The empire's treasury vaults had never been more than a confused mess—half-gold, half-dust, and completely unbalanced. Nobles skimmed taxes in previous reigns, priests stashed offerings, and generals took "war funds" into their own pockets. The empire leaked wealth as readily as water through a broken jug.
Today, under Sharath, the weaknesses were being plugged.
Within the Grand Treasury Hall, clerks rushed hither and yon, parchment stacked infinitely high as counters weighed coins, measured gold, gauged gems, and documented relics of battles long forgotten. Magical items glowed softly beneath containment seals, their potent energies muted but not erased.
Lord Basanna, Sharath's grandfather, presided with an iron quill in hand, his voice sharp. "No more missing crates. No more 'unrecorded losses.' Every copper, every enchanted trinket, every artifact with a spark left in it will be written down. If even one scroll vanishes, I'll assume a thief and hang the scribe responsible."
The clerks shook but toiled with hectic zeal. For the first time in remembered history, a sum of an empire's riches wasn't being concealed—it was being added up.
Sharath himself directed the final accounts, standing amidst the stacks like a judge in a courtroom. "Wealth is not power if it festers unseen," he stated. "Wealth must have air. It must circulate."
🐧NeuroBoop snorted in his head: "And thus capitalism was born. Next you'll invent banks that lend coins they don't have."
Sharath ignored it.
Distribution and Reinvestment
Instead of hoarding, Sharath made his move.
For the first time, the personal and public treasuries of the empire were divorced. His private coffers would be filled with his own taxes as Emperor, but the imperial treasury—gold gleaned from citizens—was destined for reinvestment. No noble ever dared to do such a thing. Gold always flowed upwards, never downwards.
But now Basanna's presses ran with ink. Books. Codes of law. School primers. Chronicles of history. Guides for farmers on crop rotation and for craftsmen on the art of metallurgy. Within weeks, the empire found printed materials spilling over the markets cheaper than a loaf of bread.
Children held primers of the alphabet as proudly as they did swords. Farmers read guides aloud by the fire. Merchants argued about laws written clearly in ink instead of spoken through noble clerks.
Nobles, naturally, seethed. One laughed in the council: "You debase knowledge by casting it to peasants like thrown bread!"
Sharath stared back coldly. "Then let them choke on breadcrumbs until they overtake you."
The Ripples Beyond
But it wasn't just in the empire that waves were sent out. Beyond the mountains and rivers, rumors were heard by foreign ears.
Elves in their glimmering courts laughed, calling it a fleeting fashion. Dwarves grumbled uncomfortably at the idea of common folk holding written law. Goblins laughed, foreseeing anarchy. Beastmen chiefs snarled that a people so devoted to books would lose the power of their claws.
But none acted against Sharath. They observed, cautious but speechless. An emerging empire could be commerce—or conflict. And so they waited.
But rumors circulated. Was Sharath stockpiling forbidden artifacts? Was he enchaining his citizens with mind-controlling books? Was his "law" just a rein of newer pattern?
The Letters
Sharath, always the tactician, did not let suspicion simmer. He wrote letters—meek, respectful, purposeful—to all the surrounding powers.
"To the great kings, lords, and masters of the known worlds," the missives stated, "I invite you not to battle, nor to competition, but to conversation. The times change, and no empire is an island. Let us converge—not as enemies, but as equals. Let us entwine alliances, that no tempest may sever us apart."
The wording was measured deliberately. Humility with dignity. Not submission, not pride.
When the replies came, they were mixed but cautious.
The elves replied in poetry, subtle disdain behind flowery words. The goblins sent back a scrap of parchment marked only with the words, "We're watching." The beastmen sent no reply at all.
But the dwarves—ah, the dwarves—sent a direct answer. Their High King wrote:
Let the summit take place in our halls, beneath stone that has stood longer than your empires have stood. If there is to be discussion of alliances, it shall be said where stone remembers."
And so the first Summit of Realms was established in the dwarven kingdom.
Controversy and Whispers
The news of Sharath's plan went viral. Within the empire, ordinary people rejoiced. "Our Emperor speaks as equals to kings!" they exclaimed. "We are no longer the forgotten empire, but the rising sun!"
But the nobles murmured poison.
"He courts foreign kings and neglects his own houses.""He squanders our gold on schools for peasants while our estates decay."What use have we for dwarves and elves? His letters shame us in their eyes."
Plans started to churn. Already, two small lords had been caught paying bribes to foreign spies, hoping to sabotage the summit. They did not show up at council the following week—Sharath announced nothing, but everybody felt the missing seats.
Basanna's Workshop
In the meantime, Lord Basanna's workshops were the lifeblood of the empire. The presses rumbled day and night. Apprentices scurried about with ink-stained fingers, stumbling over piles of parchment.
"Faster!" Basanna shouted, waving his cane. "Do you suppose knowledge waits for your yawns? These books are spears sharper than steel!"
But efficiency did get better. Editorial offices were opened, where scholars checked texts for accuracy, truth, and coherence. Misprints that once resulted in posters saying "Death Penalty for Turnips" were now detected before publication.
Basanna himself worked on editing the first volume of the Imperial Law Codex, a fat leather-bound book. It was sold at cost, distributed at half price to guilds, and distributed free to all magistrates.
"Let them know the law," Basanna grumbled, signing the final page. "When they know it, they will ask for it. And when they ask for it, no noble can undo it."
Sharath's Reflection
Sharath stood at the palace balcony one evening, looking out over the city. Flickers of forges glowed. Schoolhouses burned with candle flames as grownups studied to read at night. Walks of his new law keepers marched fixed routes.
For the first time, the empire pulsed with life not from conquest, but from growth.
Yet he knew this wealth, this order, this knowledge—would breed envy. Abroad, kings would weigh whether to ally or crush. At home, nobles would decide whether to serve or betray.
🐧NeuroBoop whispered slyly: "You've built the biggest hoard of shiny toys since the dragons. Good luck keeping the neighbors from sniffing around."
Sharath took a deep breath, eyes piercing. "Let them sniff. By the time they make up their minds, it will be too late."
The Road to the Summit
Thus the empire prepared. Caravans full of gifts and books were prepared for the trip to the dwarven kingdom. Envoys rehearsed speeches, scribes penned scrolls, and guards honed blades.
For the first time in centuries, the empire would take its place on the stage of nations—not as a pawn, not as a relic, but as a power unto itself.
And Sharath, surrounded by maps in his chambers, knew that the upcoming summit would determine not only the empire's riches, but its very survival