Chapter 1: Kings Also Die Rechipaul Amir was a mountain of cheese. That was the simplest way to describe what he'd become after three hundred years of existence. The King of the Fluffy Empire stood at the edge of his private chamber, staring down at the marble floor far below. The distance didn't bother him anymore. When you reached a certain size, everything else just became smaller and smaller until it stopped mattering. He could barely remember what it was like to walk through doorways instead of having them rebuilt around him. The palace had been restructured three times during his reign to accommodate his growth. The throne room ceiling had been raised so many times that the original foundation stones were now just decorative elements halfway up the walls. The King shifted his massive form. His body moved with the same ease it had when he was a normal-sized Milkman, which was strange to think about. The reconstruction of his physical structure as he grew had been gradual enough that he never noticed the changes. One day he was looking down at his advisors. A century later, he was looking down at buildings. But now something was different. He could sense it in the way his cheese-flesh had begun to feel tight, almost constricted. The sensation had started a few weeks ago, barely noticeable at first. Then it grew stronger. His body was telling him something he'd known would come eventually but had never quite prepared for. He had reached the absolute limit of the Titan level. Rechipaul closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the decision was made. Three hundred years of ruling, of political maneuvering, of maintaining balance between the Lord Party and the Civilian Party. Three hundred years of keeping the aristocrats in check while preventing the masses from revolt. Three hundred years of pretending the Azuberi situation wasn't a problem he'd have to leave for his successor. It was time. The King moved through the palace corridors. Servants scattered when they saw him coming, though they'd had plenty of warning. When a Titan walked, the ground itself announced his arrival. He made his way to the eastern wing, toward a section of the palace that had been sealed off for exactly this purpose. The hidden chamber existed in records only the royal family could access. Every king eventually came here when they reached the limit, though Rechipaul was only the tenth to do so at the Titan level. The seventh-century incident with Azazel the Tyrant had made certain laws very clear. Once a king reached Titan status and grew to the point where division was necessary, they had exactly one choice: divide into three hundred children, no more, no less. Three hundred princes to compete for a throne. Rechipaul entered the chamber. It was massive even by his standards, carved directly into the bedrock beneath the palace. The walls were smooth stone, unmarked except for ancient script in the original tribal language that predated Vahilistian. He couldn't read it anymore. Nobody could, except maybe some scholar who'd wasted decades studying dead languages. The center of the chamber held a circular platform. Rechipaul stepped onto it. The stone was cold against his cheese-flesh, though cold was relative when you were this large. He stood still for a moment, considering whether he should say something profound or meaningful. Some final words from a dying king. But there was nothing to say. Kings died all the time. They just did it differently than other Milkmen. Rechipaul began the division process. It started as a sensation deep in his core, like his entire body was being pulled apart from the inside. Not painful, exactly, but profoundly uncomfortable. His cheese-flesh began to separate along invisible lines, sections of himself becoming distinct and independent. He could sense each new consciousness forming, each fragment of his being that would become its own creature. Three hundred points of separation. Three hundred new lives. His vision fractured. Instead of seeing from one perspective, he suddenly had dozens, then hundreds. Each new prince was opening its eyes for the first time, seeing the world as a distinct individual rather than part of a collective whole. The sensation was overwhelming in a way that Rechipaul hadn't anticipated, though he supposed there was no way to prepare for this. His memories didn't transfer. That was the strangest part of division. Everything he'd learned, every decision he'd made, every relationship he'd built—it all ended here. The three hundred princes would have no recollection of being Rechipaul Amir. They would be born with basic knowledge, instincts, and the ability to speak and think, but they wouldn't remember his life. They would just know they were princes competing for a throne. Rechipaul's consciousness began to fade. The last thing he registered was the sight of three hundred small Milkmen standing on the platform where he'd been moments before, each one looking around in confusion and curiosity. Then he was gone. --- The scene that followed happened in a different location entirely. The priests had been preparing for weeks once they received word that the King was approaching his limit. Three hundred of them, all carefully selected from different provinces and church hierarchies to ensure no single faction could claim special privilege over the birth of the princes. They stood in a vast ceremonial hall carved into the side of