Chapter 67
Written by Bayzo Albion
> Interface: Status Update
> Empire of Mirai – Development Level: 2 / 1,000,000
I exhaled, long and slow, watching the sunset bleed across the unfinished towers. For one single minute I let the world be quiet.
Then I spoke aloud to the empty room—no audience, no judgment, no reason to hold back.
"The irony is delicious," I said, tasting the bitterness. "The demon who spent years dragging me into the abyss finally left my body… and now that he's gone, I can barely move. He fed me rage, ambition, the need to spit in heaven's face. Without that fire, all I have is ash."
I laughed once—short, ugly, honest.
"Turns out evil kept me more alive than any dream ever did."
– – –
**From the Second Self's Point of View**
I sat on the edge of the bed long after the Baroness's breathing had settled back into the slow rhythm of sleep. The room was dark except for the thin silver of moonlight slipping through the curtains, painting pale stripes across the floorboards. My mind, though, was loud.
I stood up quietly so I wouldn't wake the Baroness, walked to the window, and looked out over the skeletal silhouette of Mirai—half city, half dream.
– – –
Whoever said leading was glorious never had to do it sober.
From the outside it looks effortless: bark an order, watch the machine whir to life. Reality is a rusted cart with three broken wheels, and you're the mule.
"The hardest part," I told the eleven prisoners lined up in front of me, "is the beginning. Because you don't have the faintest damn idea what you're doing."
Their faces were the color of wet ash. Eyes like abandoned wells—deep enough to drown in, empty enough to echo. No anger, no hope, no spark. Just meat that hadn't realized it was dead yet.
I asked for workers. He gave me walking corpses.
Those eleven men weren't lazy.
They were hollowed out.
Prison—real prison, not the romantic kind you read about in adventure novels—doesn't just take your freedom. It takes the story you tell yourself about who you are. Day after identical day, the message drills in: You are worthless. You are a problem to be contained. Your desires don't matter. Your pain is background noise.
After a few years the soul learns the lesson perfectly and stops arguing.
What I saw in the clearing wasn't defiance. It was surrender so complete it looked like apathy.
"Any of you actually know how to do anything useful?" I asked, slow and deliberate, letting every syllable sink in like a tooth.
Silence. The thick, stupid kind.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "Of course. All men. If half of you were women I could at least find creative places to assign you."
I handed out axes—heavy, mirror-bright, hungry—and shovels that could split stone. "Today you cut trees and pile trash. Move."
Then I vanished home. Set a timer for one hour. Even gods need coffee breaks.
Siesta stood at the stove, humming something soft and almost elven. The kitchen smelled of herbs and slow-cooked roots. Her light skirt swayed with each movement, and her blond ponytail left the graceful line of her neck exposed, her pointed ears gently twitching as she worked.
Mine.
I stepped behind her, slipping my arms around her waist, burying my face in her pale, sun-kissed hair that carried a hint of sweetness and something quietly dangerous. She let out a soft breath—surprised, but not displeased—and leaned subtly into my touch.
My hands drifted lower, a slow, teasing exploration rather than anything indecent. She tensed for a heartbeat, then relaxed fully, trusting me without a word.
The spoon in her hand trembled, tapping lightly against the pot as if struggling to keep rhythm.
I brushed my lips against the tip of her ear—barely a graze, nothing more—and she shivered, the kind of shiver that carried more meaning than any explicit act.
Minutes drifted by—slow, warm, almost syrupy. When the kitchen timer finally shrieked, the sound sliced through the haze, and something in me snapped out of the gentle rhythm.
I drew her closer, guiding her with a firmer grip, my movements suddenly deeper, more insistent—still restrained, still censored, but charged enough to make her fingers whiten on the table's edge.
"Yes… more…" Siesta breathed out, her voice cracking with raw need and surprise at her own boldness.
Two words—and I was gone.
Heat surged through me in a blinding rush. I tensed, shuddered, and buried myself fully against her, releasing with a low, primal sound that made the windowpanes tremble.
