Min-Maxing My TRPG Build in Another World - Volume 4.1 - Chapter 4

Master Scene

Master Scene

A scene without PCs run entirely by the GM. The players are not the only ones who must deal with the aftermath of a story, and who knows? Perhaps an ending can lead to new beginnings...

Surely there were few who would find the epicurean seat so disagreeable to sit in. There were heaps of people who’d invested enough money to shake unsinkable dynasties, hanged countless innocents, and passed down their dogged persistence all in the name of seeing one of their own rest upon it.

“...Half a century ago, was it?”

Seated at the imperial desk, the masquerader of high rank—that is, Duke Martin Werner von Erstreich—kicked his feet up onto the table as if to punt away the fools who sought the throne without any ability to imagine the weight it came with.

“As awful to sit in as ever, I see. I struggle to see why the masses so dream of planting their asses into this chair.”

The vampire scoffed irritably and, as if his transgressions had not gone far enough, he crossed his arms and clicked his tongue. His actions were those of a punk acting tough at the pub; though they clashed terribly with his carefully set silver hair and imperial-purple robe, the mannerisms curiously fit the gentlemanly magus.

But rather, that ought to have been expected. Martin had complied with Erstreich family tradition in his youth: he’d spent his early decades far removed from imperial life, mingling with the common people. In his case, he’d roamed the low streets of Lipzi and led a gang out of a countryside bar; he was simply returning to his roots.

Funnily enough, the three men gathered in the room had all enjoyed similar boyhoods, as unimaginable as it may be to those beyond the walls. In other words, the imperial office home to the highest authority in the land had become a club for men unable to forget their years of juvenile delinquency.

“Vampires are some poor bastards. Not dying after that sure must be rough.”

“Agreed. A mensch in his state would have been pleading for a swift end.”

“How kind of you two to express your sympathies as if my plight is a foreign affair...”

Once more, the three leaders heading the imperial houses that would determine the Trialist Empire’s tomorrow found themselves in the Emperor’s private office—albeit their seats each shifted by one.

Clad in violet regalia, Duke Martin was to reprise his title as Martin I come a few months’ time; here sat the new Emperor, ready for a fourth term.

Across from him sat August IV, similarly ready to pass on the crown to become a grand duke—a title given to emperors who stepped down within their lifetimes, or kings of Rhinian satellite states—within the coming months. His stress appeared to have been shucked off along with his purple garb, as he wore his unembellished plain clothes with a brow less wrinkled than before.

Lastly, the werewolf watched on with the cool of someone wholly removed from any stakes. He’d seen the ridiculous fuss and the wild familial goose chase that had brought the Minister of Finance to tears—the bill for which fell to Martin I, the root of the whole ordeal—from the sidelines, and he shook his head disapprovingly. After all, the commander-in-chief of the Empress-to-be’s search had been none other than David.

Settling into a seat he’d long since forsaken, Martin I snapped his fingers to produce a stellar sheaf of parchment out of thin air. The stack of papers was pressure-bound into a thick booklet, and the pages were lined with intricate mystic formulae and oaths to the gods; the script, in and of itself, was a form of ritual.

Martin I sank his long canine into his left thumb and dipped a quill in the wound to complete the contract with blood. The form was an official request to call for the election that would enthrone him. Once written by the prospective new Emperor, signed off on by the sitting monarch, and accepted by the final imperial leader, the document would spontaneously combust and deliver a physically identical copy to each of the electorate.

The remaining parts were unflinchingly filled out in precise penmanship befitting of the scholar. Finally, he appended his signature with a bloody seal stamped in with his ring. All that remained was for the current Emperor and the imperial witness to offer their own signatures and seals, and the preparations would be complete.

“Here, it’s finished. Check it over.”

“As you will, Your Majesty.”

“And whomever might you be talking to? Your abdication isn’t even official yet...”

Ignoring the grumbling vampire, the retiring Emperor looked through the form to make sure everything was in order.

Though the forms that dealt with imperial succession were grandiose, the paperwork itself was exceedingly simple. When coming up with the legal code for succession, the Founding Emperor Richard had come to the conclusion that complications would lead to misinterpretations among the later generations. A discontinuation of the dynasty arising from invalid legal processes was no laughing matter, so the Emperor of Creation had slimmed it down to leave no room for interpretation.

As a result, while the petition to begin an election required a great deal of time and money to put together, the form itself was a far cry from the parade of esoteric euphemisms and complications that so often plagued imperial documents. Plain and simple, confirming its contents was easy and poking holes in it was hard. The smoothness of the affair drew no complaints from anyone; rather, if the noble bureaucrats of the Empire were ever to find out, they would surely go mad with envy that their papers were not the same.

