Before his transmigration, Arno had worked as an office clerk for many years, spending his days surrounded by newspapers and tea. Being part of the bureaucratic system, he was well aware of its various shortcomings, with the most common one being the practice of deceiving superiors and misleading subordinates. Many times, policies from the higher-ups were originally designed to benefit ordinary people, but during their transmission and implementation, they were distorted and misinterpreted layer by layer, ultimately becoming tools in the hands of certain individuals to exploit the people for profit. These individuals took advantage of the distance between the higher echelons and the grassroots to hide problems from above and use coercion and lures on those below.
The simplest way to avoid such situations was to engage directly with the grassroots.
As he walked along each road, Arno was relatively satisfied with the current state of affairs—no unexpected issues had arisen, and each level had executed his decrees effectively. Of course, this was also due to his decisive actions in cleansing the city lord’s mansion; the influence of that purge had not yet faded. The people knew that this city lord was not the type of "noble" who would stay in a warm room and issue impractical decrees based on imagination but a true ruler.
Upon reaching Fountain Garden Street, he saw people working feverishly to dismantle a fountain. Here, a monument for the common people was to be erected, and the enthusiasm they displayed was palpable. Looking at the massive stone stele lying on the flagstone ground, tied with dozens of ropes, over two hundred strong adult men waited for the command, ready to erect it at any moment.
At the sight of Arno, everyone doffed their hats and bowed, wisps of steam rising from their warm heads. They bowed in awe and welcomed this extraordinary city lord with smiles.
Arno approached the stele and ran his hand over the intricately carved names—this kind of political posturing was a skill every politician must master.
From start to finish, there were approximately two thousand seven hundred names. He pursed his lips, his expression solemn, and turned to face the surrounding Pramisburg residents.
"Say something, City Lord!" a district councilor shouted, and the crowd leaned in with expectant expressions.
He smiled and nodded. "Very well, I’ll speak." He understood the people’s mentality: when a high-ranking figure drew near, it naturally inspired excitement and adoration, emotions common to all humans. After a moment of thought, Arno said, "I am satisfied—very satisfied. When I first arrived in Pramisburg, it was like a garbage dump, with sewage flowing through the streets and human and animal excrement everywhere. I remember thinking, by the Light God, what on earth have I come to?"
More and more people gathered, chuckling at his exaggerated tone, which did not offend but resonated deeply. The former Pramisburg had indeed been a place of filth and stench, clean only in the wealthy districts, where they had lived like maggots in a garbage heap, struggling amid the sewage.
"But look around you now: neat, clean streets. The newly transformed city has already revealed her vibrant, renewed vitality." Arno walked into the crowd, who cautiously edged closer without overstepping, sparing Blair any headaches. "I am not a native of Pramisburg, but in this moment, here, I wish I were. We have transformed everything in a short time, overcoming external malice and war."
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"Yes, when we strive to rise, we face countless difficulties and hardships. Yet we have endured, unbroken by suffering. From now on, nothing will halt our ascent. Poverty, hunger, disease—these will all pass. We will embrace a new life. I cannot guarantee wealth for all, but I can promise no more fear of starvation or despair from illness."
"Your children will receive a full education, and your lives will be filled with laughter and hope."
"To achieve this grand vision, we are unstoppable!"
No need for overly sentimental speeches; the tangible changes in life were the most moving rhetoric. Witnessing Pramisburg’s rapid transformation from a degenerate city in under three months, every resident felt a surge of excitement. This passion, long buried in their chests, filled them with longing for a better future and the courage to overcome all odds.
Right arms shot into the air, chanting Arno’s name. The frenzied emotion spread at a terrifying pace, his words echoing through the mouths of ordinary people until the entire sky above Pramisburg reverberated with their shouts. Arno raised his hands like a tribal leader, each glance igniting further frenzy among the crowd.
Unknowingly, Arno had etched his mark into the city. This mark would not fade with time or his departure; he would become its sole ruler, both now and forever.
As long as he led the city to prosperity, he would be their god.
Pramisburg’s patron god.
By the time Arno returned to the mansion through the frenzied crowd, evening had fallen. He tore open his collar, panting. Cult of personality was a dangerous ideology, but for his current situation, it was the best—nay, the only—way. Unlike other Golden Nobles with vast fiefdoms, countless retainers, and limitless wealth, he had nothing. He had to accelerate his primitive accumulation by any means, no matter how dangerous or ruthless.
Celeste brought tea and sat beside him, chin in hand, eyes brimming with adoration. She had heard the distant chants from the mansion, the entire city united in one name. Though young, she felt the surging passion and reverence in those shouts. People adored and respected him, and that satisfied her deeply.
He was her man, her destined one.
At her age, filled with dreams, she had once fantasized about a husband: a handsome warrior, a shrewd merchant, a steady noble. Reality exceeded those dreams. Though not his legal wife, she was content, thinking of friends in Milling awaiting an uncertain fate.
Arno felt her gaze, maintaining a neutral expression but inwardly pleased. Every man with a hint of chauvinism cherished such adoration.
He sipped tea, glancing at Vox with a hint of exasperation. "Summon Alma."
The steward bowed and departed.
Alma arrived within twenty minutes, transformed beyond recognition from the gaudy brothel madam of three months prior. Now, she wore elegant, understated clothing, light makeup, and no flashy adornments, her simplicity exuding dignity.
Women did not gain respect through revealing clothing or vulgar charm but through confidence, self-respect, and capability—qualities that made men treat them as equals, not objects.
"Where is the prince highness now?" Arno rubbed the copper ring on his index finger, gaze sharp.
"One day’s journey from Pramisburg," Alma replied promptly, proving herself reliable. She worked tirelessly to repay his trust, a testament to her cunning.
She hesitated, bit her lip, and continued, "There is something you should know. Houses Leos, Bolton, and Norma mobilized 3,000 soldiers the day the prince entered Milling: 1,000 headed west to the border, 2,000 lie in wait near Pramisburg."
Arno’s brow furrowed, piecing together the information quickly.
Damned scoundrels!
The western force aimed to intercept House Bohr before they entered Cross Province. The ambush near Pramisburg?
Protection against the prince.
No doubt Yoberg’s doing. The old schemer would not rest until he was gone. Inciting the prince to Pramisburg was just another ploy to create trouble. Arno knew his Golden Noble status shielded him; enemies could only hope he would fail on his own, as when he was exiled here.
Bowen and the others feared the prince, if unable to blame Arno, would turn on them, reinstating House Bohr with Yoberg’s support. The ambushers would not kill the prince but dared to attack and send him back to the capital. Even the emperor would prioritize provincial stability over his son’s pride.
And they would blame Arno—who else, in his territory?
All damned scoundrels!