Siesta stayed leaning over the table, trembling faintly, cheeks flushed, that soft, bliss-drunk smile tugging at her lips. The air thickened with the faint, intimate trace of what had happened—blended with rosemary, thyme, and the warmth of cooking.
I brushed my lips against the nape of her neck, whispering, "Thank you."
She answered with a shaky breath—no words left in her.
Then, as if mocking the moment,
the timer beeped again.
Duty called.
And just like that, I reappeared in the clearing.
The prisoners had accomplished less in an hour than a drunk toddler could manage in five minutes. One poked at the dirt like it owed him money. Two others chipped at a tree the way a miser chips at a coin—afraid to actually spend it.
I didn't yell. Yelling is for people who still believe volume equals authority.
I just started clapping. Slow. Loud. The crack echoed through the trees like gunshots.
Every head snapped toward me.
"Meeting," I said.
They shuffled over, dragging feet and souls in equal measure.
"You're working like you want to get executed," I observed pleasantly.
Blank stares.
"So. You only understand one language, then?"
The iron sword slid from its sheath behind my back with a whisper that turned stomachs.
That got a reaction. Pupils dilated. Throats bobbed. One man took an actual step backward.
Good. Still alive in there.
"Perfect," I said, letting the blade catch the sunlight. "Now that I have your attention—one question. Answer honestly and maybe you keep all your limbs."
They nodded so hard I worried about whiplash.
"What did you miss most in prison?"
Silence. Then a croak:
"Decent food."
"Booze," another muttered.
"Magic smokes," a third added, voice cracking with longing.
Then the dam broke.
"Someone treating us like humans…"
"Kindness. Just… someone giving a damn."
"A warm room. Light that isn't gray."
"Feeling safe for five goddamn minutes."
"Sleep without nightmares."
"Privacy."
"Freedom."
"Freedom to speak without getting a boot in the teeth!"
Each confession hit the air like a stone dropped in still water. For the first time I saw them—really saw them. Broken men, yes, but men all the same.
I let the silence settle.
"Noted," I said at last. "Take the rest of the day off."
I vanished before they could decide if I was joking.
Back home the bedroom was dim and peaceful. The Baroness lay curled on her side, hair spilling across the pillow like dark silk. She looked impossibly small, impossibly fragile.
I brushed a kiss across her cheek.
"Mmm… again already?" she mumbled, eyes still closed, voice thick with sleep.
"Not tonight," I smiled. "I need something else."
She made a grumpy little noise, burrowed deeper into the blankets, and was out again in seconds.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dark.
The prisoners had just handed me the blueprint I didn't know I was missing.
Fear makes men move.
But hope?
Hope makes them build empires.
– – –
At some point, the Baroness stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open like dark silk, and she pushed herself up on her elbows with the languid grace of a cat who knows exactly how much power she holds. Her silver-blonde hair spilled in wild tangles across the pillow, lips parted just enough to tease, and her gaze (still heavy with sleep) carried that familiar sting of mockery.
"Amazing," she purred, tilting her head with a wicked smile. "I actually got tired of you… ruining me like that. You don't stop, do you? You're obsessed. A walking sin. A lust-demon in human skin."
"Today you're safe," I said, letting a restrained smile touch my lips. "Provided you help me."
She arched one perfect brow. "And what exactly does the great pervert need from little old me?"
"Magic. I'm hopeless at it. I need backup."
"Pfft. I'm not a tutor," she flicked her wrist dismissively. "Teaching is beneath me."
"But you're strong. Stronger than almost anyone I know."
"More than strong," she corrected, voice dripping honeyed arrogance. She tucked a stray lock behind her ear and (whether by accident or design) let the sheet slip lower, baring the smooth curve of one pale shoulder. "So?"
"Then you're perfect. I'm not asking for lessons. Just… come with me. Be there when I need you."
She yawned, slow and luxurious, stretching like a panther until the blanket slid down completely, revealing the soft swell of her breasts. A pleased, feline smile played across her lips.
"Fine," she sighed, as if the entire world bored her and I was the only tolerable distraction left. "I accept. Things were getting dull anyway."
"Then get dressed, my witch. Time to move."