After the brutal interrogation, Wheat lay dying, his mind clarity returning in these final moments. He was a small man, a bottom-feeding thief, but he had his own code: Return kindness with kindness, malice with malice. He understood no lofty ideals of turning the other cheek—if a dog bit you, you beat it to death; if a man wronged you, you made him bleed until the shame was washed away in crimson.

  As his life ebbed, Wheat’s eyes flashed with the desperate ferocity of a dying wolf. He asked Hutt for water, which was granted.

  “I’ll talk… but only to my father,” Wheat managed, feigning calm. Hutt’s face lit up; he summoned Les, briefing him on the situation.

  Gazing at Wheat’s broken body, Les felt a flicker of regret, but mostly seething anger. Why hold out only to break now? You’ve shamed me in front of Hutt. Still, he forced a show of tenderness, ordering a priest for healing—only for Wheat to refuse.

  “Father… sorry I failed you…” Wheat paused, Hutt frowning beside him. “I’ll tell you, then let me rest.”

  “Of course,” Les murmured, propping Wheat in his arms, barely containing excitement as he nodded.

  Wheat leaned close, breath ragged: “The deed is hidden…” His lips moved, voice a whisper, face relaxing into relief. Just as Hutt leaned in, Wheat grinned at him. “You’ll never find it. My final gift to Dad.” With that, he slammed his head into the torture rack, sharp instruments piercing his neck. His eyes rolled back, life gone.

  Hutt choked Les by the collar, roaring, “What did he say? Where is it?!”

  Les struggled, panicked: “Let go! He didn’t say anything clear!”

  Hutt’s face contorted. “You want my wrath too? Find the deed in three days, or war begins—no one in Pramisburg or Bell Province can save you!”

  Les snapped, wrenching free like a scorned lover: “Are you deaf? He said nothing! Can’t you see it was a trick?”

  Hutt kicked Les in the gut. Les’s men drew swords, surrounding Hutt, who sneered—decades of bloodshed had forged him fearless. “Three days,” he hissed, kicking Wheat’s corpse before storming out, icy glare freezing all in his wake.

  Les, bloodshot and enraged, snatched a sword and hacked at Wheat’s body. A pointless blame game, leading to war.

  News of the impending clash between Hutt and Les shocked Pramisburg. The last such conflict, a decade prior, saw Hutt overthrow the Brotherhood’s former leader, leaving 500 dead and cementing his rule. Now, the city’s fragile “order”—chaos to outsiders, stability to locals—threatened collapse. Factions readied not to flee, but to seize opportunity: the Sword and Shield Mercenaries recruited fiercely, Harvey halted slave trades, while Alma, the brothel mistress, remained calm—her “battles” were in bedrooms, not streets. Yet even she trembled, realizing all chaos began with Arno’s arrival.

  Arno, though surprised, stayed focused. His forged deed was meant to ignite conflict, but events had accelerated—no matter. As long as the goal remained: weaken the factions, then seize control.

  The three days passed swiftly. Les, cornered, had no choice but to stand his ground.

  Dawn of the third day brought an eerie calm, empty streets swept by wind devils. Townsfolk peered through cracks, awaiting the storm.

  At midday, over 300 Brotherhood members spilled into Fountain Garden Street, swords and clubs in hand. Hutt, astride a chestnut warhorse, faced Les. “Last chance: hand over the deed, and I’ll forgive your defiance.”

  Les snarled, “I heard nothing! Do you want me to conjure it from thin air?”

  Hutt laughed, cracking his whip: “Kill.”

  Les, knowing battle was inevitable, roared, “Fight them to the death!”

  The two mobs collided. A Brotherhood man thrust his sword into a thief’s chest; the thief’s partner slit his throat in turn. An iron club shattered another thief’s skull, only for two swords to pierce the attacker. Blood pooled along the bluestone cracks, forming a macabre, magical pattern—life fragile, death raw.

  Both sides fought like beasts, old grudges unleased. No fancy combat, no battle aura—just primal brutality, awakening ancient bloodlust. Bodies fell, twitching and screaming, trampled underfoot. Dignity, reputation—meaningless in the carnage. All were equal here: one life, easily snuffed.

  On a third-story balcony overlooking the street, Arno hummed a tune from the imperial capital, legs crossed, smiling as chaos unfolded. Blair beside him itched to join the fray; Richard, pale and sweating, dabbed his face with a handkerchief, staring at Arno’s back in dread.

  “Such a beautiful day,” Arno laughed, voice drowned by the roar of battle. “The sun seems brighter than ever, don’t you think?”