Colorless King (2)

What’s the biggest flaw of absolute monarchy?

Oh, come on, it’s obviously that power’s concentrated in one guy, so everyone’s kissing up, causing inefficiencies, blah blah… tons of issues, right?

Even with relentless marches through the Far East, barely sleeping and hopping on newly opened train lines, the journey back took over six weeks.

I figured I’d be swamped meeting Father’s spirit, getting married, and holding the coronation, but that wasn’t the real problem.

The first issue when an absolute monarch like the Tsar dies?

The country grinds to a halt for two months.

Father passed at forty-nine, and I haven’t even had proper heir training.

Back in St. Petersburg, I’m greeted by a sea of faces waiting for me.

I approached them solemnly, ready to speak.

“Phew, Witte, Father always valued you—”

“No time for that, Your Highness! To the Livadia Cross Church!” Witte barked.

“Huh?” I stammered.

Before I could visit Father’s spirit, I was dragged to the church.

This is where his funeral was held.

“Does Nikolai Nikolaevich Romanov, rightful Tsesarevich, swear before the Church and witnesses to uphold loyalty to the throne, carry on the will of Tsar Alexander III, and rise as the true ruler?” the priest intoned.

“Yes,” I said.

“The oath is complete. Take him away!”

“What’s the holdup? Escort His Highness!” someone shouted. “Next!”

Within an hour of arriving in St. Petersburg, I was hauled to the church, swore an oath, and—

“Tsesarevich Nikolai Alexandrovich Romanov, Grand Duke, do you accept the succession as Tsar of All Russia, Grand Duke of Finland, King of Poland, and Protector of the Orthodox Church?” another voice boomed.

“Yes,” I replied.

“The Tsar’s crown is hereby bestowed.”

“God save the Emperor! Mighty and majestic Tsar, reign in glory!”

“Reign and strike fear into your enemies, Emperor of the Orthodox Church!”

I changed robes, was dragged to the Winter Palace, and went through the Orthodox Tsar enthronement ceremony.

In an era drowning in formality, two major ceremonies in one day?

My body wasn’t my own, running around like a puppet until sunset, when I finally caught my breath.

“…There’s not more today, right?” I asked, exhausted.

“Given the tight schedule, that’s all for today,” a courtier replied.

“The coronation?” I pressed.

“We haven’t set a date, but it’ll take at least a year,” he said.

“Phew, that’s one relief,” I muttered.

Hundreds swarming to crown a new emperor is comical, but honestly, my body can’t take it.

As the sun stained the sky red, I collapsed into my room, staring at the Imperial Household, Finance Ministry, and other bureaucrats who wouldn’t leave.

“What, there’s more?” I groaned.

“Your Majesty, we have an urgent bureaucratic meeting tomorrow. I’ve compiled pressing matters needing your approval,” one said.

“Here’s a list of issues stalled without the Tsar’s sign-off. Many are beyond our judgment, so please review them soon,” another added.

A pile of documents landed on my desk.

Skimming the top few—

The Orthodox Archbishop acting as regent in Poland’s Worbits is accused of corruption and murder.

But Worbits has so many archbishops backing him, it’s tough to handle.

Another document listed dozens of grand dukes and nobles unable to inherit titles or estates because their appointments weren’t approved.

All this piled up while the Tsar was absent.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll review and answer tomorrow,” I said.

“…”

“Just say it straight,” I snapped.

“Your Majesty, everyone here is deeply loyal to the Imperial House,” one said.

“Obviously everyone’s loyal. What’s your point?” I asked.

These busy bastards dragged me around all day, and now they’re staring me down in this cramped room. Talk about pressure.

The Imperial Household Minister spoke up.

“Your Majesty, do you intend to marry Princess Alix?” he asked.

“What? Princess Alix? You mean Alix?” I blinked.

“As the goddaughter of the late Tsar, she’s far from unworthy. We ask because we need to set a wedding date and prepare,” he explained.

“Wait, I’ve only met her once!” I protested.

At Uncle Sergei’s wedding, I saw her briefly, exchanged a couple of letters, and that’s it—marriage?

