What would you do when you hold so much money, so much power, and absolute authority in the palm of your hand?
You're only twenty-two years old, and yet the world is already nearly yours.
Clovis la Britannia supposed to be a failure, a joke within the royal bloodline, a pitiful stepping stone in the story of Lelouch vi Britannia's rise and rebellion. History was supposed to forget him, write him off as nothing more than dead weight crushed under the heel of genius.
But the boy lived. He didn't just live, he thrived. He didn't just escape his fate, he rewrote it.
He outlasted Lelouch, slaughtered dissidents without hesitation, bent minds like Lloyd Asplund to his will, and even tamed fiery rebels like Kallen, forcing them to kneel under his authority.
In Area Eleven, no one could challenge him anymore. Not the revolutionaries, they were purged, their leaders executed, their foot soldiers wiped from the map.
The nobles, once arrogant in their decadent power, were humiliated and suppressed. Even the royal family, who once sneered at Clovis as a worthless prince, was forced into compliance after the bloody incident of Princess Guinevere's murder.
Beneath that reckless murder lay a web of control. Innocent or guilty didn't matter. Once word spread that Clovis orchestrated Guinevere's humiliation and death, it also exposed the truth: every single noble who had witnessed it without raising their voice or lifting their hand was guilty as well.
Accomplices by silence. Complicit through cowardice. They had mouths to speak, hands to act, yet they stayed quiet, their eyes averted as Clovis disgraced his sister before the world.
So when Emperor Charles demanded answers, how could they accuse Clovis? To speak against him was to expose themselves. To reveal his crime was to confess their own. Their defense didn't matter, their silence was already proof enough.
A sin in the Emperor's eyes.
Clovis took that fact and crushed them with it. He used the opportunity to strip the nobles bare in a grand spectacle, their shame turned into his weapon. His hidden ambition, once dismissed as the fantasy of a pampered prince, exploded into the open.
He bared his ruthless edge for all to see and began targeting the aristocracy at every turn, leaving no opening unused, no weakness untouched.
From media to military, land to economy, every avenue of power was seized and consolidated into his hands and those of his loyal inner circle.
He rewrote the rules of his dominion, tearing down centuries of noble privilege. He declared a new order: one where every man and woman, regardless of birth, would be judged only by talent, potential, and loyalty to him.
Nobles bled influence while the commoners saw opportunity and in that shift, Clovis forged his own empire.
The royal family did not intervene. His brothers and sisters had abandoned the Area Eleven for their own territories.
Only Cornelia and Euphemia remained, their forces stationed temporarily after Lelouch had begged their help to prove himself worthy again in the Middle East.
But even then, Cornelia did not move against Clovis. She aligned with him instead, even helping him crush the nobles with her military might.
Together, their combined force ensured that Area Eleven became an unbreakable fortress under his reign.
He held no illusions about the nobles' allegiance, they were Charles's, not his. He knew it was only a matter of time before he would break from his father's shadow, declare himself independent, and crown himself as more than a prince.
For that, he envisioned something greater.
A utopia for all peoples, for every nation and race once crushed under Britannia's boot.
He promised freedom from racism, liberation from a toxic, rotting society, and the creation of a world order that stood as Britannia's complete opposite.
This was Clovis la Britannia, no longer the weakling prince, no longer forgotten. His ambition was nothing less than the world itself.
To seize it. To reshape it. To raise humanity higher, beyond the petty squabbles of nobles, the hollow struggles of the royal family, or the fragile notion of peace.
He dreamed of mankind's ascension, of an empire not of earth alone, but of stars, a march toward galactic conquest and beyond.
Every man and woman, in his eyes, would become a star and he, Clovis, would be the Emperor to lead them into that brighter future.
And whoever stood in his way? They were nothing but stepping stones. Obstacles to be broken, eliminated, and forgotten.
As he stood before the masses, a sea of people encircled him.
Each onlooker couldn't help but scream his name.
"Prince Clovis!"
"Prince Clovis!"
"Prince Clovis!"
The chant shook the air, echoing through the plaza.
