The dwarven city of Karak-Dûrm was hewn deep within the mountains, halls so large they could engulf cathedrals, illuminated by crystals that shone with trapped starlight. There, for the first time in living memory, the leaders of all the great races met.
The circular council table dominated the middle of the Grand Hall, hewn out of a single block of obsidian. Seated about it were the authorities of the era:
Durak Stonefist, Dwarven King, his beard braided in rings of iron and silver.
Elven Princess Alenwë, representative of the forest queens, serene and luminous, her robe sewn from living leaves.
Khan Torvak, beastman warlord, a lion-headed warrior clothed in golden furs.
High Speaker Zoggrit, of the Goblin Syndicate, his eyes as sharp as the edges of coins.
And at last, Sharath, not in robes of old, but in humble imperial finery, strolling with peaceful ease, surrounded by guards bearing black metal rifles adorned with the golden symbol of his empire.
Suspicion, curiosity, and ambition hung thick in the air.
Sharath's Opening
Sharath arose slowly, his voice slicing through the whispers.
"Friends. Fellow sovereigns. My empire expanded in ways never seen before not due to gold, not due to war—but due to ideas. Today, I present to you the same: knowledge, tools, and education. Not for the few, not for the nobly born, but for all."
He waved his hand. A servant wheeled in two covered devices. With a flourish, Sharath revealed them: the typewriter and the printing press.
Gasps swept through the chamber.
"These," Sharath stated, "are the first step to shattering chains of ignorance. Typewriters make peasants into scribes. Printing presses disseminate law, learning, and truth more quickly than lies. I will exchange these with all of you, and I will throw open my schools to children of all races. No child shall be excluded from knowledge."
Madhu sat beside him, observing intently as the responses cascaded like cards on a table of chance.
The Elves
Princess Alenwë stood up first. Her voice was a gentle flute, but each syllable was heavy with meaning.
"Your dream is ambitious, Emperor Sharath. But the woods whisper to us: knowledge spreads like flame. If you give every child from every race education, then you must also maintain balance.". Too many books and no nature creates arrogance, and arrogance creates destruction. We elves will take your typewriters and presses as an offer, and we will send our children to your schools. But with that, we insist on this condition: for each school that is constructed, a forest should be planted and guarded.
The elves nodded gravely in assent behind her.
Sharath lowered his head. "Done. Your forests will thrive side by side with our cities. Knowledge without nature is barren parchment. You will have my oath."
Alenwë's face relaxed; a small win.
The Dwarves
King Durak Stonefist then banged his fist on the table.
"Bah! Machines that clack and spit ink? Good for scribblers, aye. But what of weapons? We've seen yer thundersticks, boy. Give us the blueprint for that black rifle—this 'M16'—and the dwarves shall call ye ally till the end of stone!"
The hall tensed. Even the beastmen pricked their ears.
Sharath's eyes went hard. "No. That gun is mine own. You will not see its design. But you can buy presses and typewriters. Take them apart, examine them, upgrade them as you please—that is your art. But the M16… stays closed."
A rumble of anger in the dwarves' throats. But Durak grunted. "Hmph. Fine. We'll take yer presses and typewriters. And one other thing. We want yer hot-air balloons.
Whispers broke out. Hot-air balloons—ships in the air—had been a myth since Sharath flew his first one.
Sharath smiled weakly. "I will not sell them. But I will give one balloon to each kingdom represented here. A gift of friendship, not of commerce."
The dwarves grumbled but acquiesced.
The Beastmen
Khan Torvak, warlord with a lion's head, stood next, mane shining under the crystal illumination.
"Ha! Machines, books, scribbles! Not to my taste. But free schools for beastman cubs? That is gold. Our people are strong, but strength without wit is a dull claw. We accept. And as for typewriters and presses—we'll take as many as we can carry."
He laughed, a thunderous one, and slapped Sharath on the back. "You're fair, boy. The beastmen lose nothing, gain a lot. That's my sort of bargain."
The Goblins
At last, High Speaker Zoggrit leaned forward, his smile all teeth.
"Pretty toys, Emperor. Very pretty. But let us not play with words. Goblins do not desire typewriters. Goblins do not desire schools. Goblins desire the blueprints to everything—every machine, every secret, every invention. And we will pay well. Name your price."
The hall became as silent as the grave.
Sharath's eyes grew cold. "No."
Zoggrit's smile wavering. "No?"
You demand an empire's heart, and pay with coins. You are insulting this table." Sharath's tone turned sharp. "Take the presses. Take the typewriters. Make them better, bend them, sell them if you need to. That is your prerogative. But the heart of my empire—its secrets—are not for sale.
For an instant, the goblin emissary looked as though he might burst into fury. But then he smiled, a slow one. "Spiteful words. Very well. We'll have the machines. We'll dismantle them, and maybe we'll even improve them over what you did."
Sharath permitted himself the thinning of a smile. "If you do, then you will have discovered the first principle of invention: that improvement is the sole constant."
Showcasing Wares
Now that the point had been made, the other monarchs demanded to demonstrate what they could trade in return.
The elves offered crystal vials of sacred water, radiating holy light. "One drop will heal wounds, cleanse poisons, restore vitality. We will sell them honestly, in short supply, to maintain balance," Princess Alenwë announced.
The dwarves introduced groups of mithril armor, plates shining with runes of durability. "Steel will shatter, but mithril endures," King Durak thundered. "This we provide, to anyone who has gold to pay."
The goblins… threw open crates containing everything from perfumes to daggers to barrels of black powder. "We trade anything, anything, to anyone who has the money to pay," Zoggrit boasted. "Even things you never knew you needed."
The beastmen merely raised their arms. "We trade strength. Mercenaries, hunters, warriors. You require brawn, you seek us out."
The bargaining, laughter, and threatening snap of distrust filled the council hall.
Closing of the Summit
By the end of the week-long negotiations, there were signed agreements:
Typewriters and presses would be exchanged openly among kingdoms.
Education for every child, regardless of race, would start—forests cultivated alongside schools to fulfill the elves' clause.
Each kingdom would be given one hot-air balloon infused with magic, a token of good faith.
No blueprints for M16s would be given, regardless of pressure.
It was a delicate coalition, rife with distrust and competition. But it was a start—a seed sown in rock.
With the summit concluded, King Durak lifted his tankard. "To new bargains. May we profit well from them."
The elves dipped their heads. The beastmen bellowed in appreciation. The goblins rattled money in their palms.
And Sharath, observing it all, thought: The world has seen us. Now the real game starts.
🐧 NeuroBoop whispered in his ear: "Congrats. You just handed every race tools to leave their own scribes and priests behind. You might have ignited the Renaissance… or the Apocalypse. Fun, isn't it?"
Sharath smiled weakly, and the summit concluded.