the great volcano itself. The Center of the World. The sacred nipple from which all milk flowed. The hall was open on one side, facing directly toward the volcanic peak that dominated the horizon. Even from here, miles away, the heat was intense enough that the priests wore specially treated robes to avoid melting. Three hundred pedestals lined the hall in concentric circles, each one positioned to face the volcano. The priests had carried the newborn princes here from the hidden chamber through a secret passage that connected the palace to the sacred site. Now each priest held a small Milkman in their arms, cradling the princes like the precious future rulers they might become. The Head Archbishop stood at the center. He was a Grand-level Milkman, which made him large enough to command respect but not so massive that he couldn't navigate the ceremonial space. He raised his arms toward the volcano. "Vahi mela norath!" he called out in Vahilistian. His voice echoed through the hall. The sacred language sounded harsh and guttural compared to modern Dahilistian, full of consonant clusters that required careful pronunciation. The other priests joined in. "Vahi mela norath! Vahi mela norath!" The chant continued. Three hundred voices speaking in unison, creating a rhythm that seemed to resonate with the volcanic rock itself. The princes in their arms squirmed and looked around with wide eyes, too young to understand what was happening but old enough to sense the importance of the moment. "Sahir velum torath vahim!" the Head Priest continued. "Melech korim sahara doth!" The chant spoke of the goddess, of the divine thread connecting all Milkmen, of the sacred duty to return to the Center of the World when the final day came. It praised the volcano for its generosity in providing milk to sustain their species. It asked for blessings upon these three hundred princes, that one of them might prove worthy to rule. The ceremony went on for hours. The priests rotated through different prayers, each one more elaborate than the last. The princes gradually stopped squirming and simply stared at the volcano with expressions that ranged from curiosity to something that might have been awe if they were old enough to understand the concept. As the sun began to set, the Head Priest raised his arms one final time. "Vahi mela korath! Sahara velum norath! Melech torim doth vahim!" The other priests responded in unison. "Vahim! Vahim! Vahim!" The ceremony ended. The priests began to lower the princes from their pedestals, preparing to transport them to their new homes. Each prince would be assigned to a different aristocratic family or church institution for the next five years, where they would be raised and educated in preparation for the succession test. Three hundred possible futures. Three hundred potential kings. Only one throne. --- Mael Amir had discovered something interesting about ants. If you put them in a circle and blocked their path with small stones, they would eventually start fighting each other instead of trying to find a way around. He'd been testing this theory for the past hour in the garden outside his mansion. The mansion wasn't his, technically. It belonged to Marquis Helvor, a minor noble who owed favors to someone who owed favors to someone who had connections to the royal family. Mael was eight years old and barely reached the height of a normal adult Milkman's knee. He was still in the "small" category, which was expected. Most Milkmen his age were the same size unless they had access to extraordinary amounts of milk, which he didn't. The ants continued their circular march. Mael had placed six stones around them in a perfect hexagon, leaving gaps just small enough that the ants could see escape routes but couldn't quite reach them. The result was predictable chaos. Some ants tried to climb the stones. Others attempted to squeeze through the gaps. A few had started attacking their fellow ants, apparently deciding that was a more productive use of their time. "Stupid insects," Mael muttered. He picked up a seventh stone and positioned it to block another potential exit route. The ants' confusion intensified. The interesting thing about watching ants struggle was how much it reminded him of people. You give them limited options, watch them make predictable choices, and then adjust the situation to see what happens next. The ants never learned. They just kept following their instincts, which made them easy to manipulate. Mael wondered if people were the same way. Probably. Most of them, anyway. He was reaching for another stone when he heard footsteps behind him. Not the casual walk of a servant going about their duties, but the deliberate, measured pace of someone approaching with purpose. Mael didn't turn around. Whoever it was could wait until he finished his experiment. "Young Master Mael," a voice said. It was Varos, the head servant of the household. His tone carried that particular quality of someone who was technically subservient but actually held all the real power in practical matters. "I'm busy," Mael said. He moved another stone, narrowing the circle even further. Two ants had started fighting in earnest now. Their tiny mandibles clashed while the others continued their confused march. "I understand, Young Master. However, this matter cannot wait." Mael sighed. He turned around to look at Varos. The servant was a Large-level Milkman, which meant he towered over