“I see no issue,” August said. “All that remains is to finish negotiations.”

“As if it’d ever get stopped,” David said. “We already finished laying the groundwork.”

As soon as the sitting Emperor and final imperial added their signatures and seals, the contract burst into iridescent flames, burning away. To see divine power intertwined with magic to ensure the words within was a dreamlike scene that few would ever witness in their lifetimes—not that it meant anything to these three. They failed to show any sign of interest, instead just relieved to have one chore finished.

“A’ight, next up is the good old reunion.”

“It would be too cruel to press yet another burden into His Majesty’s hands: let us decide who shall oversee the task between us.”

“Oh, in that case, let’s settle this with a match of ehrengarde.”

“Not a contest of drink?”

“Nah, the doc’s got me off liquor.”

“Gentlemen,” Martin cut in, “this is a conference to decide the next Emperor. Would it be so much to ask for you to stop treating it like some casual get-together?”

A loyal citizen watching their exchange would have lost heart and even soul at how lackadaisically the Emperor-crowning convention was being planned, and the vampire ascendant sighed wearily.

Of course, perhaps it was inevitable: it only followed from the Trialist Empire’s origins that any inheritance of its crown would adhere to a rigid legal code.

The procedures had been mapped out to inhibit hasty insurrections—those thoughtless regicides that doomed other nations to slow and steady declines—while making sure the Emperor could be cut off and replaced the second he fell from grace. The whole thing was tuned on a brilliant balance between tension and release.

Mensch and werewolves were quick to change generations, and the immortal vampires had weaknesses both physical and mental; the electors who watched over these imperials were further varied in background. Historians who studied the Empire’s construction could often be found groaning about how solid its foundation was.

It was possible to rise to the top. Marriage, adoption, inheritance—the avenues to climb were far from limited. Yet the rules were harsh for those who wished to swipe the reins out from under the Empire. What was more, the countless responsibilities that came with the throne were contractually obligated of the sitter—escape was not an option.

The Emperor’s duties did not entail kicking back and using the lavish treasury to his heart’s content. He who oversaw the nation had his obligations defined in law and his authority accepted by the gods; giving the heavens one’s word and surrendering oneself to a mystic contract was no light commitment.

And so, the Empire found itself run by what boiled down to a big extended family.

“Y’know, Your Majesty, you sure did give in quick.” While his old friend prepared an ehrengarde set to settle the matter of party-planning liability, the werewolf turned his attention to the vampire.

“And? What of it?” Martin’s furrowed brow made his complaints plain: how dare he comment after conspiring to crown him?

“Well, I figured you’d quibble harder than this. Besides, there are tons of Erstreichs. Couldn’t you have just plucked some random kid to fill your spot?”

“So that’s what you were getting at...”

Despite the flagrant disrespect of the question, Martin I didn’t lose his cool; he only scoffed. Some would already have fainted at the sight of his uncouth posture, but he clasped his hands behind his head, descending yet further into the territory of the crass.

“Not all who covet authority are fit to wield it. None of my youths are worthy of the position.”

“Hard knocks.”

“While I personally find the throne no better than an aging toilet stained with shit, I love the Empire our forefathers created, and I will not see it careen toward an untimely end. So long as I have no plans to return the Sun God’s gift, I refuse to see this country to its end.”

Despite his commitment to merriment, Martin I was well aware that his clan’s five-hundred-year history was marred with an unceasing political war to determine the next head of household. What else could have spurred the masterstroke of espionage known as Schnee Weiss?

Handling internal matters while fulfilling all the obligations of an imperial duke was a burden that would crush an average person instantly. Worse still, Martin’s family was full of vampires: laden with immortal pride and unwilling to naturally disappear with time, it wasn’t as if they were all brimming with civic loyalty.

To begin with, vampires weren’t made for fealty. Their origin lay with the bastard who’d swindled the most eminent of gods; the nature of his descendants was a matter of course.

However, in what was perhaps the providence of the universe, those supplied with great ambition were not necessarily enriched with the gift of leadership. Just as his aunt hadn’t chosen her own offspring nor any other of their numerous kinsmen, he knew that each age required an Emperor fit for the times.

Having commanded the nation for nearly half a century, Martin I had an eye for discerning suitable rulers. Without it, the crafty old foxes heading the imperial and electorate families would have cast him aside as a talentless charlatan, not allowing him to chisel his name into history term after term.

So how could he possibly give up his work to a fool who wouldn’t see it through just because he didn’t want to do it himself?

“Pity me,” the vampire said. “I have seen many born to my house with talent enough to rise to power...”

“...But none who would wield it wisely.” The mensch finished the sentence apathetically, opening up a box of pieces as he did; the new Emperor nodded sadly in response.