Oh, wait…

In the original history, didn’t Nikolai meet Alexandra then, fall in love, and marry her?

But I was stuck in the army back then, only leaving for official events, too thrilled to care about her.

“Your Majesty, the Empress’s seat cannot remain vacant. Wedding preparations take six months, so you must decide now,” one pressed.

“You need a wedding to hold the coronation. No Tsar has been crowned without an Empress!” another insisted.

Come on, you don’t marry without dating first! The last four years were Far East, army, Far East—what do you expect?

“Ugh, I’m tired. Let’s talk later,” I deflected.

“Your Majesty, you must take an Empress soon!”

“This cannot be delayed!”

“Everyone, out!” I roared.

“Your Majesty!”

I kicked out the shouting bureaucrats, leaned against the door, and slid to the floor.

“Goddamn it, I’ve never even been on a date,” I muttered.

What have I been doing all this time? I swear I’ve been busting my ass.

After sitting there a bit, I dusted myself off and stood.

“Wait, it’s not like I’m dying for romance. I’m carrying the weight of Russia’s future—do you think I’m slaving away to chase skirts?” I said aloud, hyping myself up.

It felt better.

I’m not failing at love—I just haven’t bothered.

Yeah, that’s the truth.

That’s how it is…

Two weeks passed.

Sadly, time didn’t bring luxuries like “leisure” or “calm” to my life.

Even Mother’s hounding me about who I’ll marry and when, but I don’t have time to meet anyone.

I was supposed to get heir training around thirty, but I’m an emperor with none.

My only political stance so far? The Far East. Nobody knows my leanings or plans.

More like I never had a chance to show them.

To many, a young emperor wielding absolute power is a blank canvas.

No, most see it that way, rushing to whisper their agendas in my ear, blocking out others.

It’d be nice to lean on family allies, but that’s tough. Father blocked all the grand dukes from power.

There’s a famous quote from the original Nikolai that sums up my situation.

It sounds naive and incompetent, but I’m starting to think it’ll be my catchphrase.

Since I returned, the zemstvos (local councils) and Duma (noble assembly) are buzzing.

Their logic: the old Tsar was oppressive, the new one wasn’t trained by him, so I must be pro-liberal.

Meanwhile, traditional nobles think I’m on their side.

The old Tsar hated the Duma and zemstvos but loved nobles, so his son must, too.

Their self-serving interpretations are a work of art.

And the bureaucrats running the empire with me? They’re trembling in their own chaos and fear.

“I should’ve listened when His Majesty warned about war in the Far East…”

“Will he understand this report if I submit it?”

“Can I mention the Qing’s money? Will he get mad?”

Forget syncing up—they barely know me.

Not all bureaucrats, of course.

“Your Maaaajesty! Send me! I’ll go to the Far East and burn out the rest of my life!” Bunke wailed.

“Professor Bunke…” I sighed.

“State-led development! Building industrial foundations! It’s what I’ve preached my whole life! I failed once because of noble pushback, but I’ll prove it again!” he cried.

“Get up. You’re old enough to die on the road to the Far East,” I said.

“I’ll die seeing results! I’m too bitter to die otherwise!” he insisted.

“Fine, get off the floor, old man,” I said.

Hearing about the Far East, this seventy-something’s been whining like a kid for days.

Father held all power—decisions, laws, punishments—in one hand, forcing his way on everyone.

Those who knew him anticipated his judgments; those who didn’t couldn’t keep their posts.

But me?

What do I do?

The Imperial Household, Foreign Affairs, War, Navy, Finance, Interior, Communications, Justice, Education, Agriculture, and State Assets.

Just ten ministries—do I keep them as is, sharpen my wits, and run the show?

“Or do I tear it all down and build my own board?” I muttered.

The Justice Ministry, barely functioning, begs to break off and strengthen punishments for bureaucrats and the Church.

The empire’s justice system’s a mess. “Equal under the law” my ass—it’s barely enforced.

The zemstvos and Duma have been suppressed so long, I can’t just leave them be.

