The Emperor Versus Empire

As dictated (loudly) by His Radiant Majesty Hashido Yoshinbu   "You’d think—you’d think—that after delivering two decades of peace, paved roads, and subsidized rice dumplings, my people would, I don’t know… appreciate it?   But no.   Instead, I, Emperor Hashido Yoshinbu, supreme vessel of celestial wisdom and moderately reluctant paper-stamper, spend my days drowning in reports about goat theft in the provinces and debates over whether our coinage should have square or circular holes. (It’s round. It has always been round. Shut up, Daisetsu.)   And don’t get me started on the palace itself. It’s less a home and more a glorified echo chamber wrapped in silk. Every wall has ears—actual ears, I suspect, stitched in by some loyalist-turned-tapestry artisan with a grudge. If you're eavesdropping, good. I hope you're enjoying this, Kaito, you smug curtain-sniffing gossip.   Gods help me, I try. I truly do. I issue a policy—“Let’s irrigate the drylands!”—and immediately ten courtiers clutch their pearls and declare it a threat to the ancient traditions of dry soil. “Dryness is sacred,” they say. Then I venture outside the palace gates, and guess what? No one cares. Farmers just want water. But sometimes the courtiers are right, and sometimes they’re lying. Honestly, at this point, I flip a coin and then argue with it.   And don’t get me started on religion. Reduce the worship of Sejinojo and the zealots start brandishing swords and speaking in tongues—somehow, even the horses speak in tongues now. But increase worship? Suddenly the commoners accuse me of being possessed by a soup demon. (Which, for the record, is not a thing. I checked. Twice.) I did not expect governing people to be more like herding cats that rise up every other week.   The Tyrosians are grumbling. The Knori are scheming. The Slintans are… what are the Slintans even doing? Something nautical, probably. I rename their cities, build them roads, fund their schools—and do they send thank-you scrolls? No. They send assassins. And poetry. Bad poetry.   And yet, I persist.   Because an emperor does not falter. He does not whine. He does not cry in the bath while trying to write poetry about birds that definitely don’t symbolize freedom. No. He rules.   …And if, in the middle of the night, he sneaks into the kitchens to talk to the rice jars because at least they don’t argue—well, that’s between him and the rice."   These words linger in your mind.   But then again, you’re just the concubine. And frankly, the most reliable advisor he's got.