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Dictator Christiana's POV – Council Room, Blackwood Royal Palace
The room was cold, despite the golden sun pouring through the diamond-etched windows. The walls were carved with the insignia of the Blackwood Empire—dominance, loyalty, and absolute order. We sat in the circular council room, surrounded by marble columns and silence, waiting for the one voice that truly mattered to speak.
Chris—our father, the God of the Blackwood Empire—stood at the head of the obsidian table, his presence drowning the room in stillness. His eyes scanned each of us like a hawk. He didn't pace. He didn't raise his voice. He simply stood still and watched.
Then he spoke.
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Chris Blackwood (The God):
"I'm considering a national tax."
He didn't blink.
"We've given too much. Wealth. Lands. Nobility. Titles. And while it has its purpose, it must be balanced with structure. With sacrifice."
My chest tightened. He wasn't just talking about a tax. He was making a statement—reclaiming authority. Re-establishing control.
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Chris Blackwood:
"I want your opinions. What sector should bear the first weight? Industry? Agriculture? Or personal income?"
He looked directly at me, the Dictator of the Empire.
I straightened my spine.
I had to tread carefully.
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Me (Christiana, Dictator):
"Personal income tax could stir resentment. Many still feel the joy of their elevation. Taxing them now might feel like betrayal."
I paused.
"However, industrial taxes—particularly on private transport businesses, luxury imports, and urban markets—could restore balance without breaking morale."
He nodded… just once.
Then the Minister of Infrastructure spoke up—nervous, of course.
"With respect, my Lord, the logistics sector has seen a 400% rise in profit due to your policies. Perhaps we begin there. A moderate tariff. It won't even be felt."
The Canal Overseer, another of our elite planners, chimed in.
"And the real estate developers in Sector 5… they've been selling Blackwood-granted homes at triple value. Tax their transactions. That's not loyalty—it's exploitation."
Chris remained silent as we debated. One by one, we presented options:
A nobility privilege tax—a small fee for holding a title granted by the empire.
A luxury goods tax on imported items like fashion, jewelry, and cars.
A sectoral tax on entertainment—clubs, bars, theaters that had flourished under peace.
But Chris wasn't looking for numbers. He was observing our minds. Our values. Our loyalty.
Then, he finally spoke again.
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Chris Blackwood:
"So you all agree we take… but we do not touch the spirit of the people?"
His eyes flicked to mine.
"Good. Then here's what we'll do."
He pulled a small scroll from his coat—a draft decree.
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Chris:
"Starting next week, a 3% wealth turnover tax will be applied to all citizens making above 200,000 Blackwood credits annually.
Logistics companies, private estate traders, and entertainment industries will face a 6% regulatory tax increase.
All nobility shall contribute a symbolic Crown Tax—1,000 Blackwood credits monthly.
We will remind them that nobility is not free—it is earned and maintained."
Silence again.
He looked at each of us… measuring.
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Chris Blackwood (firmly):
"I gave them gold. Now, I demand loyalty in kind. See to it the decrees are drafted tonight. I will sign them tomorrow at sunrise."
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Me (Christiana):
My heart pounded—not in fear, but in awe. This man… this father…
He didn't just rule. He orchestrated the entire pulse of the empire.
And we…
We followed, not just because we had to—
But because deep down, we wanted to.
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