Mael by several meters. His cheese-flesh had the smooth, well-maintained appearance of someone who had access to good nutrition but wasn't wealthy enough to gorge himself into the Grand level. He wore the formal attire of a head servant: a tailored coat in the Marquis's colors and an expression of permanent disapproval. "What is it?" Mael asked. Varos straightened his already straight posture. "I have been instructed to inform you that your status has changed as of this morning. You are no longer simply a child of the royal family. You have been officially designated as Prince Mael Amir, two hundred and forty-seventh in line to the throne." Mael stared at him. "What?" "His Majesty King Rechipaul Amir reached the Titan limit 8 years ago and completed the division process. You are one of three hundred princes who will compete in the succession test. The test will take place in five years' time. Until then, you will receive comprehensive education and training in all matters pertaining to rulership, strategy, and statecraft." The words took a moment to process. Mael looked down at his ants, which were still fighting in their increasingly small circle. Then he looked back up at Varos. "I'm a prince now?" "You have always been a prince, Young Master. However, you are now a prince with a legitimate claim to the throne. The distinction is significant." Mael's mind was already working through the implications. Three hundred princes meant three hundred competitors. The succession test would evaluate strength, intelligence, and adaptability. He was currently a small Milkman with no particular advantages. Five years to grow, learn, and distinguish himself from two hundred ninety-nine brothers who would all be doing the same thing. The odds were not favorable. "Who else knows about this?" Mael asked. "The entire empire knows, Young Master. The succession process of three hundred princes is not something that can be kept secret. Announcements were made in every major city this morning. The church held ceremonies and aristocracy is already beginning to position themselves." Of course they were. Three hundred princes meant three hundred potential future kings. The smart aristocrats would start making connections now, building relationships with the princes they thought had the best chance of success. Mael was staying with a minor marquis, which suggested he wasn't considered particularly important by whoever had made the housing assignments. That was fine. Better to be underestimated than to attract too much attention early. "When does the training start?" Mael asked. "Tomorrow morning. You will have tutors for history, politics, military strategy, economics, religious studies and many more. Physical training will begin in the afternoon. Your schedule will be comprehensive and demanding." Mael nodded. He looked back down at his ants one last time. The circle had become so small that they could barely move without touching each other. The fighting had intensified. Three ants were locked in combat while the others tried desperately to find escape routes that no longer existed. He reached down and scattered the stones with one hand, destroying the circle. The ants immediately dispersed in all directions, fleeing to whatever safety they could find. The ones who had been fighting broke apart and ran like the others. "Interesting," Mael said quietly. "Given freedom, they forget they were fighting and just run." Varos watched him with an unreadable expression. "Young Master?" "Nothing." Mael stood up and brushed dirt from his clothes. "I'll be ready tomorrow morning. Is there anything else?" "The Marquis wishes to speak with you at dinner. He wants to discuss your new status and what it means for the household." "Fine. I'll be there." Varos bowed and walked away. Mael remained in the garden, staring at the spot where the ants had been. Three hundred princes competing for one throne. Limited resources, limited time, and everyone watching to see who would prove themselves worthy. Mael didn't really wanted to participate in any of that, but... new kings tended to 'eliminate' most of their brothers once they secured the throne. The decision was obvious. It was a bigger circle than the one he'd created for the ants, but the principle was the same. Put enough competitors in a confined space with insufficient escape routes, and eventually they'd start fighting each other instead of looking for alternatives. Mael smiled. He was good at this kind of game. He'd been playing variations of it his entire life, testing limits and manipulating situations to see what would happen. The succession test would be more complicated than ants in a circle, but the fundamentals were identical. He just needed to be smarter than his brothers. More strategic. More willing to do what needed to be done while others hesitated or clung to principles that would get them eliminated. Five years to prepare. Three hundred competitors to outlast. One throne to claim. Mael walked back toward the mansion. His mind was already working through possibilities, considering angles and strategies. The training would teach him the official skills required for kingship, but the real education would come from watching how the other princes operated. Who allied with whom. Who made mistakes. Who showed weakness. The game had begun, whether he was ready or not. But Mael had been ready for this his entire life. He just hadn't known it until now.