It was a tale as old as time. Many were the revolutionaries who could seize the throne with great expertise, only to trip over the peak and tumble down to earth at rapid speeds.

But even when he took his fatherly bias out of the picture, of all his progeny, his daughter alone had the character of a statesman. She lacked the remotest desire for power and money; she was passionate about guarding both those currently under her protection and those who deserved it, but drew a clear line between what she could and could not manage on her own. The reports that returned from the agents he’d sent into the monastery painted a picture of the monarch the Trialist Empire needed in its hour of peace.

The man currently setting up a board game had trampled over the bothersome federation of minor states that had been blocking the Eastern Passage—there would be no major wars for the foreseeable future. What the Empire needed next was an Emperor who would take the great winnings of this generation and look inward to strengthen its domestic foundation.

Martin I knew that his daughter was benevolent, but not thoughtlessly so. If he and his family supported her, he was confident she would have made a fine Empress, and thus he’d resolved to hand her the reins accordingly.

Had Cecilia been the type of blithering idiot to stumble over herself in the name of spreading charity, Martin I would have been content to love her only in the personal sense, reducing her political importance to a liaison between state and church. Yet she had reawakened an inherited power long dormant: forty-five years of experience became instinct, whispering in his ears that the girl was destined for high places.

His daughter currently lacked any official rank on account of the church reserving its judgment due to her imperial connection, as well as the girl’s personal renunciation of pedigree. However, this recent episode would serve to help slowly erode those stoppers, so she was sure to rise up in due time. After all, the Head Abbess of the Great Chapel had studied directly under none other than Cecilia; the leader of Night trembled at the thought of stepping on her venerable mentor’s toes even to this day.

Martin I had begun this internal debacle because the situation had called for it, but his sheer, utter, inescapable distaste for the throne had not been the only reason for his decision. She would one day be an archbishop—or maybe lead the entire church. While this would have been fine enough for any other doting father dreaming of his child’s success, every parent’s greatest wish was to pass on what they had built. Mixed into his ridiculous plans was a tinge of vicarious ambition.

Whatever the case, the terrifying Empress’s appearance to the scene had brought it all to an end. If he tried anything in the next hundred years, he’d end up half-dead—“half” being a gross understatement—once again.

“Besides,” Martin I resumed, “I have some pride yet. I can’t let myself be a pathetic father forever.”

“What the hell’s that mean?”

The new Emperor sighed to signal he would not answer the werewolf’s question; instead, he simply shut his eyes, still using his hands as a pillow. He’d dreamed of saddling his daughter with the title while he handled the busywork—until she was fit to take over the whole operation, of course. Alas, the fantasy had crumbled. His only recourse was to work diligently until he could regain the reliability and dignity of fatherhood.

There was no need to rush. His daughter was blessed with the fortune to find the one piece in her arsenal that could counter him, and she had the guts to involve herself with that walking catastrophe she called a great-aunt.

One day, he was sure, one day she would rise to the political stage. Whether she wished for it or not, she who had the makings of an empress was fated to be dragged up eventually.

After all, blood was ever thicker than water.

To leave her to her own devices for a century or so at his aunt’s command was an easy order in the grand scheme of things.

“You know,” David said, “taking that backwards means you’re confident you’ll be able to make everything work out while you’re on the throne. That’s a hell of a thing to say.”

“Indeed,” August concurred. “Immortal arrogance pervades his every word.”

“Why must you two vex me so?! Perhaps I should put you to death with my own two hands!”

“A crying shame! Persons of our peerage can only be executed for violation of imperial succession or high treason!”

“Argh! Damn! And here I would have been happy to chug a glass of poison at your order, Your Majesty! But the almighty Emperor of Creation has written laws against it!”

“Excuse me?! Fine! Then I’ll grind the military budget down to nothing, and cut the dragon knight units by half—I don’t plan on needing them anytime soon! Any spare expense will get the axe under my rule, so have fun quaking in your boots!”

“What?!”

The office at once became a room of yapping fools, and to certain people, a toxic chalice would have been a far better fate than listening to them whine. Eventually, the trio agreed to play an ehrengarde tournament to decide the national budget. The result? No major changes for the time being.

“Still, what shall I do about the College’s funding?” Martin I muttered, listlessly toying with the sculpted magus in his hands. Intricately fashioned out of silver, the piece portrayed a hooded figure carrying a long staff. Though it couldn’t move and attack at once, it was able to pick off an enemy piece one to two tiles away—as strong as it was idiosyncratic.

Being an accomplished governor, the vampire was also a skilled—and particularly nasty—player who could utilize magia well. Back when he’d first shown his toddler daughter the rules, his dirty play had caused her to cry; perhaps the trauma ran deep, fueling her continued commitment to honest brute force over the board.

