The empire was starting to purr like a machine. Sharath sensed it in each report that landed on his desk, each whisper in the bazaars, each look from nobles attempting to comprehend the future evaporating between their fingers. The typewriter had already sown seeds of a new order. Here came the next phase: structure.
"Structure creates power," Sharath grumbled one night, his voice barely above a whisper as he poured over maps laid out on his war table. Inky lines stretched across the vellum like veins, but they were insufficient. Roads were lifelines. Bridges were arteries. Without them, even the most powerful empire dissipated into severed limbs.
🐧🐧NeuroBoop, smugly reclining in the corner of his mind, added his two cents. "Yes, yes, roads, bridges, bureaucracy. Civilization always boils down to fancy plumbing and flat rocks. One day they'll be writing poems about ditches and drainage."
Sharath wasn't listening to the sarcasm. He knew what needed to be done.
The first thing to do was sort out what was his and what was the empire's. In the great audience hall, he called in scribes, governors, and his most trusted counselors. By his side stood an old man of piercing eyes and quiet dignity—Lord Bassana, his grandfather.
The room grew quiet when Sharath spoke. "From today on, the treasury will be split. One is mine, personal, for my friends of Viryan Darsha. The other is the treasury of the empire, taken from taxes and to be spent in the expansion of all, not in the indulgence of one."
There were whispers—such a division had never been announced so clearly. Ancestors of old had taken their hands freely from the people's gold. Sharath spoke up, his voice as hard as steel. "The emperor will not be a thief. The empire's treasury will pay for its armies, its roads, its bridges, its schools. My own enterprises shall compete like any merchant, but with the weight of responsibility greater than theirs."
He looked at Lord Bassana. "Grandfather, you will lead Viryan Darsha Company. You constructed your existence bartering merchandise between crumbling empires, dealing with bandits, droughts, and deceptions. Now you shall construct the empire's first company, a template for others to adopt. Shepherd it as you used to shepherd our clan.
Lord Bassana bowed slowly, his weathered face showing pride and concern. "It shall be done, Emperor. But you must understand—commerce is as dangerous as war."
Sharath smiled weakly. "Then I made the correct choice to command it."
Eight months on, the empire itself began to change beneath the burden of progress. Roads, once no more than muddy pathways cleared by ox-carts, now ran across the land in purposeful, straight lines. North to south, east to west, stone and gravel held together by magic made them arteries of steel. Bridges that had fallen apart under storm or bandits now shone with strengthened enchantments, able to support caravans of twenty wagons at a time.
Merchants inundated the roadsides, their laughter ringing louder than the groan of their wagons. Bazaars in the capital overflowed with commodities never previously under one roof—spices from southern islands, iron ore from dwarven mines, spellbound trinkets from frontier towns. The buzz of commerce was no longer a murmur; it was a bellow.
"Chaos or glory?" 🐧🐧NeuroBoop quipped, watching from the shadows of Sharath's thoughts. "Depends on whether the tax collectors keep up. Imagine all these happy merchants forgetting to pay their share. Glorious prosperity for them, glorious chaos for you."
Sharath smirked to himself. "That's why we're building a census."
The language was plain, but the task was enormous. He called in governors to the capital, laying before them a new edict: each province shall enumerate its inhabitants. Names, ages, occupations, blood lines. Where they resided, what they grew, how faithful they were. The governors blanched at the enormity of the job, but Sharath's eye did not blink.
For he held the upper hand they did not yet grasp—spying.
For nine months he had quietly woven a network of enchanted mirrors, crystals, and wards across the empire. Loyal guards, handpicked and trained, manned surveillance halls day and night. What they saw was funneled directly into Sharath's private chambers, where 🐧NeuroBoop cataloged and cross-checked endlessly.
🐧 "You've essentially built magical bureaucracy on steroids. Imagine the paperwork. Entire forests will perish for your census alone."
The census took time to complete. Governors stumbled, reports conflicted, and more than once, entire villages attempted to escape being counted. But gradually, consistently, Sharath applied his system of checking and editing their work. What would have taken decades had been completed in one. Numbers became alive—not merely figures, but ability, potential, frailty.
With the evaluation power given to him alone, he spun another layer. Regular citizens who possessed incredible strength, agility, wit, or endurance were silently marked. Edicts extended far and wide, calling people to be tested again. Several were conscripted into military schools, others into civil service, and some—scholars whose minds flowed like streams of lightning—were called to universities yet to be constructed but already conceived.
The empire wasn't only numbering people. It was molding them into its tools.
As roads stretched out and people were numbered, Sharath's gaze fell upon what was hidden beneath the ground. Squads were sent out with charts, magical compasses, and wary guards to chart every resource and dungeon throughout the realm. Some were encouraging—crystals of magical conductivity running through veins, ancient dungeons filled with enchanted armor. Others were mind-numbingly drab.
One of the dungeons, defended by what looked like a bone-chilling skeletal knight, was found after a week of delving to be filled with nothing but barrels of pickled pickles. Another, protected by traps of deadly sophistication, produced a whole room full of… chairs. Dozens of delicately carved chairs, all the same model.
The academics squabbled on endlessly concerning whether the ancients were geniuses or madmen. 🐧NeuroBoop was less kind. "Oh, wonderful. Your dashing heroes almost perished to return with… handcrafted furniture. The empire of chairs commences."
Sharath permitted the snark, but the cartography persisted. Knowledge was power, even if some of it arrived in the guise of pickle barrels.
Having form and resources in place, he finally addressed people's hearts and minds. In the city square, he spoke to the people directly. "Strong minds are needed for a strong empire. Knowledge is no longer reserved for special people. Schools will spring up in all cities and towns. Children will study letters, numbers, history. Adults will not be left behind—night schools will open to anyone who labors during the day.". And for those who aspire to climb higher, universities will be open to them, supported by tuition and scholarships for the deserving.
The announcement went viral. Initially, people laughed—peasants learning to read? Blacksmiths learning mathematics? But when the first schools were opened and children came home proudly writing their names, the laughter was replaced by wonder. Adults, ashamed but curious, started sneaking into evening schools after late shifts, shoulder to shoulder with young people, scratching out letters by the light of candles.
🐧NeuroBoop complained, but his tone was more subdued now. "You're teaching them to read, Sharath. Give it a generation and they'll begin writing letters of complaint. Don't say I didn't warn you."
Sharath smiled weakly, seeing the schools fill up, the roads throng with trade, the census begin to take form, the empire slowly drawing breath as one entity. He felt the beat of a nation unshackled by fear or conquest, but by intent.
The nobles complained, the priests offered prayers, the merchants plotted. But beneath it all was a murmur, a momentum that would not be ignored.
The empire was no longer a collection of provinces. It was becoming a machine—and Sharath was its beating heart.
That night, as he dismissed his guards and looked down at the glowing map of the empire on his table, 🐧NeuroBoop whispered almost wistfully, "Chaos or glory. You're gambling with both."
Sharath's eyes gleamed with determination. "No. I'm building both."
And with that, the empire marched into its next age.