The Holy American Empire

Nine days of silence followed Panama’s joint announcement of the South Coalition. The world had expected some kind of retaliation from Emperor Kane. They threatened not just trade in the Americas, but now they had a growing army—experts said it could compete on the battlefield in ways Mexico never could.

On day ten, the morning news arrived—and with it, Kane. Not with force, as the world had anticipated. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Ambassador Ruiz of Belize. The very leader who had spent the past nine days arguing for neutrality now, before the eyes of the world, agreed to dissolve his government and welcome the Empire with open arms.

Ruiz lifted his gaze to the cameras, voice steady but tinged with a hint of resignation.

“Belize chooses unity over conflict. We step forward not as subjects, but as partners, trusting in the Empire’s guidance for the safety and prosperity of our people.”

The sign above the war room read “holy war room”. The air was thick, hot and full of smoke. The men advising the emperor suggested action many wouldn’t consider holy. In fact many considered their suggestions to be war crimes, but the Geneva Convention was a thing of the past and in war God delivers judgment to the wicked

General Alden Reiss stood near the map table, white hair slicked back, the glow of a single hanging bulb catching the edge of his medals. His voice rumbled through the haze like distant thunder.

“Majesty, a blockade worked once. It can work again. Cut off their ports, their trade, their fuel. Let them starve before we bleed.”

Kane said nothing at first, leaning back in his chair as the room shifted uncomfortably. The Emperor’s silence was never empty—it was a calculation.

The steel doors opened with a hiss, and Dr. Elise Durant, the Empire’s ambassador to France, entered with a portfolio pressed to her chest. Her golden hair shimmered faintly under the light, but it was her composure that drew eyes. She bowed her head slightly.

“Your Majesty.”

Reiss gave a short nod, clearly displeased by the interruption, but Elise ignored it.

“My contacts in Paris have confirmed what we suspected. The French government is funneling money and weapons to the Coalition—under the guise of humanitarian relief. They won’t send troops, not yet. They prefer others to fight their war for them.”

A murmur rippled through the table. Kane’s eyes lifted, cold and steady.

“So they feed the fire,” he said softly, “but fear the smoke.”

A faint smile crossed Elise’s lips. “Precisely, my lord.”

From the far corner, Nathan Cole stepped forward, his sleeves rolled, his notes tucked under one arm. He looked younger than most in the room—too young, some would say—but when he spoke, the hesitation fell away.

“Then let’s make the fire burn where they least expect it. The Canal, Majesty. The Coalition depends on it. Every shipment, every dollar passes through that artery. If we choke it—if we control it—we don’t just cripple the South. We own the hemisphere.”

Reiss shook his head. “That’s suicide. You’d risk open war on their doorstep.”

Cole didn’t flinch. “No, General. I’d risk their attention. And while they’re watching Panama, we decide what burns next.”

The room fell quiet again. The only sound was the slow crackle of Kane’s cigarette. He studied Cole for a long moment, then looked to Durant. “Paris will burn if they continue at this game.”

He rose, the light catching the steel of his insignia. “Prepare the plans for Panama,” he said finally. “If God delivers judgment to the wicked… then we’ll be His hand.”