“Pramisburg has witnessed its largest-ever armed conflict,” the Grand Scholar announced reverently, standing before the Emperor of the Orlando Empire, newly received reports in hand. “The death toll approaches 300. Both the garrison and city guard remained inactive, allowing local factions to escalate their violence unchecked. The new city lord, Arno, also failed to intervene.”

  The Orlando Empire had stood for 371 years, surviving two devastating civil wars: the “Armed Taxation Crisis” under Orlando II and the “Succession Wars” under Orlando V. Though these wars drained national strength, they centralized power and wealth, preventing the empire from devolving into a feudal confederacy.

  Orlando VI reclined on a velvet couch, eyes half-closed, his heavy crown discarded on a footstool beside him, savoring the warmth of the magical hearth with contented grunts. Suddenly his eyes snapped open, the opulent study seeming to brighten at his gaze. The Grand Scholar bowed deeper, demonstrating deference.

  “Arno,” Orlando mused, chuckling. “The Alcania boy? He’s lucky.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down the Grand Scholar’s temple; he dared not respond.

  The previous March, the Golden Scepter noble clan elder had died, leaving his young successor—Gavin Sptenos—ill-prepared in prestige and cunning compared to his father, the former Imperial Chancellor. The capital had erupted with intrigue, as nobles vied for the Chancellor’s seat, including House Alcania, fellow Golden Nobles.

  No one expected Gavin, under 40, to seize the Chancellor’s mantle so swiftly, defeating all rivals and joining the empire’s three most powerful men. Many houses fell for backing the wrong side; others prospered by aligning with Golden Scepter.

  House Alcania had backed the losing faction.

  Orlando called Arno “lucky” because, before leaving the capital, the young noble had lain in the Cathedral of Light recovering from a near-fatal curse and assassination. The curse, a soul-deep affliction with no known cure, relied on sheer willpower to survive—only one in a thousand endured. Arno’s survival was nothing short of a miracle.

  “Since he’s paid for his family’s mistake, no further action is needed,” said Orlando VI, a shrewd ruler despite his frivolous public image. “Report on Pramisburg every three months hence. For this incident… issue a mild rebuke. Tell him as city lord, he should focus on governing.”

  The Grand Scholar nodded, memorizing the orders.

  Orlando chuckled, shaking his head. Golden Nobles, huh…

  In Pramisburg, Arno remained unaware his actions had reached the emperor’s desk—nor would he have cared.

  As Alma trembled with anxiety, Arno finished lunch and invited the brothel mistress, one of Pramisburg’s top three powers, to share an afternoon in the garden.

  The rich aroma of black tea warmed the late autumn air, bringing comfort. Gazing at the garden’s bleak yet resilient scenery, Arno mused, “In summer, this place blooms wildly, but now it fades. Even the most beautiful flowers last only a season—how is that different from humans?” He set down his teacup, sighing, whether for the flowers or the transience of life.

  “I admire gardeners. They adapt to each season, transforming this place without hesitation, ensuring beauty year-round.”

  Alma’s mind raced, dissecting every word. Her sharp wit felt inadequate beside Arno’s subtlety. Taking a deep breath, she offered loyalty: “My lord, Alma wishes to be your gardener’s tool, to help you cultivate beauty here.”

  A declaration of allegiance. Arno smiled, rubbing his copper ring noncommittally. “I hear your business thrives, even in Bell Province. Many pride themselves on your… trained women.”

  Alma forced a smile. “Your praise honors me, my lord. Yet my work pales beside your ambitions for this city.”

  “The capital sent me to govern, which requires economic strength. The city is dilapidated, infrastructure crumbling, people starving. I’ve spoken to locals—they want food, shelter, and a city not in ruins.” Arno shifted tone, now discussing urban planning.

  Alma tensed, realizing he sought funds. To prove loyalty, she needed more than words. “I offer 200 gold coins to support your vision.”

  200 gold coins—22,000 silver or 2.6 million copper at current rates—a substantial sum, yet trivial to a monopoly holder like her.

  Arno remained calm, which unsettled Alma. Thinking of her precarious position, she added, “And the same every year, to aid your rule.”

  “Your contribution is appreciated,” Arno nodded. “Once these troubles end, we’ll discuss another matter.”

  Alma declined further praise, departing soon after. Standing outside the mansion, she glanced back, sighing. 200 gold coins for safety—cheap, perhaps.

  She didn’t realize Arno viewed her “generosity” as mere pocket change. Monopolies here yielded far more—tenfold, even hundredfold. In his eyes, such businesses belonged to the city lord alone. Once Hutt and Les were dealt with, Harvey and Alma would follow. Cooperation earned them a share; defiance earned them a one-way ticket to the Light God.