Peace, Hiroshi decided, tasted like expensive tea.
He sat in his study, watching the sun rise over the capital. For the first time in a week, nothing was on fire. No one was screaming. The System wasn't flashing red warnings about imminent genocide.
"The financial reports, Majesty," Gix said, placing a stack of parchment on the desk.
Hiroshi scanned them. He smiled.
"The Merchant Guilds have bought all the VIP boxes for the season," Hiroshi noted. "And the Noble Houses are bidding wars over sponsorship rights for the 'Red Legion' jerseys?"
"Yes, Sire," Gix rubbed his clawed hands together. "The Aristocracy is desperate to prove their loyalty by funding your... 'recreational chaos.' The gold is flowing from their vaults directly into the treasury."
Perfect, Hiroshi thought. The rich pay for the entertainment, the soldiers get paid, and the civilians get a show. It's a circular economy of happiness.
He took another sip of tea.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It wasn't a normal knock. It was the sound of a heavy gauntlet hitting the wood with the force of a battering ram.
"Enter," Hiroshi sighed.
General Marcus marched in. He looked grim. In his hand, he held a scroll case made of white ivory, sealed with seven different magical waxes.
"A missive, Majesty," Marcus rumbled. "From the Coalition of Free Nations."
Hiroshi sat up straighter. "Oh! The neighbors! Finally."
He had been hoping they would reach out. Aethelgard had probably told them about the great trade deal. Maybe they wanted to buy grain too?
"Give it here," Hiroshi said, reaching out.
"Careful, Sire," Marcus warned, handing it over as if it were a live grenade. "It radiates... disrespect."
Hiroshi broke the seals. The scroll hissed. A puff of purple smoke shaped like a skull rose from the paper and dissipated.
Dramatic, Hiroshi thought.
He unrolled it. The handwriting was aggressive, full of sharp angles and excessive exclamation points.
TO THE TYRANT VAREK, DEVOURER OF SOULS,
WE HAVE SEEN YOUR RITUALS. WE HAVE WITNESSED THE 'WAVE' OF MIND-CONTROL THAT ENSLAVES YOUR PEOPLE. WE KNOW OF THE BEAR-CAVALRY.
WE WILL NOT SUBMIT TO YOUR 'LEAGUE.' WE WILL NOT EAT THE EARS OF OUR KIN. WE STAND UNITED AGAINST YOUR DARKNESS.
REGARDS,KING ALARIC THE DEFIANT.
Hiroshi stared at the paper. He blinked. He read it again.
"They think..." Hiroshi whispered. "They think the gummy ears are real ears?"
"Ignorant savages," Marcus growled, his hand drifting to his sword hilt. "They dare insult the cuisine of the Arena? The 'Severed Ear' is a delicacy! It has a strawberry filling!"
"And 'Mind-Control'?" Hiroshi rubbed his forehead. "It's just the Wave, Marcus. It's fun. You stand up, you sit down."
"It is a display of absolute synchronization!" Marcus defended. "A testament to your will!"
Hiroshi groaned. This was a disaster. The neighbors didn't want to trade. They thought he was running a cult.
"What is your command?" Marcus asked, his eyes gleaming. "Shall I mobilize the legions? We can burn their capitals before the weekend."
"No!" Hiroshi slammed his hand on the desk.
CRACK.
The inkwell exploded, coating Gix in black liquid.
[System Alert][Diplomatic Crisis Detected][Hostile Intent from Coalition: 100%][Suggested Response: Pre-emptive Nuclear Strike (Magic Equivalent)]
No nukes, Hiroshi told the System. We use words. We are civilized.
"They are just... confused," Hiroshi said, trying to wipe the ink off his hands. "They haven't seen the Games. They only know rumors. We need to show them the truth."
He grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment.
"I will write them a personal invitation," Hiroshi announced.
Marcus looked skeptical. "You wish to summon them here? Into the heart of your power?"
"Yes," Hiroshi said, writing furiously. "If they see the stadium, if they eat a Varek-Burger, they'll understand. We aren't monsters. We're just sports fans."
