The loudest man in the Senate stood up once again.

  It was the Roman Empire’s autumn session—Emperor Flavius Augustus presiding in person as he deliberated with the senators day after day. The Empire’s territory was vast, its cultures deeply intertwined; the sheer complexity of governance was enough to grind any man to ash. Sessions dragging on for several days were hardly unusual.

  Not all senators could attend in person. Those too far away relied on magitech communication. By locating resonance pathways among magical elements, information could be reconstructed in the air through mana, allowing three-dimensional holographic images and voices to be projected across great distances. Rumor held that gods themselves walked those resonance pathways; in other words, the proceedings unfolded openly before divine eyes. As a result, most senators spoke with the caution of men taking oaths, chewing every word before letting it pass their lips.

  Most.

  There were always those who scoffed at such restraint—men who insisted on treating the Senate as a stage.

  Especially Nash.

  “…In summary, you should all understand this,” he declared, lifting his chin as though crowning himself. “I, Sir Nash, am far more qualified to rule Rome than Flavius. Were it me, I would never name this nation ‘Rome.’ The name sounds like smearing dust over gold. I could certainly devise something more fitting—something worthy of an empire.”

  Immediate retorts flew back.

  “What nonsense is this? You milk-brained bastard.”

  “Get down, dyed-hair harlot!”

  “Rome is not for your mouth to defile.”

  Nash only smiled more deeply, as though hearing applause.

  He wore what he imagined to be a gentleman’s beard. His long silver hair gleamed with an almost unnatural sheen—fine enough to resemble the meticulous care of noblewomen—yet his dark brown eyebrows betrayed the truth, exposing the dye without mercy. Rings adorned every finger, multiple necklaces hung from his neck; he dressed as though jewelry were casual wear. His speech mirrored his appearance—flamboyant, ostentatious, deliberately glaring.

  In truth, he possessed no legitimate noble title, yet he styled himself “Sir” at every opportunity. The moment he stepped into any assembly, he could deliver provocations bordering on treason with righteous confidence. The boos of the chamber were mere scenery to him; some hot-tempered senators even hurled cups of water his way. Had weapons not been confiscated before entry, he would long ago have been skewered into a ridiculous specimen.

  Nash’s audacity was not sustained by Senate custom alone.

  Within these walls, any man holding senatorial rank was permitted to speak freely. No matter how absurd his words, even the Roman Emperor would respond with little more than a dry smile, as if indulging a performing clown. More importantly, Nash held a card hard enough to bruise the hand: he was an Emperor-appointed Protector of the State.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  In other words, he was officially recognized as a man capable of plunging Rome into crisis.

  Because of this, even beyond the Senate doors, no one dared lay hands on him lightly.

  Of course, there were whispers among the populace that Nash was merely a placeholder—padding the roster of Protectors to intimidate foreign powers and display imperial might.

  Even so, truly endangering Rome was no simple task. Most senators remained loyal to the Emperor, and Nash was far from the only Protector. Other forces within the Senate existed to counterbalance him. The foundation of this stability was simple: Emperor Flavius Augustus’s authority far surpassed Nash’s.

  “The future of the Empire must be guided by those who truly understand it,” one senator said coldly.

  “So—do you have anything further to add?”

  The agitation in the chamber fell silent at once.

  The speaker was not an ordinary senator, but Marcel—Consul, Speaker of the Senate, and the acknowledged First Senator. Though not physically present, his magically projected form carried a presence like a blade laid across every spine.

  Nash glanced around and realized no one wished to continue the spectacle with him. Clearing his throat, he tossed out a final line, recklessly framing retreat as victory.

  “I have nothing more to say, faced with this hopeless Rome.”

  “Is that so?” Marcel set down his pen, fingers interlaced, his tone precise to the point of coldness. “If you cannot provide concrete substance to support your claim of ‘hopelessness,’ then be silent. Sit down, and listen while others conclude the matter.”

  “Tch. An old man with no sense of humor…” Nash muttered, gathering his belongings and making a show of preparing to leave.

  Marcel did not indulge him.

  “I may be older than you,” he said sharply, “but you would do well to remember that you are an adult—and a father. Your conduct in this chamber is childish and improper. You insult the Emperor and the dignity of the state; now you would disregard protocol and leave in an emotional outburst. Rome requires a unified voice. Chaos brings only ruin. The people may not always understand order, but you are a senator, not a common fool. You are bound to senatorial discipline and decorum. I demand, as First Senator—sit down. Remain, and finish the session.”

  At last, Emperor Flavius Augustus spoke. His tone was light, almost casual, yet impossible to ignore.

  “You heard him, Nash. Sit down. You would do well to learn from Consul Marcel.”

  He paused, then added as if idly twisting the knife,

  “Besides, the palace kitchens have prepared a grand feast after the session. As a ‘Sir,’ you would not wish to miss it.”

  Laughter rippled through the chamber.

  Nash flashed a slick, oily smile and raised his middle finger openly toward the Emperor.

  “May the Emperor stand as high as this finger,” he sneered, “with none beside it daring to rise above. Unless—”

  He curled the finger back into a fist, the knuckles tightening as though to crush something.

  “—it gets cut off.”

  “We do not convene for the Emperor,” Marcel snapped, eager to rid the hall of this nuisance.

  “We convene for Rome.”

  “Oh? Is that so?”

  Nash waved dismissively, then drew a finger across his own throat toward the Emperor—an unmistakable threat. Turning instead to Marcel’s projection, he produced a gold coin from his pocket and spun it between his fingers, letting it flash.

  “Jealous? A gold coin. I would gladly give you one—if only you had the courage to attend in person. Too bad. You’ll never get it. How pitiful.”

  With that, he slipped the coin back into his pocket, as though pocketing victory itself. He straightened his collar, donned his ornate hat, took up his diamond-studded cane, puffed out his chest, lifted his chin—

  and strode out of the Senate Hall with what he imagined to be magnificent dignity.