If you build it, they will come. And if you are an Evil Emperor, they will come because they are terrified of what happens if they don't.
Hiroshi looked down at the Imperial Arena.
It had been built in six hours.
When you have ten thousand Earth Mages who are afraid of missing a deadline, construction permits become... flexible. The result was a coliseum of black stone and iron spikes that could seat fifty thousand screaming maniacs.
"The numbers, Gix?" Hiroshi asked, sipping his tea.
The goblin treasurer was practically vibrating. He wasn't shaking with fear this time. He was shaking with greed.
"Astronomical, Your Dark Majesty!" Gix squealed, holding up a scroll that was gold-plated. "The ticket sales for the 'Red Legion vs. Black Legion' semi-final have surpassed the GDP of the last three conquests combined!"
Hiroshi choked on his tea. "What?"
"The concessions!" Gix continued, eyes spinning. "The 'Varek-Burgers'—raw meat between two shields—are sold out. The 'Blood-Ale' is flowing like a river. And the merchandise... oh, the merchandise!"
Gix held up an object.
It was a giant foam hand. Except, instead of a friendly pointer finger, it was a replica of Varek's armored gauntlet, clenched into a fist of doom.
"The 'Fist of Submission!'" Gix chirped. "Every child in the capital wants one!"
Hiroshi stared at the foam fist. I just wanted to make foam fingers. Why does it look like a murder weapon?
"And the revenue?" Hiroshi asked weakly.
"Enough to pay the army for a year," Gix said. "And fund the orphanage. And rebuild the city walls."
Hiroshi slumped back in his obsidian throne. He did it. He actually did it. He saved the economy without killing a single person.
"GOOOOOOAL!"
Below, the stadium erupted. Fifty thousand orcs, humans, and beastkin roared in unison. The sound hit the VIP box like a physical shockwave.
On the field, the striker for the Red Legion—a minotaur named Gore-Hoof—had just headbutted the ball into the net. The net exploded. The goalkeeper, a hapless human knight, was currently embedded in the stone wall behind it.
"Medical team!" Hiroshi shouted into his magical amplifier. "Get him a stretcher!"
"Look at them!" General Marcus roared from the seat next to him. Marcus was wearing a 'Red Legion' jersey over his plate armor and waving a foam fist. "They celebrate the violence! They worship the struggle!"
Marcus turned to Hiroshi, tears of joy streaming down his scarred face.
"You have given them a religion, sire. A church of sweat and collision."
Hiroshi sighed. "It's just sports, Marcus."
Three rows back, concealed in a hooded cloak that blended with the shadows, Agent Whiskey of the Allied Kingdoms wrote furiously in a small notebook.
Target: The United Empire Capital.Subject: New Military Doctrine.
His hands trembled as he wrote. He had infiltrated the city expecting to find troops drilling or weapons being forged.
He found something much worse.
The Emperor has dispensed with individual training, Whiskey wrote, the ink smudging from his sweat. He is now conducting mass-synchronization rituals.
On the field, the crowd began to stomp their feet. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The ground shook.
"THE WAVE!" someone screamed.
Agent Whiskey watched in horror as fifty thousand people stood up in perfect, rippling unison, throwing their hands into the air and screaming a war cry that shattered the clouds.
They move as one organism, Whiskey scribbled, his heart hammering against his ribs. It is a hive-mind. If this coordination is applied to a battlefield... the Coalition armies will be erased in seconds.
Suddenly, a vendor appeared in front of him.
"Popcorn?" the vendor grunted. "Or perhaps a 'Severed Ear' gummy?"
Whiskey stared at the red, ear-shaped candy. Cannibalism. They are training the civilians to consume the enemy.
"Just... water," Whiskey whispered.
"Five gold," the vendor grunted.
And their war chest, Whiskey noted. It is overflowing. They are funding a campaign that will consume the world.
Back in the VIP box, Hiroshi was dealing with a new crisis.
"Halftime Show!" Marcus announced. "Majesty, the beast-tamers have prepared a tribute!"
"Oh no," Hiroshi rubbed his temples. "Please tell me it's not dragons."
"It is not dragons," Marcus promised.
The gates opened.
It was bears.
Specifically, bears riding unicycles while juggling flaming swords.
Hiroshi stared. The crowd went silent. Even the minotaur on the field stopped bleeding to watch.
"I... I don't remember approving this," Hiroshi said.
"It was General Elara's idea," Marcus whispered. "She said you liked 'efficiency.' What is more efficient than a bear that can travel and fight simultaneously?"
One of the bears wobbled. The flaming sword flew into the stands.
A spectator caught it. He cheered. The crowd went wild.
"They love it," Hiroshi whispered, baffled. "They actually love it."
[System Notification][Empire Happiness: +15%][Culture Generated: 'Violent Whimsy'][Current Status: The Golden Age of Absurdity]
Hiroshi smiled. A real, genuine smile. For the first time since waking up in this body, things were going okay.
He stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony. He raised his foam fist.
The crowd went instantly silent.
Hiroshi took a deep breath. He wanted to say something inspiring. Something about sportsmanship and fair play.
"PLAY..." Hiroshi shouted.
His voice boomed like thunder.
"...BALL!"
It was meant to be enthusiastic. It sounded like a command to initiate the apocalypse.
The crowd screamed back: "FOR THE EMPEROR! FOR THE BALL! DEATH TO THE OPPOSITION!"
Agent Whiskey, cowering in the back row, dropped his notebook.
He had seen enough.
He slipped out of the stadium, moving through the shadows. He had to reach the carrier pigeons. He had to warn the Free Nations.
Varek wasn't just building an army. He was building a cult. And they were armed with unicycle bears.
The Border of the Coalition – 3 Days Later
King Alaric of the Western Alliance read the tiny scroll. His hands shook.
"Are you certain?" he asked the spymaster.
"Agent Whiskey is our best man, sire," the spymaster replied grimly. "The report is confirmed. The Empire has developed a new siege weapon called 'The Striker.' It can destroy stone walls with a single blow."
Alaric paled. "And the populace?"
"Radicalized," the spymaster said. "They wear the Emperor's fist on their hands. They consume the body parts of their enemies as snacks. And..."
The spymaster hesitated.
"And what?"
"They have weaponized bears, sire. On wheels."
King Alaric sat down heavily. The map of the world seemed to shrink before his eyes.
"Gods save us," Alaric whispered. "We cannot fight bears on wheels."
He looked up, his eyes hard.
"Send word to the Dwarven Keeps. And the Elven Council. Tell them the time for bickering is over."
Alaric slammed his hand on the table.
"Form the Grand Defense Pact. If Varek wants to play... we will show him that war is no game."