"Vote for the Communist Party if you want a New Gaul!"
"Anti-Communism! Vote for the National Union and uproot the Federation's puppets!"
The air in Lingones never grew lighter, even after the fires of war had been extinguished.
Ever since the People's Front government announced the commencement of general elections, the entire nation had been whipped into a frenzy of campaigning.
Whom to vote for, whom to trust, and which power this nation would align itself with became the sole topics of conversation in every café, salon, pub, and restaurant.
Before anyone realized it, the general election was a mere week away.
The gold-leafed pillars of the Imperial Palace remained as they were, but beneath them hung the slogans and pledges of every competing party.
In the places where wartime ration cards and coal vouchers had been posted immediately following the ceasefire, election notices now stood in their stead.
In a nation that had never known the ballot, the election occupied the walls long before it occupied the law.
The banners of the People's Party, the Labor Party, and the Communist Party were hung so densely they seemed to struggle for breath, each draped over the other.
But they did not fight merely on the level of hanging flags.
The methods they had observed and learned from the Federation were colder, more calculated, and far more refined.
The technology of the victor did not consist solely of rifles and artillery.
The art of gathering votes was its own form of engineering.
The city's districts had been quietly reshaped.
Under the guise of 'administrative restructuring' and the pretext of 'reconstruction efficiency' or 'security integration,' the authorities nudged the lines on the map. They expanded the administrative zones of the cities while consolidating or abolishing those in the countryside.
Yet, anyone with eyes could see exactly which areas were being grouped and which were being severed.
It was a classic display of gerrymandering.
Through this, the socialist factions were able to drastically reduce the regional constituencies of the rural-centric peasant parties, reactionaries, and conservative blocks.
Furthermore, this was a nation that had only just emerged from total war.
The apparatus for wartime mobilization remained intact.
Where that organization had once been utilized to conclude a war, it was now being weaponized to conclude an election.
The Communist Party's Central Election Headquarters had taken over the Propaganda Department building in the heart of Lingones.
Using the Department's heavy industrial presses, the Central Election Headquarters churned out an endless stream of propaganda posters.
Their prose was simple, hitting like a hammer:
[The Party that Ended the War. The Party Responsible for Reconstruction. The Party for the Citizens. Vote for the Communist Party.]
The Communist Party was able to fold every achievement of the past months under its own banner.
The face of the interim cabinet was the face of the Communist Party, and the Prime Minister's name was synonymous with a Communist vote.
When other parties spoke of policy, the Communist Party produced its record. When other parties offered conservative ideals, the Communist Party offered progressive results backed by the weight of documentation.
The Labor Party stood in the most precarious gap between them.
The Labor Party claimed to represent the workers, but the Communist Party spoke for labor as well, as did the People's Party.
All the Labor Party could offer were more granular promises.
Union autonomy, producer rights, safety regulations, working hours, and industrial accident compensation.
The people nodded in agreement, but nodding was a far cry from casting a ballot.
The People's Party addressed a broader audience.
True to their name, they attempted to speak to the entire populace, displaying revisionist tendencies and a centrist lean.
However, the moment they began to speak for the 'entire people,' their identity wavered and their core support base became blurred.
Consequently, the People's Party began to trend downward.
Yet, did this mean they were falling behind the non-socialist factions? Not at all.
Once these three parties began to move in unison, the non-socialist factions were crushed before the race had even begun.
The non-socialists' electioneering still relied on antiquated speeches and debates.
Their pamphlets were few, their organizations were thin, their funding was unstable, and above all, their message was far too long.
The style of politics where nobility lectured the masses with lengthy, condescending speeches held no sway in the Lingones of today.
People grew suspicious of those who spoke at length and viewed those who deliberated too long as incompetent.
And they had no time to spare.
It had only been three months since the end of the war.
Reconstruction was far from complete, and the Gallic people were exhausted.
To them, whether the Emperor was protected or not was a distant concern compared to whether the electricity would be restored by tonight.
Thus, the election became not a war of flowery rhetoric, but a war of statistics.
Which party could distribute bread faster? Which party could connect the rail lines more quickly and extensively? Which party could further reduce the reparations? These were the reasons for a citizen's support.
The first to seize control of those numbers was the Communist Party.
The Communist Party threw all its efforts into crafting pledges that would resonate with the citizens through policy research institutes staffed with a total mobilization of statisticians, electoral experts, and political scientists.
The Labor Party and the People's Party did the same.
Though each party's headquarters was located in a different building, similar charts and tables sat atop all their desks.
The faces of candidates were plastered onto the city walls, and those faces gradually began to look the same.
Everyone was smiling; everyone was speaking of the future.
But the eyes of the people read the smaller print beneath the faces.
Sentences and words labeled 'pledges' stabbed and pushed against one another.
Among them all, the socialist bloc succeeded most brilliantly in simplifying their message.
That simplicity turned the election into a three-way race between them.
Before other factions could even take the stage, the spotlight was fixed solely on the three socialist parties.
The press and the radio followed the current.
And so, the people followed suit.
The masses hated complex structures.
In the aftermath of the war, people wanted to reduce the number of choices held in their hands.
In such a narrowed selection, choosing the most familiar name was a natural instinct.
When the results were finally announced:
[Gallic Communist Party Takes Largest Share of Seats!]
[Referendum Result: Accession to the Federation Passed with 64% Approval.]
The Communist Party had become the new master of Gaul.
************************
The window is half-open.
It always was.
The sounds from outside seep into the room only in halves.
The cheers, the military bands, the footsteps of the crowds.
I can hear the joyful breathing of people in a city where the war has ended, but I cannot share in it.
It isn't that I hate those sounds.
I simply... lack the strength to listen.
Paper is piled high upon my desk.
Reports, summaries, summaries of summaries.
