The new city lord’s arrival had plunged the city into chaos within days, causing many factions monitoring Arno to gradually abandon their interest. A foolish, declining golden noble fit the needs of certain ruling classes perfectly—they redirected their focus to enemies within the imperial capital rather than wasting resources on a fool who couldn’t even protect his carriage.

  Of course, a small minority still maintained some attention on Arno, though it was as negligible as the junk ads in the margins of a newspaper—forgotten unless one deliberately sought them out.

  In Pramisburg, Arno was unaware that his first move since entering this chaotic city had already relieved many high-ranking officials. Now, he lounged in the city lord’s mansion, clicking his tongue as he examined a forged manor deed for an estate in the capital’s Golden Ring. Below him, the portly tax collector Richard continuously wiped the oily sweat from his face—partly from the heat, partly from fear.

  Falsifying a deed for a remote rural estate might have gone unnoticed, but creating one for a 1-hectare property in the Golden Ring was a death sentence. It was akin to leaving a greasy handprint on a noble’s cheese platter—an act of defiance that would inevitably lead to a noose around one’s neck. Richard, swearing on his deceased grandmother, would never have helped forge such a document if Blair hadn’t held a sword to his throat.

  “Excellent work. If I didn’t know this was fake, even I might mistake it for genuine,” Arno said, flicking the deed. The paper, crafted through complex magical processes, was reserved for imperial institutions—such as annual tax reports—to prevent embezzlement. Given Pramisburg’s paltry tax revenue (a few dozen gold coins annually), they’d saved a great deal of such paper, as even those meager taxes required only a single sheet to document.

  Forced into complicity, Richard could only smile weakly. “It is my honor to assist you, my lord.”

  Arno set the deed aside and praised sincerely, “You are a talent, Richard. I don’t understand how you’ve managed to keep your post for nine years without meeting tax quotas, but talent like yours is invaluable. Useful talent is the best kind. You cannot unleash your full potential as a tax collector—come work for me. Though I am a fallen noble, I am still a noble, and I can offer you things you’d never obtain in a century as a tax collector.”

  Richard’s small eyes narrowed to slits, his years of caution preventing him from agreeing immediately. “What if I refuse your offer?”

  Arno laughed. “In my understanding, there are two types of people in this world: those who are my friends, whom I help and support regardless of status, and those who are my enemies, whom I send to meet the Light God as swiftly as possible, whether they’ve provoked me or not.” Arno spread his hands, staring at Richard with certainty. “Now you may choose freely.”

  Richard shouted loudly without a trace of awkwardness, “I am most certainly your friend, noble lord! Please accept my request to serve you!”

  This man was a genius in his own right—more useful than a hundred warriors. Arno stood, resting his hand on the gem-encrusted rapier at his waist, the stone’s radiant light forming faint halos. Richard waddled to Arno’s feet, kneeling heavily and lowering his head. Arno unsheathed his rapier with a ring, placing it on Richard’s shoulders. “Swear your loyalty.”

  Richard clenched his teeth inwardly—circumstances forced his hand. This noble, Arno, was different from others; while Richard couldn’t pinpoint exactly how, he knew Arno was cunning and ruthless. Swearing loyalty to such a man meant either rising to glory or falling to ruin, contradicting Richard’s cautious nature. Yet deep within, a dormant ambition stirred.

  “I, Richard, hereby pledge unparalleled loyalty to the great House Golden Thorn. For as long as I live, your will shall be my purpose, your sword’s direction shall define my enemies. I swear by my ancient sacred ancestors to remain forever faithful to your greatness!”

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  The corner of Arno’s mouth twitched. “I accept your oath.”

  Loyalty oaths were highly formal and ritualistic, but in this world of deception, they remained sacred and inviolable. Even the most treacherous individuals found it nearly impossible to betray an oath once sworn—a bond that transcended mere values, holy and pure.

  After the ceremony, Arno bid Richard sit. Previously, Richard would have protested, but now he sank heavily into the chair, his demeanor much more casual. In a sense, Richard was now family to Arno—someone to be trusted.

  Such absurd alliances could only occur in this world.

  “Tell me, why have you retained your post for nine years despite failing to meet tax quotas? I’m curious how you managed it,” Arno said.

  With the oath sworn, Richard had no reason to hide the truth, and he began to explain Arno’s query in detail.

  The Bell Province authorities were well aware of Pramisburg’s situation—a deeply complicated place. Historically part of Bell Province, it had been separated during the wars with the Byron Empire, becoming an independent city. As a result, Pramisburg reported directly to the central imperial government rather than Bell Province.

  In other words, local officials here were appointed directly by the central government. If this were an economic hub like Alexandria Port, the central government would have closely monitored it for any discrepancies. But Pramisburg was a den of chaos, evil, and scoundrels. Year after year, tax collectors were dismissed for failing to meet quotas, leading the central government to lower its expectations until it effectively abandoned the city.

  Richard had survived nine years in his post because he was clever. Compared to tax collectors who were beheaded shortly after taking office or couldn’t collect a single gold coin, he was competent—at least he brought in some gold annually. This was enough to save face for the officials and maintain the pretense that Pramisburg was still “under control” and part of the Orlando Empire.

  That was sufficient!

  Officials here didn’t need to achieve anything; survival was enough.

  Richard’s decision to swear loyalty stemmed from the same logic. At thirty-three, after nine years in office, he knew his time was limited. He understood that without finding a way out, he would be trapped here for life, along with his wife, children, grandchildren, and all future generations. They would gradually sink into mediocrity, stripped of their privileges and reduced to commoners.

  Perhaps his descendants would die in street conflicts or even become criminals—a fate no tax collector could bear. Yet he lacked the means to escape this stagnation. The capital’s high officials were complacent, caring only about maintaining sovereignty. A tax collector who survived and symbolized imperial authority was more useful than one who died mysteriously each year.

  At least they didn’t have to report to the emperor annually that another tax collector had died in Pramisburg.

  Arno had already guessed part of this, and Richard’s account merely confirmed his suspicions—he was not surprised. After a moment of thought, he said, “Keep your tax collector post as before. My goal is to completely control Pramisburg, and you will have a crucial role. If all goes well, I may leave you as city lord for a term, but you must prove your capability. I never judge a person’s value by their status or birth—only by the value they demonstrate can they earn my trust and promotion.”

  “Breathe not a word of this deed—the consequences are beyond what you can bear. Keep your mouth shut until the situation clarifies,” Arno waved him off. “You may go.”

  Watching Richard depart, Arno fell into deep thought. Choosing Richard had been a decision reached after careful consideration. He needed a collaborator within the established privileged class to help him seize power in Pramisburg.

  The garrison captain had seemed the first choice, but Arno’s observations revealed he was unreliable. If the captain were truly as rigid and inflexible as he appeared, he would have died long ago. In this den of vice, the rapport between garrison members and street gangs went far beyond superficial harmony. Their cooperation was not just passive tolerance but active maintenance of the status quo. Why? The answer was simple: profit.

  They were, in essence, representatives of the city’s power factions, differing from gangs only in their official titles. They shared the same interests—a chaotic city provided more opportunities for privilege and gold than an orderly one. After all, who would bribe them in a well-governed city? Chaos was their bread and butter.

  The clerk was also an unsuitable ally, as he had an escape route: polished reports would secure his promotion regardless of actual performance. He had more promising options than aligning with a fallen noble.

  Thus, Richard was the man Arno needed.