That was how far his influence stretched, how intoxicating his rise had become after he tore down the rotten revolutionaries and implemented his brutal yet brilliant new policies.
Most of the nobles despised him with every fiber of their being, but what about those who were nothing more than discarded trash in the eyes of their families?
What about the bastards and the illegitimate children? What about the younger sons and daughters born unlucky, condemned to be nothing more than pawns—knights, soldiers, or breeding stock under the shadow of their so-called rightful heirs?
What about those cast out and exiled to rot in obscurity?
Clovis flipped the table. He crushed the heirs and stripped their inheritance, then handed legitimacy and power to those unwanted by their own blood.
The ones cast aside now stood at his side, armed with titles, authority, and revenge against the very houses that spat them out like filth.
His strategy was never about cutting the tree at its roots, it was divide and conquer, pure and simple.
Let them fight each other like rabid dogs, let them draw blood over scraps, and while they tore each other apart, he reaped the rewards and stood tall above the carnage.
Now the world before him had changed. Britannians, Elevens, immigrants, Asians, men and women who were once shackled by the lie of superiority, all now stood in his presence.
Those who had fought by his side to destroy the revolutionaries were rewarded regardless of their bloodline, race or homeland. For the first time, his military forces weren't shackled to the limits of Britannian elites.
Think about it: people outside Britannia had never even tasted the chance to rise high.
They were always shoved to the front lines as disposable meat shields, dying in trenches, never given the chance to pilot Knightmares, airplanes, or tanks.
No medals, no glory, no respect. Just corpses in a land not their own.
But Clovis changed all that. He gave them what no other nation dared to, real opportunity.
And that was why betrayal was harder for them.
Because where else could they go? Who else would give them this? No one. They could be replaced, but Clovis? Clovis was the irreplaceable ruler who gave them the one thing no one else ever would: a chance to matter.
And it didn't end with the commoners or foreigners. The same was true for the nobles he promoted. Without him, they would've been nothing but permanent subordinates to their brothers and sisters, suffocating in mediocrity.
Clovis handed them power on a silver platter, and that meant they couldn't betray him either.
At least not now. At this moment, they could only try desperately to please him, to cling to the lifeline he offered.
But of course, not everyone was happy. Even crippled and weakened, the old nobility still clung to their power and influence, too stubborn to die.
Reporters surrounded him, snapping pictures, scribbling notes, smelling both opportunity and blood.
One of them, sharp-eyed and ambitious, stepped forward, already planning to twist Clovis' words into fuel for the old guard.
"Prince Clovis, may I have your time?"
Clovis turned his head, his face unreadable. "You may."
"There are things we don't understand, Your Highness," the reporter began, voice raised just enough for the crowd to catch his words. "You speak of equality, of tearing down noble privilege and promoting those beneath them. Yet your past shows you weren't that kind of man at all. You were always an aristocrat at heart, a royal prince who valued blood and status above all else, just like your brothers and sisters. So tell us, what changed?"
Clovis didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he stared at the man with a look of faint concern, as if studying him.
"Your name… Gustavo, isn't it?" he said softly, making the man stiffen. "Your concern is understandable. Anyone who isn't Britannian would find it hard to trust me. Even if you were Britannian, you still wouldn't. I changed my stance today, who could say I won't change again tomorrow?"
He let the words hang in the air before stepping forward, raising his voice so all could hear.
"Ladies and gentlemen, remember this. My name is Clovis la Britannia. One day, I will be Emperor. Not just this land, but the entire world will ours."
His voice sharpened, echoing with raw conviction.
"Poverty, status, bloodlines, all of it will be beneath us. They will no longer chain us, no longer weigh us down. Every man and woman will shine as stars beneath our reign!"
And with that, the crowd erupted.
"All hail Prince Clovis!"
"All hail Prince Clovis!"
"All hail Prince Clovis!"
The crowd screamed with fanatical devotion, voices merging into one unstoppable tide, as if the entire world itself was chanting his name.
As the reporters scrambled to ask another question, Clovis tossed a dice at them.
"The die is cast."
And as he turned away, his cloak billowing in the wind, the entire square held their breath.
This man is so fucking cool.