I am the Emperor.

Night has fallen. An old minister sits across from me.

I flick my long, flowing silk sleeves with practiced elegance, brushing away non-existent dust from the gold-threaded cushion. I have rehearsed this motion a thousand times, every inch of me mimicking the effortless grace of the old aristocracy. Opposite me, the minister sits with a slumped back, his face etched with exhaustion and disappointment. Yet, the natural dignity in his posture makes my heart sink. My elegance feels like the painted mask of an actor; beneath it reeks of insecurity.

In that moment, I am once again the peasant boy frantically scrubbing mud from his skin, while he—he is the true nobleman of spirit.

“Your Majesty,” he begins, his voice raspy like sandpaper. “Years ago, you and I scraped for food in the mud. We suffered under crushing taxes and famine until we risked our heads to rebel. Now that you sit upon the Dragon Throne… do you still remember those days?”

I frown, impatient. The past is a rot I wish to cut away. Just a momentary reminder makes me feel that familiar, acidic stench of poverty. When I first took the capital, I would wake up screaming, terrified that this palace was just a handful of sand, ready to slip through my fingers. To banish that fear, I built grander monuments and wrapped myself in majestic robes, trying to murder the memory of that “poor boy.” His mention of the past isn’t nostalgia; it’s an flaying of my skin.

I let out a cold, dismissive snort.

The minister, expecting this, persists stubbornly. “You once promised to rule like the Sages, to save the people from hanging by their heels. But this new ‘Palace Tax’… I fear it is not a blessing for the realm, nor your original intent.”

I shift my gaze from the bronze charcoal burner-fueled by expensive, smokeless silver charcoal-to his face.

“I am establishing authority for the sake of the realm,” I interrupt him slowly, my tone dripping with a condescending pity. “You only see the suffering of the peasants, but you do not understand the weight of ‘Dignity.’ If I lived in a hut and wore rags, how would the barbarians view our Great Empire? My towers of jade and gold are not merely for my pleasure; they are the Face of the Nation. I bear the burden of this luxury for them. They contribute a little grain to support the dignity of the State—should they not be grateful?”

The minister freezes, clearly stunned by my audacious logic.

“The boat is floated by water…” He tries to quote the ancient proverb to warn me, hinting at rebellion without daring to call me a tyrant.

“Water floats the ship, but it can also swallow it. I know.” I cut him off, a cruel, playful smile curling my lips. “Old friend, you have read too many books and forgotten how life works. When I toured the North, I watched the falconers. Even an illiterate trainer knows the truth: If you feed a hawk until it is full, it will not hunt. It might even peck out its master’s eyes.”

I lean forward, savouring the blood draining from his face.

“It is only when they are half-starved, eyes fixed desperately on that tiny scrap of meat dangling in the air, that they will fight to the death for their master.”

" The commoners are my hawks. Keep them barely fed, just enough to prevent starvation, and they will kneel in tears of gratitude for every crumb. If they become too comfortable, they breed dangerous thoughts. I am disciplining their nature, saving them from the chaos of their own desires. This… is my greatest mercy."

The light in the minister’s eyes dies. He looks at me as if I were a stranger, a monster. The bond of sharing a moldy crust of bread in the rain years ago is now covered in dust—thick, choking dust. I look back, hiding the sudden hollowness in my chest behind a mask of imperial arrogance.

“As for your history books,” I stand up, enjoying the height advantage, “History is written by men like me. Centuries from now, my tablet will rest in the Royal Temple. The scribes will record me as a Sage Emperor who brought rain and prosperity. And the groans from the mud? Hah. The wind blows, and they are gone. Who remembers the dirt? I am the Gold; they are the Dust. Is that not obvious?”

The minister seems to shrink, his spirit hollowed out. He bows his head deeply, and for a long, long time, says nothing more.

…

The dream ends.

Sunlight stabs through the gap in the curtains, piercing the gloom of the room. In that single pillar of light, countless specks of dust fly blindly, smashing into each other in their tiny, chaotic world. But who cares about dust?

My stomach lets out a long, hollow growl. A burning emptiness twists inside me. I’ve been waking up starving lately—probably because I skipped dinner again to save on the commute fare. I instinctively grab my phone, letting the harsh screen light wash over my face, desperate for a hit of dopamine to numb the reality of this peeling, rented room.

My finger scrolls mechanically. A short video pops up: A Grand State Banquet.

Red carpets stretch like rivers of blood. Golden chalices are raised high. The music is triumphant, grandiose, nearly blowing out my cheap phone speakers.

I stare at the screen, at the grease glistening on the roasted meats. My Adam’s apple bobs. I swallow hard, gulping down saliva that isn’t there.

Look at that power. Look at that class. It makes me feel… strangely proud. It makes me straighten my spine, as if I’m sitting at that table, not lying on a lumpy mattress.

I open the comments section. It is a sea of praise and patriotic emojis.

But then, my finger stops.

Someone has posted an untimely complaint, whining about the cost, about how hard it is for normal people to buy groceries. That single line of text sits there, lonely and jarring amidst the golden chorus. Like a piece of grit in the eye.

My fingers, previously weak from hunger, suddenly tense up. A surge of nameless rage ignites in my chest. What does this loser know? Spilling cold water on such a magnificent day? He is ruining the vibe. He is ruining my moment of vicarious glory.

Like a beast catching the scent of prey, I attack.

My thumbs fly across the glass screen, tapping out a frantic tat-tat-tat that echoes in the silent, empty apartment. I type, delete, and retype, sharpening my words into shivs. I need to hurt him. I need to humiliate this ungrateful wretch who can’t see the Big Picture.

Send.

Then, I tap his profile. Report. Reason: “Hate Speech / Inciting Conflict.”

I watch the little loading circle spin, then vanish into a “Thank You” checkmark. I let out a long breath of turbid air.

Strange. My stomach isn’t growling anymore.

That burning hunger has been completely filled by the savage thrill of the cyber-kill. It feels heavy and satisfying in my gut, as if I have just swallowed a chunk of raw, bloody meat.

“Some people just need to be taught a lesson,” I mutter.

I turn off the screen. The room plunges back into greyness. Only the dust in the sunbeam continues its tireless, blind dance.

I roll over, pulling the damp quilt over my head, and sink back into the comforting darkness.