Anomaly Ch. 47

Emperor Molt Sol Augustus watched as the strange group departed the Senate chamber, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. The Celt - Chulainn - was an enigma. A warrior, yes, but not one driven by mere coin or glory, or any of the many other base motivations that he had seen in other such men. There was something else in those golden eyes, something that unsettled him in a way he could not easily dismiss. They were the eyes of a man who had stared into the abyss and found it staring back.

And that, more than anything else, made him dangerous.

The moment the doors shut behind them, the chamber erupted once more into a cacophony of outrage and disbelief. Senators who had held their tongues in the presence of the foreigners now found their voices, their faces twisted with indignation.

"Your Majesty, you cannot seriously be considering this!" Senator Gaius snarled, slamming a fist against the arm of his seat, "To hand over thousands of rebellious slaves to some foreign barbarian? It’s madness!"

"Madness?" Molt mused, his voice deceptively mild, "Or pragmatism?"

He let the word hang in the air, heavy with implication, watching as it settled over the assembled nobles like a shroud. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats; others exchanged uneasy glances. Only a few, the shrewdest among them, remained still, their expressions unreadable.

"The slave rebellion has cost us dearly. Not just in gold, but in stability. The priesthood grows restless, the offerings that were scheduled have already been delayed. Any more and we risk angering the gods even further. And now, a Yaga - a Yaga - has united them under his banner. Tell me, Gaius, how many legions would we need to burn out every last rebel hiding in the mountains? How many soldiers would die in those caves?"

Gaius’ jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening where they gripped the arms of his chair, but he had no answer.

Another senator, a younger hawk named Lucius, leaned forward, his dark eyes burning with fervor, "Then we make an example of the Yaga. Execute him publicly. Let the slaves see what defiance earns them."

Molt almost laughed, a dry, humorless sound, "And when that only hardens their resolve? When the next leader rises, angrier and more desperate than the last?" He shook his head slowly, as if addressing a particularly dull child, "No. Fear only works when the enemy believes they have something left to lose. These slaves have nothing. They have already chosen death over chains. What more can we threaten them with?"

He rose from his throne, the movement deliberate, the weight of his authority pressing the room into silence. The senators stilled, their protests dying in their throats as the Emperor stood before them, his presence commanding absolute attention.

"This Celt offers us a blade without bloodshed." Molt said, his voice low but carrying to every corner of the chamber, "Let him take the slaves. Let him bear the burden of their hatred instead of us. If he succeeds, the Empire regains its labor force without further loss. If he fails?" Molt’s smile was thin, almost serpentine in its calculation, "Then the rebellion dies with him."

A murmur of reluctant agreement spread through the Senate. Even Gaius, though his scowl remained, did not protest further. The logic was sound, even if it galled them to admit it.

Molt turned to his aide, "Send word to Princess Piña. The Celt’s proposal is accepted, on one condition."

…

The condition, of course, was not something Molt voiced aloud in the Senate. It was not for them to know the full extent of his plans. Chulainn was dangerous, yes, but danger could be directed - if one knew how to wield it.

As the senators dispersed, still muttering among themselves, Molt remained standing before the empty throne, his mind turning over the possibilities. The Celt was an unknown variable, but that very unpredictability made him useful. If he succeeded in breaking the rebellion, then the Empire would regain its slaves without further expenditure of lives or resources. If he failed, then the slaves would expend their fury upon him, and the Empire could move in afterward to crush what remained.

But there was a third possibility, one that Molt found most intriguing.

What if Chulainn won, but not in the way the Empire intended?

What if, instead of merely subduing the slaves, he turned them into something else entirely?

As things stood, their war against the occupiers in Alnus Hill was grinding to a halt. The initial shock of their arrival had faded, replaced by grim attrition. The vassal kingdoms had thrown themselves at the invaders, spending blood and treasure in reckless assaults, only to be shattered time and again. The fields before the Hill were littered with the dead, a testament to the futility of brute force against an enemy that fought with neither honor nor hesitation.

Molt had known from the beginning that direct confrontation was folly. But the vassals had needed to learn that lesson for themselves. Now, with their armies broken and their coffers drained, they had no choice but to look to the Empire for salvation. And that suited him perfectly.

All he needed now was to force the occupiers to the negotiation table.

Chulainn could be the key.

The man was an outsider, unbound by the Empire’s politics, untainted by its failures. If he could rally the slaves, not as mere rebels, but as something more disciplined, more dangerous, then perhaps they could be turned against the Empire's enemies. A third force, one that neither the Empire nor the occupiers controlled.

The slaves knew the land. They knew suffering. And if given purpose, they could become a weapon unlike any other.

Of course, there were risks. If Chulainn proved too capable, he might carve out his own kingdom from the chaos. But Molt was no stranger to betrayal. He had spent decades playing the Senate, the priesthood, and the military against one another. One more player in the game was nothing new.

…

Piña’s steps were measured, her back straight, but Shirou could see the way her fingers flexed at her sides, tightening into fists before relaxing again. She was holding herself together by sheer force of will.

