Another glorious sunrise illuminated the marble towers of Washingtonium Maximus, where golden trumpets echoed across the Imperial Capitol. Trumpius Caesar stepped onto the Grand Balcony wearing his ceremonial crimson toga, smiling with the unmistakable confidence of a ruler who already knew today's headlines.
His announcement was simple.
"Citizens of the Empire, my champion, Toddius Blancus, shall become the Supreme Guardian of Imperial Justice."
Ordinarily such declarations would produce a polite round of applause.
Instead, an entire civilization appeared.
First came the 382,000 Knights of the Fraternal Eagle Legion, marching proudly beneath banners so enormous they briefly blocked the morning sun. They carried a parchment praising Toddius Blancus for his dedication to justice, public safety, and the increasingly rare talent of reading legal documents without immediately requesting a committee meeting.
Trumpius Caesar smiled.
"You see? Tremendous people. They actually enjoy paperwork. Incredible."
Before anyone could finish applauding, the Imperial Chiefs of the Peacekeeping Legions entered the Forum.
Their message was equally enthusiastic.
Toddius Blancus possessed wisdom.
Leadership.
Experience.
And, perhaps most astonishingly, the ability to answer his correspondence before the next election cycle.
The crowd gasped.
Even veteran senators admitted this bordered on mythical achievement.
Soon another procession appeared.
Sheriffs from the Western Provinces.
Guardians of the Great Cities.
Commanders of County Legions.
Former prosecutors.
Current prosecutors.
Retired prosecutors who simply missed signing endorsement letters.
The line stretched so far through Washingtonium Maximus that Imperial mapmakers briefly labeled it a new province.
Every delegation arrived carrying another scroll.
Every scroll contained essentially the same message.
"Toddius Blancus is exactly the right man."
By noon, Imperial Archivist Papyrus Maximus had developed repetitive-scroll fatigue.
Meanwhile, inside the Senate, officials attempted to count the endorsements.
After reaching several hundred organizations, one exhausted clerk simply wrote:
"Approximately...everyone."
Even the governors of twenty-three Imperial Provinces united behind Toddius.
They presented a magnificent parchment nearly the length of the Senate chamber itself.
Its conclusion remained beautifully concise.
"Confirm him."
The Senate required nearly three hours to read the document aloud.
Not because it was complicated.
Because every senator insisted on applauding after every paragraph.
Former Grand Attorney Willielmus Barrus joined the celebration, declaring that the Empire required a serious and capable guardian of justice.
This immediately sparked philosophical debate among several senators.
"Has seriousness become mandatory now?"
The question was promptly referred to the Committee on Deeply Unnecessary Discussions.
No final report is expected before the next Imperial century.
Throughout the afternoon, endorsements continued pouring into the palace.
Law enforcement associations.
Sheriff coalitions.
Legal scholars.
Border guardians.
Former Justice officials.
Constitutional experts.
Commentators.
Think tanks.
Even professional writers of recommendation letters appeared eager to recommend the recommendation itself.
The Imperial scribes worked furiously.
Thomasius Federkalligraphus, Chief Royal Penmaster, requested additional ink.
Then additional parchment.
Finally, he requested additional wrists.
Construction crews soon began expanding the Palace Archives simply to accommodate the growing mountain of praise.
Trumpius Caesar remained entirely composed.
"This," he announced proudly, "is what leadership looks like."
Nearby officials nodded enthusiastically while quietly wondering whether marble storage facilities qualified as critical infrastructure.
Several senators attempted to outdo one another.
Tedius Cruzimus proclaimed Toddius a magnificent choice.
Chuckius Grassleyus praised his transparency, prompting confused bureaucrats to ask whether transparency required an official permit.
Bernardius Morenius boldly predicted Toddius would become the greatest Grand Attorney in Imperial history.
Court historian Hyperbolicus Maximus immediately requested larger history books.
Even the Imperial commentators joined the celebration.
One declared Toddius brilliant.
Another declared him fearless.
A third explained that he possessed the rare ability to prosecute criminals while simultaneously surviving Senate hearings—a feat generally considered comparable to wrestling three bureaucrats and a tax code before breakfast.
As sunset painted the marble Capitol golden, Trumpius Caesar returned to the balcony overlooking thousands of cheering supporters.
He raised another enormous endorsement scroll high above his head.
"They told me support couldn't be measured," he declared.
"They were wrong."
He paused dramatically.
"You simply count the scrolls."
Thunderous applause echoed across Washingtonium Maximus.
An Imperial aide cautiously approached.
"Your Majesty... what happens if even more endorsements arrive tomorrow?"
Trumpius Caesar grinned.
"Then we build bigger archives."
The palace architects immediately began drawing blueprints.
The scribes applauded.
The stone masons celebrated.
The parchment merchants experienced the greatest sales boom in Imperial history.
Late that evening, Archivist Papyrus Maximus carefully entered the day's official record into the Imperial Chronicle:
"Today, Toddius Blancus was not merely nominated.
Today, the Empire demonstrated that if enough organizations praise one man at the same time, someone eventually has to invent larger scrolls."
Thus ended another magnificent day under Trumpius Caesar, where endorsements marched like victorious legions, bureaucrats discovered new methods of measuring popularity by parchment volume, and the Senate quietly wondered whether the next confirmation hearing might require renting an entirely second Capitol.