Beyond their dysfunction, nobles in Father’s era thought, “As long as it’s not against the Tsar, anything goes,” and they’ve stagnated.

The nobles—twenty-one grand families and thousands of rotten petty lords across the empire.

I can’t leave them alone, but fixing them one by one’s impossible. They’re part of my power base, too.

Scribbling problems on paper, they keep pouring out.

Why’s welfare handled by the Church, not the government?

Why do promotions for soldiers and bureaucrats depend on class?

Why’s the Education Ministry brainstorming ways to keep the masses dumb on the cheap? If the Duma stripped their power, at least do the job right.

It’s endless.

“…I expected this, but I don’t even know where to start,” I groaned.

First look, you laugh. Second, you rage. Third, you give up.

“Your Maaaajesty! Two days ago, in Yaroslavl’s Great Industrial Complex, 4,000 workers killed thirteen soldiers during a strike!” a bureaucrat burst in.

“Killed?” I asked.

“No! It was an accident resisting aggressive dispersal!” another clarified.

“Accident?” I pressed.

“Execute them all! Forget batons—use guns! It’s treason!” one demanded.

“Treason?” I echoed.

“Fines and wage cuts weren’t enough—inhumane treatment caused this! More soldiers will tank the empire’s linen exports!” another pleaded.

“Tank?” I said.

“If this continues, the fire will spread to Moscow, Vladimir, and all of Yaroslavl!”

“Your Majesty, don’t let this justify more labor crackdowns! Please!”

“Think of the soldiers unjustly killed!”

“Oh,” I sighed.

Can killing soldiers loyal to the Tsar be justified?

Hell no.

Is the Yaroslavl complex’s labor situation normal?

Twelve-hour day shifts plus two six-hour night shifts in rotation? No way that’s normal.

To them, I’m a colorless Tsar with no standards or ideology.

But they’re wrong.

“Soldiers and workers died, but soldiers come first. Arrest Fedorov, Shchapov, and other ringleaders. Fine the factory owners, and use the fines for Yaroslavl’s workers. Also, draft a law banning work over twelve hours a day,” I ordered.

“Your Majesty!”

“O Tsar!”

“Enough,” I snapped.

They don’t know it, but my standard’s the future, not this era’s workers or soldiers.

This strike’s just a glimpse of the mess.

Problems have been tangled for ages, with fault on all sides—factory owners, workers, the empire—all losing.

A few weeks won’t make me a master administrator, but I’m starting to grasp the real issues.

So, the solution to the endless problems piling on my desk?

“Revise the Empire’s Fundamental Law. After this year’s harvest, proclaim a new system. The Duma will elect about 200 members to form a lower house. Following Peter the Great’s example of heeding minorities, reserve seats for Black Clergy, White Clergy, the Academy of Sciences, the Chamber of Commerce, and the Industrial Committee. Regions without zemstvos aren’t exempt from electing representatives,” I declared.

“…You mean—” Witte started.

“Yup, form a parliament,” I said.

Problem erupts—run to the Tsar, beg for a fix—new law’s made—one side complains, runs to the Tsar to change it—law’s changed—other side runs to change it back…

This damn cycle of hell.

If I could pull a Father and say, “Everyone shut up,” maybe. But I’m not that guy.

Sitting idle guarantees ruin, so whether we sink or swim, we’ve gotta try change.

Witte, sharp as ever, was the first to catch my drift.

“What about the upper house?” he asked.

“Like Peter the Great’s time. I’ll appoint members, and ministries will divvy up seats. High Court, Audit Office, universities—there’s plenty to fill it,” I said.

Even at this point, most hadn’t caught on, but Witte’s gleaming eyes showed he got it.

Parliament, with upper and lower houses.

It existed before and now it’s back. One seat I didn’t mention?

The Prime Minister.

Father refused to create any role that could concentrate power, but that’s absurd for a vast empire.

How do you control and govern without power?

Witte, the arena’s set.

…Your Majesty.

The empire’s laws, unchanging unless the Tsar wills it.

I’m opening a coliseum to fight over that power.

Now, battle it out.

And leave me the hell alone.