The Holy American Enpire

The empire’s gaze turned south, and with it came silence. Not the silence of peace, but the engineered quiet of a predator waiting to strike.

Along the Gulf and the Pacific coast, imperial warships formed an unbroken line, their black hulls snapping crimson banners against the horizon. They did not fire. They did not advance. Instead, they stood as a wall, sealing Mexico off from the world. The land border, already fortified with steel and patrols, left the nation trapped within its own territory. The empire had cut off every escape, leaving the southward corridor to Central America as the only path for those desperate enough to flee.

Inland, the empire’s invisible war began. Power grids faltered in the night as systems overloaded under unseen hands. Entire districts of Monterrey, Guadalajara, and even Mexico City went dark, their citizens stumbling through candlelight while imperial cities to the north glowed brighter than ever. Refrigerators hummed in silence, factories ground to a halt, and hospitals rationed precious backup energy. Imperial broadcasts framed the darkness as divine judgment: “Only the faithful live in the light.”

Meanwhile, life within the empire continued in dazzling contrast. Robotic harvesters glided through fields without a single farmer guiding them. Drones stacked boxes of food outside every home, delivered by unseen hands. Families gathered at public feasts and festivals, entertainment flowing endlessly without cost, each citizen assured their lives were proof of Kane’s divine favor. The empire had lifted its people above toil and worry; their “Stipends of Grace” ensured housing, healthcare, and food for all.

Kane, seated at the head of the war council, radiated an unsettling calm. “We will not rush,” he told his generals. “We will suffocate them. Mexico must see what it means to live without us. When they beg for light, we shall offer it. When they beg for bread, we shall provide it. And when they beg for mercy…” His eyes, cold as iron, scanned the room. “We shall decide how much to grant.”

Beside Kane, the empire’s high priest, Father Malachai, raised his hands and spoke a prayer for the empire’s righteous mission. “O Lord, grant our people strength and our enemies understanding. Let our banners shine as Your judgment, and guide the hearts of those who will yet kneel.” His voice carried through the chamber and into the cities, reinforcing the idea that this campaign was not merely political — it was divine.

South of the border, panic grew. Markets collapsed as electricity failed, radios carried more static than news, and citizens crowded into the countryside, seeking shelter from the blackouts. Refugees pressed further into Central America, whispering of the coming storm. A few attempted to escape by sea, but imperial patrols hunted them without mercy. Some villages welcomed the empire’s broadcasts with fragile hope; others clung stubbornly to their flag, swearing never to kneel.

But the blockade tightened. The nights grew darker. And with each passing day, Mexico’s will bent closer to breaking.

The war had not yet been declared, but it had already begun.