2025-04-17 19:51:56Chapter VIII — Flush: A Hymn to the River-God of Shit
A symphony of astonishment echoed through the Holloway manor, like a choir of seraphs glimpsing forbidden divinity. Maids, a dozen or more, pressed themselves into Elias Holloway’s private sanctum—his once-humble bathroom now reborn as a shrine of technological heresy. Their eyes widened in reverence and disbelief as water danced freely from the brass-limned mouth of the faucet. “No incantation,” one whispered, brow furrowed, “yet the water obeys.” “Is there an elemental spirit trapped inside?” another gasped. “Or is someone casting from beyond the wall?” Bernice—ever vigilant, ever skeptical—stood before Elias, eyes narrowed with maternal suspicion. “Young master... did you construct this?” Elias, still damp from his most recent test, gave a modest nod, his expression the definition of mischief and miracle. “How?” they demanded, their voices rising in near-hysterical chorus, the hunger for arcane truth igniting behind their pupils. He leaned against the marble counter, casual as a bard before an expectant tavern, and said, “Nothing divine, really. Just gravity. Pressure. Piping. Let’s simplify: water flows downward. You give it somewhere to go, and then tell it how to get there.” The words spilled like nectar, sweet and potent. In truth, the knowledge belonged to Nexus-1—the eternal archivist bound to Elias’s soul. But here and now, it was his alone to wield. And the maids? They listened, enthralled, as if Elias had rewritten the natural order with a flick of his tongue. “We assumed it was spellwork,” one breathed. “But it’s not... it’s just clever.” “Young master,” another said, clasping her hands in praise, “you are a true genius. A mage of machines. A philosopher of flow.” “We must tell the Lady Holloway! She must know that your beauty is matched by your intellect!” Elias raised a hand. “No.” The room stilled. “I would prefer this revelation remain... undisclosed. Until my mother returns. Let her business ventures conclude without distraction.” His voice held no malice—only calculation. He knew that when his mother returned, a war of tradition and innovation might begin. Best delay that fire until the forge was ready. But then— “Um... young master?” one of the younger maids asked, gesturing toward a mysterious bowl, forged into the marble floor and half-filled with water. “What... is that?” Elias’s eyes sparkled. This was the true centerpiece. “That,” he declared, “is a toilet.” The word rang through the air like a sacred name. Confusion rippled across their faces. A toilet. A holy relic from his previous world, lost to this era of filth and rot. No longer would he shit in buckets or squat beside bushes like some dung-beast. No longer would stench be the constant perfume of civilization. They stared at it. Round, smooth, metallic. No visible outlet above. No magic sigils. Just a simple button. “What does it do?” one asked. “Oh! Is it a drinking bowl?” Elias winced. “Fuck no. Watch this.” He stepped to the throne and pressed the rune-inscribed brass button atop the tank. And then— WOOSH! The flush bellowed like a dragon exhaling a monsoon. Water surged, spiraling in ritual descent, drawing all it touched into the abyss. The roar shook the chamber. The basin emptied. And silence fell. Maids jumped. One screamed. Another clutched Bernice like a child gripped by storm-fear. “WHAT IN THE CELESTIAL FUCK WAS THAT?” “Is something alive under it?!” Elias laughed so hard he nearly choked. “No. No. This is the throne of truth. The altar of waste. The bowel’s blessed escape. You sit upon it. You shit. You press. It goes away.” “You mean... number one and two?” one asked in awe. “Yes. And then—you cleanse your hands in the faucet. No smell. No shovel. No shame.” A silence deeper than death took them. Then came the most profound sound of all—gasps of realization. “You connected it... to the river?” He nodded. A maid dropped to her knees in tears. They had scrubbed latrines with rags. Hauled buckets of human excrement across estate grounds like beasts of burden. Their lives were bound to the weight of waste. But now? Now, one button could erase their filth. “YOUNG MASTER,” one cried, “YOU ARE THE BRINGER OF BLESSINGS.” “This... this invention is more valuable than enchanted laundry stones!” “Even mages can’t create something so simple and perfect!” Maids circled the toilet and faucet like pilgrims before an idol. They splashed water upon themselves. Some dipped hands into the bowl just to feel its smoothness. Laughter, innocent and mad, spilled from their lips. “HAHAHAHAHA!” Elias roared with them. “Welcome to civilization, ladies!” “Enough!” Bernice barked. “You’re in the young master’s bathroom, not a tavern!” She ushered them out, one by one, as they squealed and clung to the edge of the miracle. But even she, as she shut the door, glanced back once—just once—with quiet reverence. And then— Elias stood alone, dripping, triumphant. A boy with the knowledge of another world, who built godhood into his plumbing. The first flush of many. And the revolution had only just begun. ---
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