The Analog PA System
Malesh lowered his smoking weapon and calmly adjusted his dragon-themed tie. He looked around at the massive crowd of terrified peasants.
"Kniya, Salesh," Malesh ordered, his executive instincts kicking into overdrive. "The current political leadership has been successfully terminated. We have a massive power vacuum. We need to immediately address the crowd and pitch the concept of democracy to them before panic ruins the local economy."
Salesh looked at Malesh like he was crazy. "How the hell are we going to do that?! I can project translations into your ears, but I can't magically amplify my voice for a thousand people!"
"Salesh is right. That is an equipment issue," Kniya interrupted. He snapped his fingers.
Instantly, a sturdy wooden stage materialized in the center of the market square. Sitting right on top of it was a heavy, metallic analog microphone connected by thick copper cables to four massive, brass gramophone-style megaphone speakers.
"My powers bypass all manufacturing delays," Kniya boasted, patting the analog microphone. "The hardware is ready. Salesh, your linguistic powers will automatically translate whatever goes through this mic into their native peasant dialect."
Salesh froze, aggressively shaking his head. "Wait, why do I have to give the speech?!"
"Because you are the only one who can wirelessly project the linguistic translation to a massive crowd, you idiot," Filoska snapped, violently pushing Salesh up the wooden stairs onto the stage. "We don't have the biological hardware to do that! You literally do not have a choice! Get up there and pitch!"
"Why is it always me?!" Salesh cried, stumbling up to the microphone.
The Pitch for Democracy
Salesh nervously tapped the analog microphone. A loud, heavy thump-thump echoed through the massive brass speakers, instantly commanding the attention of the entire medieval town. Thousands of peasants looked up at him in absolute awe.
Salesh took a deep breath, his corporate presentation skills finally overriding his panic.
"Distinguished villagers, local merchants, and heavily oppressed citizens of this town!" Salesh's voice boomed out of the brass speakers, perfectly translated into their minds. "I know that until this exact moment, you have suffered a massive deficit in your quality of life! You have suffered due to that evil royal family and their highly corrupt Dick Prince!"
Hearing Salesh actually say the words "Dick Prince" out loud into a microphone in front of thousands of people, Kniya and Malesh completely lost it. Kniya had to aggressively cover his mouth to stop from bursting into hysterical laughter, while Malesh just stood there with a massive, highly amused smirk plastered across his face. They genuinely never expected the usually nervous President of Salvesh Industries to actually use that insult in a public broadcast.
The crowd gasped at the open disrespect to the crown, but they didn't run. They leaned in.
"Look around you!" Salesh yelled passionately, pointing at the shattered market stalls. "Your premium cabbages got violently destroyed! Your livelihoods were ruined! You have faced an unacceptable amount of pain and uncompensated labor in your lives! But today, it is time for you to get your long-overdue revenge on the monopoly of the monarchy!"
Salesh gripped the microphone stand, his voice echoing with absolute authority.
"Remove yourselves from the binding contracts of royal enslavement!" Salesh demanded. "Stand tall! Reclaim your human rights! If you are a rule-following, hardworking citizen of this town, then we are officially authorizing you to change the system! We are restructuring this society from a monarchy... into a Democracy!"
The villagers looked at each other in deep confusion. A brave blacksmith raised his hand. "My Lord... what exactly is a Democracy?"
Salesh smiled, perfectly prepared to deliver the ultimate corporate pitch.
"I am so glad you asked," Salesh announced. "By implementing Democracy, you are no longer just peasants! You become the primary shareholders of this geographical location! In this new system, the leader is not determined by bloodline. The leader is elected by you! Every few years, you get a 'vote'—which is basically a legal document where you choose exactly who gets to manage your taxes and make the rules! If a leader destroys your cabbages, you don't have to legally endure it! You simply vote them out and replace them with better management!"
Salesh spread his arms wide.
"In a Democracy, the power does not belong to a shiny knight or a prince! The power belongs to the collective market! The power belongs to you!"
For a long, tense moment, the market square was completely silent.
And then, slowly, a single shopkeeper started clapping. Then the blacksmith joined in. Within seconds, the entire medieval town erupted into absolute, deafening cheers. The villagers were overjoyed, tears streaming down their faces as they wildly applauded Salesh. The sheer concept of choosing their own leader—of holding the ultimate societal power—was the most beautiful, amusing, and magical thing they had ever heard.
