The problem with being a God of War was that you couldn't just say "sorry."
Hiroshi looked at the shattered windows. He looked at the envoys of Aethelgard, who were currently hugging the floor tiles as if trying to phase through them.
He looked at General Marcus, who was vibrating with excitement.
"Brilliant," Marcus whispered, his voice carrying through the silent hall. "To shatter their defenses with a physical manifestation of 'Peace.' A paradox! You intend to break their minds with confusion before flaying their souls."
No, Hiroshi thought desperately. I just have anxiety.
He needed to fix this. In his past life at the UN, Rule #1 of de-escalation was Physical Comfort. If the opposing party is comfortable, they are less likely to declare war.
Hiroshi stood up.
The movement caused three guards to draw their weapons. The lead envoy, a trembling old man named Lord Corvus, let out a squeak.
"Stand," Hiroshi commanded.
He meant it to sound inviting. Like, 'Please, pull up a chair.'
It came out like a judgment from the depths of hell.
Lord Corvus scrambled to his feet, shaking so hard his medals chimed together. "We surrender! We accept the terms! Take the northern provinces! Take my firstborn!"
"I don't want your firstborn," Hiroshi said, stepping down from the dais. The obsidian steps groaned under his weight. "I want... a dialogue."
He gestured to the servants cowering in the shadows.
"Bring chairs. And tea."
General Elara, the woman with the eyepatch and the aura of a freezing glacier, stepped forward. Her single eye widened.
"Tea, Majesty?" she whispered. "The... Nightshade blend? Or the Widow's Weep?"
"Just... Earl Grey?" Hiroshi tried. "Something soothing."
Elara's face paled. She turned to Marcus. "He intends to poison them slowly," she hissed. "Earl Grey. It must be an ancient toxin from the Forbidden Lands. It kills over decades, masking itself as comfort."
Marcus nodded solemnly. "The long game. Cruel."
The chairs arrived. They were made of iron and looked suspiciously like torture racks. The envoys sat on the very edge, looking ready to bolt.
Hiroshi sat opposite them. He tried to cross his legs casually.
CRACK.
The floor tile under his heel pulverized into dust.
[System Alert][Intimidation Check: CRITICAL SUCCESS][Target 'Lord Corvus' Stress Level: 99%][Suggestion: Target is near cardiac arrest. Establish dominance to stabilize.]
Shut up, System, Hiroshi thought. I'm trying to be nice.
"Now," Hiroshi said, clasping his massive, scarred hands together. "Let us discuss the terms of our... new relationship."
Lord Corvus wept openly. "Please, Emperor. We are a small agricultural kingdom. We have no gold left. The war took everything."
"I know," Hiroshi said gently. "That is why I want to help."
He leaned forward. The air pressure in the room dropped.
"I have seen your reports," Hiroshi said, reciting the economic data the System had flashed in his vision. "Your harvest failed. Your people are starving. Your infrastructure is crumbling."
Corvus flinched as if struck. "You... you have spies everywhere. You know our deepest shames."
"I don't need spies," Hiroshi said (truthfully, he had a HUD). "I want to offer you... grain."
Silence.
Absolute, heavy silence.
Marcus leaned in, confused. "Grain, Majesty?"
"Tons of it," Hiroshi said, getting excited. "The Empire has a surplus. We are hoarding food while our neighbors starve. It's inefficient. I propose a trade deal. We send you grain, lumber, and engineers."
He smiled. A genuine, helpful smile.
To the envoys, it looked like a tiger smiling at a gazelle before ripping its throat out.
Lord Corvus stared at him, horror dawning in his eyes.
"You..." Corvus whispered. "You want to... feed us?"
"Yes!" Hiroshi beamed.
"To make us dependent," Corvus mumbled, his face turning ashen. "You destroy our local economy with cheap imperial goods. You addict our people to your grain. You place your engineers in our cities—spies in every street, mapping our weaknesses."
Corvus looked up, terror replaced by sheer awe.
"You don't just want to conquer our land. You want to buy our souls."
Hiroshi blinked. "What? No. I just—"
"It is a masterstroke!" Marcus slammed his fist into his palm. "We feed them until they are fat and lazy! They will lose the will to fight! They will become cattle, grazing in the pasture of the Empire, waiting for the slaughter!"
"Exactly!" Elara chimed in. "Economic warfare. Far more painful than the sword. It strips them of their dignity."
Hiroshi opened his mouth. Closed it.
If I say 'No, I'm just nice,' they won't believe me. If I say 'Yes, I'm evil,' they'll sign the treaty.
He rubbed his temples. Being a Warlord was giving him a migraine.
"Yes," Hiroshi lied, his voice hollow. "It is... a masterstroke."
He pushed a piece of parchment across the table.
"Sign."
Lord Corvus grabbed the quill. He didn't even read the terms. He signed so fast the paper tore.
"It is done," Corvus sobbed. "Aethelgard belongs to the United Empire. May the gods have mercy on us."
[System Notification][Mission Complete: Pacific Solution][Reward: 500 Administration Points][Empire Status: EXPANDING (Economically)]
Hiroshi stood up. He felt exhausted. But hey, nobody died. That was a win.
"General Marcus," Hiroshi said.
"Command me, Sire."
"Escort these gentlemen to the border. Ensure they are... safe."
"Understood," Marcus grinned, tapping the hilt of his sword. "I will deploy the 'Peacekeeper' units. The ones with the wolf-skulls. To ensure no bandits dare approach our new... cattle."
Hiroshi watched them leave. The envoys were practically being carried, weeping into their hands about the "Golden Chains of Varek."
Hiroshi slumped back onto the throne. He looked at the System window floating in the air.
[Current Objective: Military Reform][The Army is restless. Peace has bored them. Rebellion probability: 85%][Suggested Action: Gladiator Games.]
"I hate this job," Hiroshi whispered.
"Did you speak, Majesty?" A servant asked from the floor.
"I said," Hiroshi's voice rumbled, shaking the dust from the ceiling, "BRING ME THE BUDGET REPORTS."
The servant fainted again.