Sirzechs set the silver-covered report down on the desk, the weight of the paper seeming to echo the gravity of the situation. Grayfia, with a fluid movement, replaced the previous parchment with a holographic map of Avalon and its surroundings, where pulsing lights of different colors represented the density and nature of the population.
— Lord Sirzechs, if we are to present this to Rimuru-sama, the numbers must be exact — Grayfia began, adjusting her glasses. — Currently, Avalon has a resident population of 1.2 million souls. Of these, 15% are highly skilled human artisans, primarily from Blumund and exiles from Falmuth. They are the engine of our luxury manufacturing and marble finishing. The rest of the population is a diverse mix: 40% are Orcs and High-Orcs integrated into construction and logistics, 25% are Lycanthropes and warrior races serving in urban militias, and the remaining 20% are an amalgam of lesser races, from Goblins to Ogres, who maintain the capital's service sector.
Sirzechs observed the growth charts. — And what of our elite force, Grayfia? The Visionary molded the structure, but our hierarchy of command is what truly sustains the order.
— At the top of the pyramid, under your authority, we have the Council of Ministers, your "Swords" — Grayfia explained, pointing to the energy icons on the map. — Ulquiorra Cifer, as Minister of Order and the Void, manages intelligence and the census; Tier Harribel, as Minister of Protection and Water Resources, commands the borders; and Szayelaporro Granz, Minister of Development and Science, controls technological production. Below them, the population of evolved Hollows—specifically the mid-level Arrancar class created by your Visionary—has stabilized at exactly 300 units. These operate as sector supervisors, ensuring that spiritual pressure and discipline are maintained in every neighborhood.
At that moment, a bluish, bouncy mass appeared through the open window, quickly transforming into Rimuru's human form. He carried a folder of Tempest documents, looking simultaneously impressed and concerned by the aura Avalon emanated.
— Sirzechs! I received the preliminary report. You're growing faster than my magicule mushrooms — Rimuru joked, though his gaze turned serious as he saw the data. — If Avalon expands into these sectors of the forest, we're going to need a new coexistence treaty. The concentration of high-level monsters in one place is starting to alter Jura's ecosystem.
Sirzechs gestured for Rimuru to approach the table. — That is why I called you, Rimuru-kun. Avalon can no longer be contained by its original walls. We have 180,000 human artisans who demand living conditions that do not interfere with the Orcs' industrial sectors. My Arrancars are managing order, but the population density is creating a "static" that even Ulquiorra considers inefficient.
— I see — Rimuru nodded, analyzing the census. — You have a workforce any human nation would envy. But if we create these Satellite Cities along the railway as planned, we'll be creating a de facto empire. The Council of the West is going to panic.
— Let them panic — Grayfia intervened, handing Rimuru a territorial division proposal. — Lord Sirzechs' proposal is that these new cities be joint administration zones. Avalon provides Szayelaporro's technology and the security of our Swords, while Tempest provides the raw materials and political recognition before the guild.
Sirzechs looked at his friend and ally. — The census shows we have talent and strength. What we lack is space for that order to breathe. If you agree to the annexation of these three quadrants of Jura, Avalon will make the Railway Axis the most powerful trade route this world has ever seen.
Morning in Avalon did not begin with the blast of trumpets, but with the intoxicating aroma wafting from the central bakery. Benedict, the Arrancar whose bone mask adorned his neck like a stiff collar, moved with an agility that contrasted with his physical strength. To him, baking was a sacred science. Using refined flour from Blumund and yeast cultivated in Szayelaporro's laboratories, he shaped loaves that were simultaneously light and invigorating. Benedict watched the first customers—human artisans and Orc soldiers—entering his establishment. He did not merely sell food; he monitored the population's morale. "A well-fed people is a people that does not question order," he would mutter, handing a golden brioche to a human child with a nearly imperceptible nod.
Meanwhile, at the nerve center of railway communications, Dietrich the Marshal exuded a much more austere energy. He stood upon an observation platform, coordinating the flow of trains linking Avalon to Tempest and Dwargon. Dietrich did not tolerate delays. His spiritual pressure was channeled to the conductors and the sentinel gargoyles, creating a collective biological clock. To the Marshal, every train was an artery, and any interruption was a sign of disease in the Duchy's body. He had just authorized the departure of a silver ore shipment when he felt a vibration in the tracks; within seconds, he had calculated it was merely the extra weight of a dwarven passenger car, and the tension in his shoulders relaxed by a millimeter.
In the District of Arts and Weaving, Genevieve maintained the aesthetic standard that defined Avalon's elite. She was examining a piece of runic silk produced by the Arachnes. For Genevieve, appearance was the first line of defense against chaos. If the citizens of Avalon wore the best and lived surrounded by beauty, they would feel superior to those living under the yoke of the Holy Church. She was the guardian of the empire's vanity, ensuring that even the simplest laborer carried the pride of belonging to the white marble.
Far away, the Musician continued his invisible melody. His notes floated through the palace's ventilation ducts and public squares, acting as a lubricant for the collective mind. He was responsible for ensuring that the stress of productivity did not turn into aggression. Under his harp, the city breathed in unison.
In the heart of the Alabaster Palace, Valerius's day was a choreography of silence and precision. The butler finished polishing the silverware in the private dining room before heading to Sirzechs's quarters. Valerius crossed paths with Dietrich in the corridor, who was carrying traffic reports.
— Marshal Dietrich seems especially focused today — Valerius commented, his voice smooth and gelid.
— The flow of immigrants is increasing, Valerius. Space in the cars is getting scarce — Dietrich replied, without breaking his stride. — Inform the Sovereign that the southern tracks will need maintenance if we continue with this load.
Valerius nodded and continued his journey. He entered Sirzechs's office exactly as the tea reached the temperature of 82°C. He placed the cup on the table, ignoring the stack of paperwork Grayfia was already organizing.
— Benedict sent today's honey croissants, my Lord — Valerius said, serving Sirzechs. — He noted that the humans in sector 4 are talking more about the harvest than about politics. It is a good sign.
Sirzechs took a sip of tea and smiled at his butler. The machine of Avalon functioned not through fear, but through the dedication of these beings he had molded. Each at their post, from the baker to the marshal, ensuring the marble never cracked under the weight of reality.