Malesh stood beside the stage, a dark, calculating corporate smirk crossing his face as he listened to the massive applause.
"Look at that, Kniya," Malesh whispered, crossing his arms. "They absolutely love it. We just installed a democratic system in record time. Now all we have to do is rig the first election."
The Baseline of Market Stability
Filoska aggressively grabbed Malesh by the shoulder, her perfectly manicured nails digging into his pristine white shirt. She glared at him with absolute, terrifying corporate authority.
"No, Malesh. We absolutely cannot do that right now," Filoska hissed under her breath, completely shutting down his scheme to rig the election. "You cannot just artificially inflate the ballot numbers on the very first day of our hostile takeover. We need to establish a baseline of market stability and consumer trust before we introduce aggressive voter fraud. You are moving way too fast."
Before Malesh could argue the economic benefits of a rigged democracy, the triumphant cheers of the newly liberated villagers were suddenly cut short.
A heavy, rhythmic, and incredibly ominous rumbling began to vibrate through the dirt of the market square. An hour had passed since Salesh had begun his democratic pitch, and the time had completely run out. The massive wooden gates of the town were violently thrown open, and a terrifying procession marched through.
It was the Prince's royal convoy.
Dozens of gilded carriages, pulled by massive armored horses, rolled into the town. They were flanked by a terrifying legion of soldiers wearing gleaming, heavy plate armor adorned with golden crosses and pure white capes. The villagers, who had just been celebrating their newfound freedom, instantly dropped to their knees in absolute, paralytic terror.
The Biohazardous Touch
From the absolute rear of the convoy, a towering, heavily armored General dismounted his warhorse. His armor was intricately engraved with religious runes, and his face was twisted into a scowl of pure, self-righteous fury as he surveyed the shredded, bullet-riddled bodies of the vanguard guards lying in the dirt.
The General silently marched up directly behind the stage. Without a word of warning, he reached out and firmly clamped his heavy, iron-gauntleted hand down onto Malesh's expensive, custom-tailored shoulder.
"Who in the name of the heavily-blessed heavens are you?" the General snarled, his voice dripping with venom and aristocratic disgust. "What vile, heretical, completely un-sanctified sorcery have you unleashed upon my people? You filthy, mud-dwelling outsiders... who are you?"
Malesh froze. He slowly looked down at the filthy, blood-stained, dirt-covered iron gauntlet resting on his premium silk-blend shoulder. A look of profound, unadulterated psychological horror washed over his face.
Without saying a single word, Malesh violently and aggressively shoved the General's massive hand off his shoulder, frantically dusting his suit off as if he had just been touched by highly radioactive nuclear waste.
"What the fuck was even that?" Malesh started, staring at the General like he was an absolute lunatic, his voice trembling with sheer, unregulated germaphobic rage. "First of all, I was initially going to completely deny using magic, because technically modern ballistic science and supply-chain logistics are just advanced physics. But considering Kniya literally spawned these weapons out of thin air using his imagination, I guess we actually did use magic in a highly scientific way. But honestly? What the actual fuck is wrong with you?! How dare you physically touch me without prior written consent?! Do you have any idea how much this tailored fabric costs?! Get your unwashed, bacteria-infested, aggressively masturbated peasant hands off my person! You are a walking biohazard! Do you even know what basic sanitation is, you absolute medieval parasite?!"
The General's eyes widened in sheer, insulted fury. He had never been disrespected like this in his entire holy career. He took a heavy step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his glowing, rune-carved longsword.
"You have committed the ultimate, unforgivable sin against the divine crown!" the General roared, projecting his voice so the entire terrified town could hear his pompous, fanatical dogma. "By slaughtering the elite vanguard of the Holy Divine Army, you have defied the very heavens themselves! Filthy, wretched sinners such as yourselves must never be permitted to breathe the highly sacred, divinely-scented air of this glorious kingdom! Purging your foul, corrupted existence from this earth is my sole divine duty! Slaying you is not murder—it is a righteous, holy cleansing that will restore absolute purity to this world, and quite frankly, it will look fantastic on my religious resume!"