“What cause is there for concern?” August asked. “The Emperor is entitled to some few privileges—you shall not hear a word from us if you choose to subsidize your own interests, Your Majesty. It is one of the few luxuries that comes with the crown.”

“Fair enough,” David said. “But I dunno if setting up so many drake stables in every region that you filled out two whole units with new drakes falls within those bounds...”

“Leave me be. They were a great asset in the eastern conquest—I remember the roaring cheers from below as aerial reinforcements soared past, even now. Besides, I would tread lightly if I were you. While your father’s expansion of the jagers was within reason, I struggle to see how you might justify the massive arsenal he commissioned.”

“Well,” Martin sighed, “at least you two have hobbies that align with national interests. One imprudent shift in funding will put me into the domain of nepotism and sully my position.”

Twirling the piece in hand, Martin I called to mind the monsters that lined the seats of the College’s professoriat. Just imagining them made him depressed.

His personal relationships with them were fine. Each and every one was an irredeemable pervert, but they weren’t the sorts of madmen who holed up in towers to fashion an end to the world, nor were they psychopaths who amputated living people and welded them back onto others.

Yet it was a lost cause when they came together. They had obscene egos without exception, and any debate was doomed to devolve into a mortal battle of tongues. In the worst—yet very plausible—case, gloves could fly and give way to an all-out cadre war. The cherry on top was that this potentially Empire-ending farce took place a stone’s throw away from the palace; the trouble they caused was impossible to describe in words.

Back when he’d been just another one of their number, Professor Martin hadn’t given any thought to the headaches he’d caused his aunt. But now that he had to deal with the repercussions himself, his mind had begun to drift to ideas like, Wouldn’t it just be easier to kill them all off? He would have at least liked to exile them to some remote location, but that carried its own host of inconveniences. The College was an unsolvable problem.

It wouldn’t have been quite this bad for a normal Emperor. Any other in the hot seat would have been able to mediate their spats impartially and determine their funds by deferring to national policy; the only minutiae left would be to make sure to split it evenly enough to avoid favoritism.

Alas, Martin I had every manner of vested interest. His old stamping grounds were full of connections: classmates, dorm mates, research buddies, and worst of all, mentors whom he still couldn’t talk back to. He may have drawn a line in the sand, but if one of his ancient tutors came out of the woodwork, it would be too much for him to bear.

Having a war of funding waged from above and below was certain death for anyone. No matter how indestructible the flesh may be, the mind cannot survive. Every meeting would be preceded by enough private comments of, “But Professor, I thought you cared about your students!” and, “Come to think of it, don’t you still owe me for that one time?” to kill a man; no matter how things turned out in the end, he’d hear gripes about it for centuries to come.

Unfortunately, trying to find someone to whom he could delegate intermagia negotiations to was difficult. Anyone well versed in magecraft and familiar with the inner workings of the College was sure to already belong to a cadre, and avoiding interference from within those factions would be... “Wait.”

The statuette in his hand brought something to mind: he could set up the perfect liaison.

He knew of a researcher who was unbelievably brilliant for her position, who didn’t seem particularly devoted to her scholarly clique—the dean of her cadre had spoken of her like a troubled schoolgirl—and who hailed from a foreign house too opulent for domestic nobles to easily sway her. Better yet, she boasted a racial immunity to disease and senility, and she could be counted on to not die to a rolling breeze. Her estate’s incalculable wealth meant that a mere territory or two would be far from enough to bribe her.

It was as if the Gods of Cycles and Trials both were looking down upon him, linked at the shoulders, thumbs pointed up, and were wishing Martin I the best of luck. She was the perfect candidate for his sacrif— stand-in for College affairs.

“Say, Duke Baden...”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Agh?! Gustus, wait! Hold that dragon knight! I wasn’t looking over there!”

“No take-backs, Duke Graufrock.”

“That’s right—don’t be so pathetic, Duke Graufrock. But I might add that I would move that archer forward if I were you.”

“Oho, gotcha. And then this guardsman’ll come alive, so I can take down this knight over here...”

“Your Majesty, was that not in poor taste?”

The Emperor ignored his predecessor’s oozing glare of contempt and placed the figurine on his desk with an emphatic clack. He had spent quite some time away, and needed a refresher on certain aspects of the law.

“Where might I find the legislation that details how to ennoble a foreign aristocrat?”

[Tips] Very few imperial candidates have been struck down by the electorate, and the emperors who have been chased out of office for their failures can be counted on one hand. High treason that causes great harm to the nation can also become an emperor’s downfall, but fortunately, the Empire has yet to see any of its rulers bare their necks for such crimes.