"A tax receipt?" Emma blinked as she opened the first message. "You're one of the Empire's founders, why do you pay taxes?"
[I don't, at least not for anything held in my personal capacity. I'm not a dragon though; my accumulated wealth isn't a mountain of gold sitting hidden in a volcanic lair. Most of it was reinvested into the Empire's businesses, and administered by subordinates who do pay tax. It's not important anyway, as at the top levels, everyone has all the money they could ever need; by that point of progression, rare items, connections and knowledge are the true currency of power. Just reply to acknowledge you've received the receipt, nothing else.]
Emma did as she was asked, watching as the message vanished from sight. Not entirely, as there was an archive of old messages, but no longer taking up space in her field of view. A quick glance at the archive showed over one hundred thousand messages, dating back to 1000 BCE.
"I got off lightly with only three thousand messages to deal with," Emma grimaced.
[My death was quite well-publicised; everyone knew within days, and few bothered to try messaging me in death. At least, not like this.]
Shaking her head, Emma returned her attention to the unread messages. Surprisingly, there were three messages featuring titles in gibberish, despite Babble Fish supposedly granting her proficiency with every language. Opening the first one down, the message vanished from sight before she could spot a single letter within, leaving spots in her vision and a faint taste of salmon in her mouth.
[You have opened: Hate Mail!
Status condition: Poison resisted.]
"A trapped message then," Emma concluded. "Huh, I wonder..."
Instead of moving to the next message, Emma activated Null and Void, targeting the remaining two messages she couldn't decipher. She wasn't sure it would work, but as she felt the drain on her Anima, both messages disappeared; this time without any side effects.
[For a creative application of your abilities, 100 EXP gained.]
"Is it a crime, sending those kinds of messages? The dick pic as well for that matter; who's brave enough to send those to an account they think belongs to you?"
[Marius Kimaris was a young practitioner in his early twenties when he sent that message. He's had a charmed lot in life; awakening my System at only a few years old and subsequently progressing far faster than his half-siblings, both of whom walk the orthodox path of daemonology. That unfortunately left him with an inflated sense of self-importance, enough to reach far above his station. The three who sent Hate Mail already died in the apocalypse; Marius is still alive though, so you might get to knock him around a bit if you ever meet in person.]
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"I'm looking forward to it," Emma replied, knowing that the chances were high, if her ancestor bothered to mention the possibility of meeting at all.
"The Matriarch will also demand a reason," The advisor pressed on. "Lest she press on even with reparations on offer."
Marius sagged in his chair, having dearly hoped it wouldn't come to this, but seeing no alternative way out.
"Tell the esteemed Matriarch that I am currently unfit to perform my marital duties, and am thus unsuitable as a groom for her daughter."
Marius placed one finger against his desk, turning it into lead and ensuring it once more matched with the chair he sat in.
"Ah," The advisor winced. "Should I arrange for a visit to an urologist? Or an alchemist?"
"Get out."
This time, the advisor didn't linger or ask further questions. Marius didn't even chase him out the door, content to listen to the man's retreating footsteps. Now alone, Marius dropped the illusion he'd woven around himself; a substitute for clothes he could no longer put on himself. He glanced at the top-left of his vision, as he'd done every few minutes since waking up, consumed by a very old mistake, one made in the folly of youth decades ago and had now come back to haunt him at a very inopportune time.
[System penalty - Curse of Vitrivius: Turns anything your hands touch into Lead.
Casualties thus far:
King-sized bed.
Dressing gown.
Toilet seat.
Penis.
Ballpoint Pen.
Writing desk.]