The empire no longer reeked of smoke and blood. The memories of dungeon overflows and gunfire still hung in the air, but the capital buzzed with a new cadence—hammers on stone, saws on wood, spells thrumming through scaffolding.
Sharath stood at the palace balcony, looking out over a horizon shrouded in clouds of dust from construction. Everywhere he gazed, something was going up—arches, pillars, domes, bridges, all pushing beyond the bounds of mere engineering.
"This isn't a city anymore," Madhu grumbled, squinting against the morning sun. "It's becoming a legend."
Sharath grinned. "Let them create legends, then. When people talk of Empires, they should envision this skyline."
Palace Enlargement
The Imperial Palace, already enormous, was being transformed in its boldest form.
The old halls—strong stone, adorned with age-old patterns—were now bordered by magical glass spires that shone in sunlight, glowing softly in nightfall as if alive. Bridges of enchanted steel swept between towers, and floating platforms bore workers like leaves blowing on unseen tides.
Within, corridors broadened, ceilings rose. Murals painted themselves onto newly plastered walls, enchanted pigments shifting to show the history of the empire: Sharath commanding riflemen against beasts, Madhu teaching children swordsmanship, Lord Bassana beaming over printing presses.
One room—Sharath's suggestion—was left completely vacant but for one throne. The ceiling in this room was spellbound with illusion magic, so that the person sitting upon the throne looked up and beheld not stone but the whole night sky, charted in real time.
When Bassana saw it, he laughed until he coughed. "A king with his head in the stars, eh? Fitting."
Sharath smiled weakly. "A reminder that power is fleeting, and the sky is still there."
Civic Buildings
Outside palace walls, the city itself changed.
Hospitals
White-stone rows of hospitals sprouted with broad windows and enchanted wards. Within, healing fountains glowed with curative magic—every ward fueled by elf-donated holy water blended with Imperial runes.
Citizens who had scuttled to herbalists for meager cures now strode through broad hospital portals, welcomed by nurses in magical aprons that defied infection.
"Free care," Sharath declared to the world. "All citizens. No exceptions."
The applause rattled the plaza.
Schools and Libraries
Schools came quickly—square buildings with broad courtyards where children fought with wooden blades, read from newly printed books, and sometimes set their own desks ablaze with miscast spells.
Every school was linked to a public library, and here Sharath dropped his most revolutionary law:
"Books are not for hoarding. They are for sharing. None may take them home—every citizen must read here, under the same roof. Knowledge is not possession. Knowledge is presence."
Some of the nobles protested. "Majesty, surely the rich must have private access to scrolls, rare books—"
Sharath silenced him with a glare. "Then they are not rare enough."
So the libraries were opened—great rooms full of magic shelves that breathed out the titles as a reader walked by, ladders that moved to the correct book at a word, and shining reading orbs that hovered behind patrons unheard.
In the evening, the libraries shone like lamps. Laborers, merchants, even off-duty soldiers attended. Citizens who previously signed with fingerprints now argued history and science late into the night.
Madhu watched one evening as a farmer argued philosophy with a tailor. She smiled. "You've given them a voice sharper than any blade."
Sharath only shrugged. "The sharper the voices, the harder they are to silence. That is the point."
Monuments and Bridges
The empire needed more than utility—it needed beauty. And so, the Monument Projects began.
The River Bridges
Across the grand river which split the city in two, Sharath constructed bridges never before imagined. Every one of them was built of living stone, cultivated by dwarven runes so that the stone itself curved in beautiful arcs. Beside each, riflemen and mage statues stood watch, torches enchanted to burn forever in their hands.
Under darkness, the bridges glowed with runes, projecting colors onto the water. Citizens stood to observe the water light up.
The Plaza of Unity
At the center of the city, a great open plaza stretched out, bordered by colonnades. Its center was dominated by workers constructing a monument higher than any tower:
A five-figure sculpture—an elf with scroll, a dwarf with hammer, a beastman waving a banner, a goblin with equipment, and a human clutching both sword and book.
"They will query why the goblin is not armed," Bassana said.
"Because they trade everything for gold," Sharath snapped curtly.
The crowd erupted into laughter when the statue was revealed. And yet, no one could deny the symbolism: unity, however tenuous, in stone.
Magical Architecture
Conventional building couldn't keep up with Sharath's dreams. So he resorted to magical innovation.
He ordered runic scaffolding that suspended itself in air so workers could construct towers in days rather than months. He designed levitating cranes that hoisted whole blocks of stone without working up a sweat.
But the crown of his creations was the Hall of Resonance—a public assembly hall in which sound traveled flawlessly.
Regardless of where one was in the hall, every voice was heard distinctly without the need to shout. Citizens debated politics, farmers fought grain taxes, scholars read discoveries aloud, and orators incited the populace.
It was, in reality, more than a hall—it was a school for democracy.
"Careful," Madhu teased him one evening as the crowd erupted in debate. "You're making your people too loud."
Sharath grinned. "Then the Empire will never sleep. A loud people are a living people."
Citizens Witness
For the people, the empire was transformed in the course of a few months. Where mud alleys clogged with beggars had been, paved roads lined with lamps stretched out now. Where disease had been hidden in the shadows, hospitals shone with healing light. Where silence had choked, libraries buzzed with the whispers of turning pages.
On market days, peasants gawked at new monuments. Children ran across radiant bridges. Merchants argued tariffs not with clubs, but with written contracts read aloud in libraries.
And whenever Sharath strolled through the streets, rifles on his guards shining, citizens did not merely bow—they quarreled with him, yelled suggestions, openly argued about his policies.
One day, a child pulled his cloak.
"Emperor," she said gravely, "you must construct more swings."
Sharath knelt, mussed her hair, and appealed to Bassana. "Put it on the list."
Bassana sighed. "Swings, hospitals, libraries—do you think I'm on magic power, boy?"
Sharath grinned. "Yes."
The crowd laughed. The crowd believed.
Rival Eyes
Not all witnesses were aghast, however.
From far-off towers, elven scouts reported that bridges shimmered and libraries glowed. Dwarven traders complained that their steel was outrun by Imperial magic-stone. Goblins licked their lips, already planning how to forge Imperial typewriters.
And beastmen warlords, huddled about firepits, grumbled:
"Boy-king constructs not only walls and spires. He constructs loyalty. He constructs stability. Stone and book form a longer-lived empire than blood and blade."
Sharath's Vision
Late one evening, Sharath strolled along the almost complete Hall of Resonance, light from lanterns dancing over its perfect arches. He ran his hand along the stone.
"This will outlast me," he whispered.
🐧NeuroBoop vibrated in his ear. "Unless a goblin blows it up. You know how they are."
Sharath smiled softly. "Then we rebuild. More strongly."
Madhu came up, her steps quiet. "You never quit, do you? Always a project ahead. Always a fight in your mind."
He gazed at her, eyes flashing with resolve. "Because the moment I cease, this empire ceases. And if I must cut into the stone itself to create something permanent, then so it will be."
She watched him for a moment before smiling slightly. "You're crazy."
"Madness constructs monuments," he said.
And beyond, at dawn, the city awakened—an empire hewn not merely from steel and blood, but from bridges and books and stone, defying the world to forget it.