Numbers, tables, and conclusions.
No issues.
Low risk.
Stable trend.
Such words cavorted across the pages.
But reality is never as neat as paper.
Unlike documents, reality passes by in a muddle, and in problems thought to be 'stabilized,' new errors and complications invariably arise.
Furthermore, whenever I dispatch teams to the field to correct those errors, the volume of documents returned to me only increases.
"Ah..."
I pick up my pen, but my hand trembles violently.
I set the pen back down.
My hand no longer feels like my own.
It isn't that it feels heavy. On the contrary, it has grown so light that merely gripping something is painful.
For the past twelve years, I have endured by holding tightly to the power of decision.
But just as even the most perfect machine eventually succumbs to wear, the hand that holds my decisions has finally frayed.
A person often remains ignorant of their own erosion until one day, they suddenly realize their condition.
Now, only the bone remains.
—Knock, knock.
At that moment, there is a rap at the door, and a secretary enters.
The footsteps are cautious.
I feel as though the way I am handled is shifting from 'man' to 'Leader.'
"Comrade Chairman, the documents from the Gaulish side have arrived."
The secretary offers a folder.
I do not take it immediately.
I stare blankly at the cover.
[Gallic Soviet Socialist Republic. Request for Accession to the Federation.]
My eyes read the sentence twice.
So, Gaul is finally joining the Federation.
Good.
Finally, the hundred-year grand design I have planned is complete.
Now, we can engage in direct exchange with Iberia through the seas connected to Gaul, or reach into Sargon.
Furthermore, Gaul's population and territory will serve as a massive catalyst for the Federation's wealth and power.
So, I take Gaul's hand.
I grasp the pen.
But just before the nib touches the paper, I stop involuntarily.
I cannot breathe.
I try to remain calm and slowly inhale.
The air catches in my throat.
Damn it.
My health is deteriorating day by day.
Though I do not age, I have spent the last ten years in a cycle of relentless overwork.
During this war in particular, there were times I went days without sleep, and since I never had the chance to recover due to the post-war settlements, I have ended up in this state.
I manage to drag in a breath with great effort.
And then, I sign.
Vladimir Park.
Chairman of the Central People's Committee and Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet of the Union of Terra Soviet Socialist Republics.
The moment the ink seeps into the fibers of the paper, something comes to an end.
At the same time, something is permanently hardened.
Like wet cement turning into stone.
The secretary takes the document.
The look on the secretary's face is one of pure adoration.
Lately, everyone who looks at me does so with that same gaze.
Because of this, I have largely avoided speeches and field inspections to minimize the cult of personality, but the trend persists regardless.
This is not right...
As I am thinking this, the secretary speaks softly.
"The meeting is soon..."
"...I see. Understood. I shall go shortly."
Once the secretary leaves and the door clicks shut, the room becomes as silent as a hollow forest.
In that silence, I can hear my own heartbeat.
Even my heart sounds like a 'scheduled task.'
There is no room for ease in its rhythm.
No trace of the passion I once felt.
I lean back in my chair and look out the window.
Banners flutter.
Red banners.
Banners of victory.
Banners of liberation.
Those banners seem to be calling to someone.
Until now, they were calling for me.
Calling me to decide, to take responsibility, to forge ahead.
But now... they aren't.
The obstacles have vanished.
There is no longer a front line.
There is no longer a reason for the Federation to collapse.
It is finally over.
As these sentences tumble through my mind, strangely, my heart does not find peace.
Instead of ease, a hole opens up inside me.
It feels as though something I was forced to constantly fill has suddenly vanished.
Now that the act of filling has stopped, my interior looks hollow.
I had tried to keep calculating the 'next' even after the war ended.
But now, there are no conceivable external threats left.
That is supposed to be a good thing, yet I cannot truly feel that goodness.
Unconsciously, habitually, I tear at my hair.
My teacup is cold.
I lift the cup and set it down again.
It wasn't that my hand trembled this time, but that it refused to obey.
It isn't that my body won't listen to me, but rather the feeling that I have lost the right to command my body.
And in that moment, I realize.
I am not simply tired.
I am worn out.
What drove me during the war was neither anger nor glory.
It was just one thing: 'I must not let it collapse.'
The thought that one must not fall makes a person strong.
But that same thought simultaneously grinds a person down, making them thin and brittle.
Once you become thin enough, there comes a moment when a person's reason simply snaps.
I want to avoid that snap.
I must stop before I break.
I pull a sheet of paper toward me.
Without a title, I press the pen to the page and write a single word.
Retirement.
The handwriting is crooked.
Ugly, even.
But I do not erase that unsightly script.
Instead, I stare vacantly out the window.
I hear the cheering again.
A military band must have started playing somewhere.
The people are rejoicing.
It is a time for celebration.
But I am not smiling.
I simply did not have the leeway to enjoy it.
However.
This time is different.
Gaul's document has received my signature.
Gaul has officially requested to enter our fold.
That is a more definitive conclusion than any victory on the battlefield.
The Federation's system is stabilized against external threats.
It means a skeleton has been formed that can function even without me.
All the obstacles to the Federation have vanished.
Therefore.
Now, I must step down.
That resolve hardens within me.
A sense of liberation arrives, but a strange sadness and fear tag along with it.
I am happy that this grueling role is finally being lifted from my shoulders, but the thought of my place vanishing creates a flicker of sorrow.
I close my eyes.
Just for a moment. Truly, just for a moment.
For just a few seconds, I wanted to have a time where I made no decisions at all.
Even though I know such a thing is a luxury.
When I open my eyes, the banners are still fluttering.
I know that those banners will now call to other people.
And I find myself admitting, just a little, that the fact is... quite a relief.
Yes.
My mind is finally made up.
I shall retire.