He finished writing.
DEAR ALARIC,
YOU HAVE MISUNDERSTOOD EVERYTHING. THE 'RITUALS' ARE QUITE ENJOYABLE ONCE YOU JOIN IN.
COME TO THE CAPITAL. I HAVE RESERVED THE BEST SEATS FOR YOU AND YOUR GENERALS. FRONT ROW. YOU WILL HAVE A PERFECT VIEW OF THE ACTION.
DO NOT REFUSE. IT WOULD BE A SHAME TO WASTE SUCH AN OPPORTUNITY.
YOUR FRIEND,VAREK.
Hiroshi nodded. It was polite. Welcoming. A bit firm at the end, but you had to be firm with kings.
"Send this," Hiroshi ordered. "And send a gift. Something... iconic."
He looked around the room. His eyes landed on the prototype merchandise Gix had brought in.
"Send him a Fist," Hiroshi said.
Gix blinked, wiping ink from his eyes. "The... 'Fist of Submission' foam hand, Sire?"
"Yes. The big red one. Tell him to wear it when he arrives so we know he's part of the team."
Marcus picked up the letter and the foam fist. He looked at them with deep, terrifying reverence.
"To summon a King to the front row of the slaughter..." Marcus whispered. "And to send him a replica of your own fist, commanding him to 'wear it'... implying he must become an extension of your will..."
Marcus bowed deeply.
"You are a poet of domination, Majesty. I shall send it by the fastest Wyvern."
"Great," Hiroshi said, leaning back. "Hopefully they can make it for the playoffs."
The Royal Tent of the Coalition – Two Days Later
King Alaric sat at the head of the war table. Around him sat the Dwarf Lord Thrain, the Elven Matriarch Lirael, and the Grand Mage Solas.
The mood was tense.
"The messenger Wyvern dropped the package and left," a knight reported, placing the box on the table. "It bore the Emperor's personal seal."
Alaric's hand trembled as he reached for the box.
"Is it a bomb?" Thrain grunted, hefting his axe.
"Worse," Alaric said. "It is a message."
He opened the box.
Inside lay the letter. And the Fist.
The Foam Fist was large, red, and spiky. To Hiroshi, it looked like a fun souvenir.
To the Coalition leaders, it looked like a severed, bloody hand of a giant, mocking them with its cartoonish texture.
Alaric read the letter aloud. His voice shook.
"You have misunderstood everything... The rituals are enjoyable once you join in..."
Lirael covered her mouth. "He means the brainwashing. He says we will enjoy losing our free will."
"I have reserved the best seats for you... Front row..."
Thrain slammed his fist on the table. "Front row to what? Our own execution? He wants us to watch our armies die before he kills us!"
Alaric picked up the Foam Fist. He held it up.
"Wear it... so we know he's part of the team."
Silence. Horrified, absolute silence.
"He wants us..." Alaric whispered, his face draining of blood. "He wants us to wear the symbol of his oppression. To voluntarily brand ourselves as his property before we even arrive."
Solas, the mage, looked at the foam object with magical sight.
"It is made of a strange, unnatural material," Solas gasped. "Soft, yet resilient. It... it absorbs sweat. It is designed to bond with the wearer."
"It is a slave collar for the hand," Alaric concluded.
He dropped the Fist as if it were burning hot.
"He does not want peace," Alaric said, his eyes hardening into steel. "He is mocking our fear. He invites us to walk into his capital and sit in the 'front row' of hell."
Alaric stood up. He drew his sword.
"He says it would be a 'shame' to waste the opportunity."
The King looked at his allies.
"Let us show him," Alaric roared, "that we do not accept invitations to our own funeral!"
"WAR!" Thrain shouted.
"WAR!" Lirael cried.
[System Notification (Global)][Event Triggered: The War of the Foam Hand][Participants: United Empire vs. The World][Reason: Misinterpreted Souvenir]
Back in the Capital, Hiroshi sneezed.
"Getting a cold, Majesty?" Gix asked.
"No," Hiroshi rubbed his nose. "Someone is talking about me. Probably excited about the free tickets."