The newly constructed hall of audience glimmered with light from floating crystals, every one of them shining with unwavering brilliance. The pennons of the empire decorated the high walls, red and gold streaming down like rivers of power. In the very center of the hall, carved into gleaming marble, shone the imperial crest—a sun surrounded by stars, representing unity under a single throne.
They came one by one, the empire members, their footsteps resonating through the huge hall. The surviving nobles, wearing jeweled robes, walked stiffly, their gaze fierce with anticipation. There were new governors, straighter than they would normally stand, anxious to demonstrate that they had a place at such an assembly. The generals marched in with military discipline, their armor shining, their eyes pragmatic. Priests in white and golden robes grasped their prayer scrolls, lips whispering blessings—or threats. Scholars, inventors, and engineers hobbled in with fingers stained with ink, parchments in hand, models under arms, and half-scorched diagrams. All had different hopes, different dreams, and different motivations, but all curtsied when the emperor himself walked in.
Sharath marched to the dais with no hesitation. His mantle billowed behind him, and his gaze swept the hall, measuring each side. For an instant, there was silence. Then the silence splintered like a cracked plate.
A former noble barked, gesturing accusingly towards the banners, "My crest belongs above the commoners! This is an affront to generations of service." The nobles murmured at once, quiet mutters of insult and outrage.
Before Sharath could react, an engineer with a streak of soot across his cheek rushed forward, unspooling a huge blueprint that plopped across the floor. "Majesty, I've remapped the sewer pipes! If we put the pipes here—no, no, here—oh no, it'll blow—" His wild gesticulations almost sent a nearby governor tumbling.
And then a priest came forward, staff aloft. His voice thundered through the hall, "The gods require allegiance, Emperor! Will you vow an oath on their names? Without it, your throne is mere dust and mortal pride!"
The hall erupted into cries, each voice shouting louder, swamping the other.
Within Sharath's mind, 🐧NeuroBoop let out a sigh, his words heavy with sarcasm. "Democracy is only aristocracy with tastier snacks. Look at them—puffed feathers arguing over who gets the prettier perch."
Sharath raised his hand, but the voices continued to resound. Rather than contesting for quiet, he merely strolled over to an covered table at the edge of the dais. With a deliberate yank, he swung aside the cover, displaying his weapon—not steel, but metal keys.
The typewriter.
Gasps swept across the room as he set it down in front of him and started typing. The staccato clack of the keys echoed farther than any bellow could. Words were neat, even, quicker than any quill could scrape. He finished a whole sheet of writing in less than a minute and held it up, clean and readable.
The response was immediate. Nobles bristled, appalled that something so straightforward could threaten centuries of scribes and heraldry. Scholars leaned forward in interest, eyes shining like ravenous wolves before a fresh kill. Priests exchanged suspicious glances, feeling tradition seeping away like sand between their fingers.
🐧NeuroBoop snickered within Sharath's brain. "Well done, you just created unemployment… for half the nobility's relatives."
Madhu went unnoticed in the throng as Sharath went on typing, his voice barely above a whisper, his presence as smooth water on flames. In hushed tones, she spoke to the priests, "Surely the gods would desire truth to be distributed in haste, untainted by human error." To the nobles, she smiled weakly, "Imagine being the first to own one of these. Copies of decrees arriving faster than any herald.". Prestige, if you understand it." Gradually, the thunderous arguments subsided, and the factions subsided from fury to wary interest.
Then Sharath struck more painfully. Before all of them, he clacked out the first Imperial Decree. Each letter hit with piercing finality.
"The council will be advisory only. Meritocracy and innovation will rule the empire. Nobility titles confer no privilege, only duty. The emperor is supreme alone."
When he was done, he did not summon scribes. He did not invite nobles to have it written down. Instead, he ran the paper through, copied it several times, and distributed it on the spot, avoiding the very system which had bound monarchs prior to him.
The hall went cold. Nobles comprehended in that moment they lost the bureaucracy. Generals shared nodding agreement—an effective empire translated to more powerful armies. Scholars and inventors stared as if they'd been hit with lightning, imagining infinite uses. Even the priests, who were agitated, gripped their scrolls tighter but remained quiet, comforted by Madhu's silent assurances.
And then, at last, one of the nobles spoke. His voice shook with outrage and with terror. "Majesty… are you stripping us of our livings? What will happen to our scribes and heralds? Will centuries of quills and vellum be burned?
Sharath's eyes were chilly, but not cruel. "No. This is not the scribe's death. This is the birth of efficiency. The typewriter does not make the scribe obsolete—it makes the quill obsolete. Your scribes will still work, but quicker, cleaner, better. Instead of taking days to copy, they can ready a hundred decrees in one. This is not their demise, but their ennoblement.
Another scholar hesitantly raised his hand. "Can… anyone buy one, Majesty?"
A faint smile brushed Sharath's lips. "Yes. From today onwards, they will be manufactured under the flag of Viryan Darsha Company—the first company of the empire, for anyone. Merchants, scholars, nobles, even common folk who can afford one. Every hand willing to work in efficiency will find the opportunity."
The room was agitated once more, but this time with enthusiasm. Even nobility, as much as they hated it, saw the profit to be gained in the machine. Generals buzzed about giving commands immediately. Priests spoke of disseminating sermons in days rather than years.
A fidgeting scribe inquired softly, "Majesty… what if one will not use it?"
Sharath's gaze tightened, tone steel. "Then they will be left behind by those who do. The empire advances. With or without them."
The room fell silent again. Silent, but not of fear—silent of reverence. The typewriter had done more than sit down and type a decree. It had typed the future.
🐧NeuroBoop grumbled quietly in Sharath's brain, chuckling. "Innovation, unity, meritocracy. Sounds inspiring. Until someone perfects guillotines.
Sharath permitted himself the slightest smile. The empire had made its next irreversible move.