the Colosseum, carved from a single block of black obsidian and inlaid with gold and sapphire. With a single wave of his hand, the imperial court sat. A wave of motion followed as they obeyed, like ripples after a stone strikes still water.
As he sat, his gaze remained fixed on the crowd. Not with fury, nor shame. But something stranger.
Acceptance.
He was no longer concerned with the illusion of power. Whatever announcement he had gathered them for would soon shatter the fragile walls of the empire anyway.
And deep within, he already knew—this wasn't a throne anymore. It was a seat at the edge of something far bigger than the empire.
The emperor, draped in flowing imperial robes of midnight crimson embroidered with golden phoenix crests, stood up from his ornate throne with a measured grace. Silence descended, broken only by the soft rustle of silk and the distant caw of a lone crow wheeling above the dome of the grand colosseum. The imperial guards shifted to the sides, parting the way as their sovereign made his way toward the high podium at the front.
His steps echoed across the marble, each footfall a reminder of the power he once held—once, but no longer untouched. Every movement seemed stiff, restrained by the invisible weight of memories—memories of the Trickster God, of the chilling laughter that still clawed at the edges of his mind. He paused momentarily, his eyes darkening, as if the very shadows of that fateful encounter loomed around him. The mere thought of that god—of what he'd seen, of what he'd nearly lost—was enough to silence even the slightest flicker of rebellion that may have once stirred in his heart.
As he reached the podium, his voice rang out—loud, clear, and rehearsed, yet bearing an edge of exhaustion no regal tone could hide.
"First of all," he began, eyes scanning the vast colosseum, "I want to welcome you all to this gathering. It has been quite a while since we all last assembled in such numbers—nobles, dignitaries, officials, heirs and heiresses alike."
He paused, hoping for some polite murmurs of acknowledgment. None came. The silence, thick and heavy, lingered like fog.
"I have called you here today to share some vital announcements," he continued, pressing on. "This empire is on the cusp of a new era, and so changes must come—not just in policy, but in spirit."
He motioned behind him as banners unfurled, bearing symbols of the Imperial Games. "Starting from today, this colosseum will reopen its gates for the grandest of entertainments. Fighters from across the Empire will be summoned—warriors, gladiators, even prisoners. Yes, even those incarcerated will be given a chance at redemption."
His voice grew louder, theatrically dramatic now. "If they win… they earn their freedom. If they lose… they perish in honour. The blood they spill shall mark a new age of glory!"
And then... nothing.
The response was hollow. Not even a whisper of applause. The silence grew colder than before. The nobles, too dignified to cheer, simply offered blank stares, their finely powdered faces impassive. The common folk—those seated defiantly since the beginning—remained motionless, their expressions carved in stone, their eyes reflecting nothing but weariness and hunger.
The emperor stood, frozen for a moment, his face tightening as frustration crept in. This wasn't how he'd imagined it. Where was the roar of approval? Where was the surge of patriotism? Where were the trembling cheers of gratitude from a people too starved to dream?
Instead, the stillness mocked him.
The people no longer saw him as a beacon of leadership. To them, he was a decorative relic—a figurehead who cared more for theatrics than their suffering. And some, perhaps, even hoped he'd strike them down for their defiance. Death, for many, was no longer a threat but a release.
The emperor gripped the podium tighter. Somewhere deep within, the laughter of the Trickster God echoed again—mocking, distant, yet unforgettable.
And still… no one cheered.