Steel and Ambition: No SV, Just Building the Guns Won't Make for a Successful Business. You Need More!

Death has Come Part 3: Artifacts and Philosophy

[]March towards the Emperor: You will deliver the sword as you father wished.

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The Imperial Palace was not the towering fortress you had imagined. It was not a place of warriors, not a domain of steel and blood, but the seat of the Emperor, the divine ruler of Japan, the embodiment of an unbroken lineage stretching beyond the grasp of time itself.

At least, that was the idea.

In reality, everyone knew the truth. The Shogun ruled Japan. The Emperor was little more than a figurehead, a name on edicts, a seal pressed onto paper to grant legitimacy to the true power behind the throne.

That was what Father had always told you. But he had also said something else, something that lingered in your mind like an echo of a prophecy yet to be fulfilled.

"If the Emperor ever realizes that he holds the power… the world will shake."

And then he had spoken of the two paths such a revelation could take.

A wise Emperor, a good Emperor, could bring change, justice, prosperity. A Japan where men rose by merit, not by birth. A land no longer shackled by the past but forging into the future.

But a cruel Emperor… a foolish one… one that does not have the will…

Father had never finished that thought. He had only shaken his head and sighed, staring into the distance as if he could already see the suffering that would follow.

It struck you, now more than ever with him gone, how much your father had understood of the world beyond your quiet village. He had spoken of war, of politics, of the shifting tides of power, as if he had walked the halls of daimyo and generals, as if he had seen firsthand the hands that steered Japan's fate.

But he had been just a blacksmith. A humble craftsman in the countryside.

Hadn't he?

But as you approached the towering gates of the Imperial Palace, your path was blocked. The guards, clad in armor that gleamed even in the muted light, barely spared you a glance before one of them sneered.

"Beggars aren't allowed." He spat at your feet. "Go."

You clenched your fists but held your ground. Calm. Focus. You could not afford to let pride override purpose.

"I am not a beggar," you said, steady and clear. "I am a messenger for Sakumo Hideaki. I am his son, here to deliver the piece he was commissioned to craft."

The guards exchanged glances, skepticism written across their faces. One of them looked past you, gaze lingering on your younger sisters.

"You're children." His tone was caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement.

"Yes. I've noticed." You met his gaze without flinching. "But my father is dead. I am merely fulfilling the duty that he carried in life. And I have come to collect what is owed to him, as his heir."

Silence followed your words. It felt like the wind had shifted.

The guards hesitated, no longer outright dismissing you, but still uncertain. Before they could speak again, a figure from within the palace walls approached, a minister, or perhaps a courtier, his robes flowing with each deliberate step. His gaze swept over you, sharp and measuring, lingering on the sword at your side.

Then, softly, as if speaking to some long-buried memory, he whispered your father's name.

"Hideaki…"

There was something unreadable in his expression, a flicker of contemplation, of recognition. And in that moment, he waved. "Let them in."

You walked forward, each step heavier than the last. Your sisters clung to you, their small hands gripping your sleeves as though the wind itself might tear them away if they let go. Their footsteps were slow, their bodies weary, but they did not complain.

The courtier stood before you, his gaze sharp and unreadable as he studied you with an air of mild curiosity. When you reached him, he spoke with the easy authority of a man who expected to be obeyed.

"Show me the blade."

You did not move to unsheathe it, only tilting the scabbard so that he could see the hilt.

"The edge," he clarified, his voice like silk over steel.

You met his gaze and did not waver. "Only when we receive the payment my father was owed."

For a moment, there was silence. Then the courtier threw back his head and laughed—a sharp, amused sound that echoed through the courtyard.

"That would be like asking for an audience with the Emperor himself!" he scoffed.

Without hesitation, you lifted your chin. "Then let me have an audience with the Emperor," you said, your voice steady, unwavering. "Or I can leave. Taking this with me."

The laughter stopped.

For a fraction of a second, something flickered in the courtier's expression, amusement, perhaps, or interest. Then, slowly, he smirked.

"Do you even know what you're carrying, boy?"

You tightened your grip on the scabbard, fingers pressing into the worn leather.

"Yes," you answered. And then, tilting your head, you added, "Do you?"

The courtier's smirk did not fade, but his eyes darkened.

"Follow me."

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You did not know the ceremony or protocol for meeting the Emperor. You only knew what you had been taught, that he was to be revered. That he was a god among men, the divine ruler of these lands, the voice and will of heaven itself.

Yet as you entered the grand hall and laid eyes upon Kōmei, the Emperor of Japan, you did not see a god.

You saw an old man.

He sat upon a raised platform, a throne that was more a cushion than a seat of power, draped in layers of rich silk, adorned in colors that shimmered under the dim glow of lantern light. His expression was distant, eyes hooded with the weight of sleeplessness, or perhaps boredom, as though he were barely holding himself upright beneath the crushing expectations placed upon him.

This was the man all of Japan bowed before.

Your sisters, however, were awestruck. Their wide eyes took in the brilliance of the court, the dazzling colors, the endless sea of robed officials, warriors in resplendent armor, and ministers whispering behind fans. It was a world they had never seen, a world so far removed from the soot-stained walls of your father's forge that it might as well have been another realm entirely.

You stepped forward, heart steady, and bowed low, lifting the blade reverently in both hands as you spoke.

"Emperor, I am—"

The words barely left your mouth before pain cracked across your shoulder.