Behind him, Lelei and Tuka were silent, but their shock was palpable. He could feel their eyes boring into his back. No doubt, the moment they were alone, they would be asking more than a few questions. Anatoly, still bound, walked beside him with a quiet, simmering fury, his massive frame radiating displeasure.

They were escorted by the Rose-Order through the lavish halls of the Senate building, past marble statues and gilded murals depicting the Empire’s triumphs. Shirou paid no mind how they itched at the back of his mind in familiarity. No, there were far more important things to discuss.

This wasn’t the plan.

No, the plan had been simple: present Anatoly as the rebellion’s leader, let the Empire believe they had won, and then, under the guise of taking the slaves for himself, Shirou would free them in secret. It was supposed to be a deception, a way to end the bloodshed without further conflict. Komakado and Anatoly both agreed with him exactly for that plan.

And he had just thrown it all away.

The reason?

The moment he had stood before the Emperor, he knew.

Molt Sol Augustus was not a man who could be easily fooled.

Shirou had seen that look before, sharp, calculating, dissecting every word before it was even spoken. The way the Emperor waited, the way he let silence stretch just long enough to unsettle, the way he weighed every response not just for truth, but for use.

It was the same look he had seen in the eyes of the Lords of the Clock Tower.

Men who played games where lives were currency.

Men who saw people as pieces, not players.

And Shirou had realized, in that moment, that the original plan would never have worked. Molt would have seen through it, would have twisted it, would have turned it into something worse. The slaves would have been slaughtered the moment they were handed over, their deaths made into a spectacle to crush any further resistance.

It was a good thing that Rin had beaten into him just how to deal with people like that.

So he had pivoted.

He had given the Emperor a different game to play.

Now, instead of a straightforward exchange, Molt believed he was manipulating Shirou, using him as a cat’s-paw to break the rebellion without dirtying Imperial hands. He thought Shirou was a mercenary, a man who could be bought or controlled, who would take the slaves and either break them or be broken by them.

But Shirou had no intention of doing either.

He just needed to buy time.

...

Piña finally spoke, her voice low and taut, "You’ve made a grave mistake, Celt."

Shirou didn’t turn, "Have I?"

"You don’t understand what you’ve just agreed to."

"I understand enough."

She quickened her pace, stepping in front of him, forcing him to stop. Her blue eyes burned with something between anger and desperation. "No, you don’t. Those slaves, they’re not just laborers. They’re rebels. They’ve killed Imperial soldiers. They’ve burned estates. The Senate will never let them walk free, no matter what my father says."

Shirou met her gaze evenly, "Then it’s a good thing I’m not planning to give them back to the Senate."

Piña’s breath caught. Behind her, one of the Rose-Order knights shifted, hand drifting toward her sword.

Lelei’s voice cut in, cool and measured, "Princess, perhaps this discussion should wait until we’re somewhere more private."

Piña hesitated, then glanced around. They were still in the open, still surrounded by ears loyal to the Senate. She exhaled sharply and stepped aside.

"For now." She muttered.

...

They were led to a guarded chamber. Luxurious by Imperial standards, but still a gilded cage. Anatoly was led into a side room, as Shirou had argued that letting him stay in the regular cells would have made the threat of assassination increase significantly. Thus, the Yaga was given his own room-slash-cell, much to the grumbling of the guards. The moment the doors closed behind them, leaving only Piña and her knights outside, Tuka rounded on him.

"Lord Emiya, what are you doing?" Her voice was strained, and had her ears not been hidden, they likely would have been twitching, "You can’t seriously mean to-"

"I don’t." He cut her off gently, "But the Emperor needed to believe I did."

Lelei studied him, her violet eyes sharp, "Lying."

"Not lying. Just…redirecting." Shirou was bad at lying, so he'd made it his mission to not actively lie. Sometimes, though, he still had to, so he'd still be able to do it, but anything more complex would have been obvious from the start.

"Real plan?" Lelei tilted her head inquisitively, staring at him with the same stoicism that she usually held.

By making sure that he told the truth, he circumvented that.

Yes, he would do exactly as he had said. He would make sure that the rebels would be laborers treated fairly. They would work to earn their keep, and perhaps even their freedom. However, politics would always get involved. Many of the senators he had seen had been very much against giving the rebels any amount of leeway, as that would theoretically undermine the authority of the Empire.

That was exactly what he was counting on. The ambition, greed, pettiness, arrogance, and not a small amount of racism of the Empire, all of that would contribute to the plan he had.

"We give the Emperor exactly what I said I would do."

The Empire doesn’t care about its slaves. Individuals may care, such was the case with the Princess, but overall, the country couldn’t care less about the wellbeing of their slaves. Such an admission put a bitter taste in his mouth, but it was the truth.

And it was that truth that he would exploit ruthlessly.

After all, why would an Empire care if a few of their newest ‘laborers’ disappeared every few days while working?

...