Apocalypse Architect: A Tower Defense LitRPG

Chapter 160: The Uninspiring Election

Following Sawyer’s armored rover, the group finally crossed into The Sprawl.

The outer Wall had been fully erected. Though the concrete was still curing, giving off a sharp, dusty scent, the towering barricade gave the settlement an imposing, fortified aesthetic. The moniker ‘Chaos City’ hardly seemed fitting anymore. Thanks to Jax’s previous interventions, straight, swept roads had replaced the winding, trash-filled slums, and the aimless refugees that used to wander the streets were nowhere to be seen.

“I have to admit, it cleans up nice,” Gareth muttered, peering out the window.

The rest of the crew nodded in quiet awe. They had been gone for less than two months, and the transformation was staggering. They all implicitly understood that this stability was entirely Jax’s doing. Without him, The Sprawl was nothing.

Jax maintained a faint, knowing smile as their convoy pulled up to the grand conference center.

The interior of the building was arranged like a massive, open-plan amphitheater. A central, elevated podium awaited the candidates. The tiered seating below was strictly segregated: syndicate patriarchs and guild masters occupied the plush front rows, while minor officials and civilian representatives filled out the sprawling back sections.

The moment Jax pushed open the double doors, the entire room snapped to attention.

Cue the theatrics, Jax thought.

A thunderous, perfectly synchronized wave of applause washed over him. The crowd chanted his name with a fervor that bordered on religious mania, their faces flushed with rehearsed, exaggerated excitement.

It was Jax’s first time being the center of such absolute fanaticism. Swallowing his initial nerves, he plastered on a politician’s brilliant smile. Channeling the arrogant, untouchable big shots from his old life, he strode down the center aisle, waving magnanimously to his “adoring” public.

Trailing behind him, Gareth and the crew were completely swept up in the energy, practically vibrating with the urge to chant his name too. Elena, however, rolled her eyes at Jax’s punchable, smug expression. She wanted to mock him, but looking around at the sheer gravity he commanded in the room, a begrudging sense of respect—and submission—settled in her chest.

Jax took his assigned seat on the stage.

Whether by design or sheer sycophancy, his chair was positioned dead center and elevated several inches higher than the rest. The dozen other “candidates” flanking him were physically looking up at him. They were clearly nothing more than visual props.

Jax glanced to his left, then his right. His practiced smile almost cracked.

Are you kidding me? The men sitting beside him looked like they had been dragged straight out of a slum alleyway an hour ago. They were emaciated, pale-faced, and practically trembling in their oversized, cheap suits. When they noticed Jax staring, a few of them offered him terrified, gap-toothed grins.

If you’re going to rig an election, at least hire convincing actors, Jax groaned internally. This is just insulting. Do they think the public is blind, or am I dreaming? Let’s just get this farce over with.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, hiding his face from the crowd to suppress a laugh.

The host—a man with a suspiciously flawless smile and booming voice—stepped up to the mic. After delivering a bombastic, several-thousand-word monologue about democracy and resilience, he officially kicked off the “First City Lord Election.”

The first prop candidate on the far left stood up. He fumbled with the microphone, tapping it awkwardly before speaking.

“M-my name is Wang Tie. I’m thirty-five… I’m honored to be here. P-please vote for me.”

Dead silence swept the room.

The host quickly stepped in, his smile never wavering. “Thank you, Wang Tie! Please, everyone, do not be stingy with your votes! If you support Wang Tie to lead us, press your buttons now!”

A smattering of reluctant, confused applause followed. The audience kept looking nervously toward Jax, as if afraid to accidentally press the wrong button.

“Voting closed,” the host announced cheerfully. “Wang Tie receives exactly twenty-five votes!”

Jax looked out at the sea of two thousand attendees. Twenty-five votes. Incredible. Why even bother with the charade?

The second candidate was even worse, stuttering through his one-line speech before securing a measly twenty votes.

The outcome of the election was already a mathematical certainty. Finally, the microphone was passed to the center seat.

Jax stood up. Before he even brought the mic to his lips, the room erupted. The orchestrated cheering lasted for ten agonizing minutes. The host had to practically scream over the crowd to restore order.

Jax leaned casually against the podium and delivered the laziest manifesto in political history.

“My name is Jax. I don’t really want to be City Lord. But if you guys really want me to do it, press your buttons.”

He hadn’t even set the microphone down before a chorus of electronic beeps flooded the room. On the massive digital screen behind him, his vote counter spun like a slot machine. The tally was resolved in under sixty seconds.

“Incredible!” the host bellowed, acting as if they had just witnessed a nail-biting, historic political upset. “I officially announce that Jax has received a staggering 1,795 votes!”

Jax stood there, thoroughly numb. Out of roughly two thousand attendees, he had taken nearly eighteen hundred. The remaining two hundred votes were strictly, mathematically divided among the dozen terrified props to make the ledger look “legal.” The rest of the candidates hadn’t even spoken yet, but the math was already locked.

What is even the point of the rest of the candidates speaking? Jax thought.

It didn’t matter. The host declared him the outright winner, the First City Lord of The Sprawl, and the venue exploded into deafening cheers.

Instantly, the “voters” abandoned their seats and rushed the stage like a mob of rabid fans, shoving notepads and pens in his face, begging for autographs.

Seeing the situation devolve into chaos, Director Quinn gave a subtle nod from the front row. A squad of heavily armed syndicate guards seamlessly stepped out of the shadows, forming a brutal barricade to protect their new City Lord and push the mob back.

Twenty minutes later, Jax was safely escorted to his newly assigned private executive quarters.

The heavy oak doors clicked shut, plunging the room into blissful silence. Jax ripped his tailored tie from his neck and tossed it onto the mahogany desk. He slumped into a plush leather chair, letting out a long, exhausted sigh.

Playing the wasteland warlord was easy. Playing the democrat was exhausting.

Back in his room, Jax tore off his tie, feeling a wave of helplessness wash over him.