A wooden bokken struck you with a sharp, humiliating snap, sending a jolt through your body as you staggered forward. Your grip on the scabbard remained firm, but your jaw clenched in frustration.

The Emperor's weary expression shifted slightly, his lips curled in something that might have been amusement, or perhaps mild curiosity.

"Who gave you leave to speak?" he asked, his voice smooth, unhurried, like a man so accustomed to control that he did not need to raise it.

You exhaled slowly, forcing down the instinct to glare at the courtier who had struck you.

This was not your forge. This was not your home.

This was the seat of a god.

And you were in his domain.

"My intentions do," you replied.

A sharp gasp rippled through the gathered courtiers. Whispered murmurs filled the air, a mixture of disbelief and barely contained amusement. You had spoken out of turn, again. Worse still, you had done so without deference, without the careful, flowery speech expected in such a place.

The Emperor's gaze remained steady, but his brow arched ever so slightly. "It seems you lack both decorum and respect. Did your father not teach you any of it?"

You tilted your head, considering that. "A blacksmith has no respect for those who have never stood in a forge. Who has not understood the passion of hard work."

Silence. Then, a suppressed chuckle. A courtier quickly covered their mouth with their sleeve. Another failed to hide a smirk. And, to your surprise, even the Emperor exhaled a quiet laugh, his lips curling in amusement.

"You are bold. And amusing." His tone was measured, but his eyes studied you more carefully now. "Yet I am told you are the son of Sakumo Hideaki, a man to whom I entrusted a most delicate task."

He was testing you.

No, more than that, he was playing a game. He was seeing how much you knew. He would not say the name of the blade. He would not acknowledge its existence until you did.

But you knew. And you would not let him feign ignorance.

"I have the blade you requested."

The air in the court grew thick with anticipation as you placed your hand on the scabbard. With slow, deliberate movement, you drew the sword, tilting it just enough for the lantern light to catch the flawless, mirror-like steel.

The murmurs grew louder.

It was, without question, the Grass-Cutting Sword. It had the right curve, the right proportions, the right etchings in the tang and hamon along the edge.

And yet—

It was too perfect.

Any trained smith would see it at a glance. The blade was pristine, untouched by time. A weapon said to be forged centuries ago should have dulled, should have lost its edge, should have carried the weight of history in its steel.

This sword did not.

This was the copy. The perfect counterfeit your father had made. The blade that was meant to replace the real thing.

The Emperor knew this.

You knew this.

There was laughter, low, and rich, filled with something far more dangerous than mere amusement.

"A perfect blade from a master smith," the Emperor mused, his voice warm yet unreadable. He stepped forward, descending from his seat with slow, deliberate steps, his robes whispering against the polished floor.

Then, he extended a hand.

He wanted to hold it.

"You know," he continued, his voice carrying easily through the hall, "your father must have told you the story, that the sword was stolen. That a replacement was needed to ensure no one would ever know the truth of its disappearance."

You said nothing. You did not nod, did not so much as shift. You simply held the blade in your hands, its weight suddenly feeling heavier.

The Emperor smiled for a moment before he sighed, tilting his head slightly. "Look at me, boy."

Slowly, you lifted your gaze.

And that was when you saw it.

Not suspicion. Not concern.

Amusement.

Deep, knowing amusement, like a man watching a child try to play a game he had already mastered.

"Tell me… do you really think the real blade was stolen?"

He was waiting. Expecting.

D20 + 2 => 18

Your heart pounded in your chest. You could have lied. Could have pretended ignorance, let him believe you were just a boy delivering a sword he did not understand.

But you were not a fool.

And neither was he.

You took a slow breath, then spoke. "You never lost the blade, did you?"

The whisper of voices in the court died instantly.

A flicker of something, satisfaction perhaps, passed across the Emperor's face.

"You had another reason for this commission. Perhaps you wanted something more than just a replica. Perhaps… you wanted something else made in return."

Your grip on the sword tightened.

"A foreign rifle, perhaps?" you pressed, watching his expression carefully. "A prototype, something to be studied? Something to be reforged, with Japanese steel, with Japanese craftsmanship, so that you could cast them out before they ever took hold?"

The Emperor's lips curled ever so slightly. Not in denial. Not in confirmation.

Just a twinkle in his eyes.

"Perhaps, then, a question should be asked."

The Emperor's voice carried easily through the vast hall, yet there was an unmistakable weight behind it, as though the air itself grew heavier with his words. He gestured with an elegant sweep of his hand, indicating the opulence surrounding him, the towering pillars, the lacquered floors, the intricate paintings of history and divinity that adorned the walls.

"My courtiers," he continued, his voice laced with something between amusement and disdain, "are so blinded by… well, this."

His hand waved vaguely once more, a single motion encompassing the luxury, the tradition, the centuries of decorum that cocooned him in a world removed from the realities beyond the palace walls.

"They whisper their assurances, their empty comforts, yet never offer me a true answer. Even when I demand it. So perhaps a smith could tell me."

He turned his gaze back to you, his eyes sharp, searching until he gazed straight into your eyes..

"Tell me, then…"

He took a single step closer.

"Do you believe the barbarians can be defeated? Do you believe that I can, simply expel them if I had that, so-called rifle that you speak of?"

The question hung in the air, heavier than the throne behind him, heavier than the sword in your hands.

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What do you say to him:

[]Write in

AN: Enjoy.