A grand banquet to welcome the new city lord unfolded quietly, attended by Pramisburg’s so-called upper echelons—infamous smugglers with imperial reputations, notorious war criminals, bloodthirsty mercenary captains, the “emperor” of the city’s underworld, and various high-profile figures. The only group absent? Nobles.

  These scoundrels maintained Pramisburg’s order—or at least its superficial order. In reality, this “neutral evil” environment was a necessary foundation for all who thrived here, allowing them to swim freely in a sea of vice, filling their coffers to the brim.

  This banquet was less about introducing Arno to these scoundrels and more about the scoundrels sizing up the new city lord. Previous rulers had included idealists foolish enough to think they could rewrite Pramisburg’s rules, causing headaches for everyone present. So they’d banded together to send those dreamers—whose heads were filled with third-rate knight novels—back to the embrace of the Light God, letting their fantasies fade into nothingness.

  As glasses clinked and conversations hummed, complex glances laden with hidden meanings flitted through the air. All eyes turned to Arno as he entered the hall, smiles on lips but ice in their gazes.

  Suddenly, a man rapped a tarnished silver spoon against a flawless crystal goblet, the “ding-ding” cutting through the air. Pramisburg’s only functional orchestra slowed its tune, and silence fell.

  Every eye fixed on the man: he wore a tricorner hat, a brown leather jerkin, and a slightly yellowed shirt with a few stubborn stains. Sharkskin breeches clung tightly to his thighs, and a pair of slightly worn leather boots shone brightly. He had a rust-red beard and thick eyebrows, giving a decent first impression—his humble smile made him seem almost honest and unassuming.

  Tyrant, the middle-aged noble who had accompanied Arno here, turned to him and whispered softly, half a step behind: “This man is Harvey. He may look like a kind old soul, but he’s the largest slave trader in Bell Province and even the southern regions of the empire. Countless slaves have died at his hands. Every thick hair on his body was nourished by the blood of countless slaves. Don’t let his friendly appearance fool you—he’s one of the troubles you’ll face governing Pramisburg.”

  Harvey was unaware that his background had just been revealed to Arno by a noble he’d never met, but even if he had known, it wouldn’t have mattered. As a well-known “big shot,” he would inevitably have to deal with the city lord’s office, and there was bound to be a day when they met. Seeing everyone’s attention focused on him, he gave a satisfied, restrained smile and turned his gentle gaze to Arno. “Honorable member of House Golden Thorn, esteemed Baron, may I ask you a question?”

  If Arno had shown nervousness or timidity at this moment, he would have become a laughingstock throughout Pramisburg before dawn broke. From then on, people would neither respect nor fear him; they might even bully him.

  In this place, good people didn’t live long.

  Arno kept a poker face and nodded calmly. Harvey grinned, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. “I heard you were driven out of the imperial capital. Is that true?”

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  His exaggerated tone and eager, inquisitive gaze, if one ignored his identity and the occasion, might have convinced an inexperienced noble family head. They might have been deceived by his acting and unreservedly shared what he wanted to hear. But Arno was no fool. Having endured three decades of information bombardment in a world with highly developed information and even spent a few years in an organization of sorts, he knew exactly what to do, no matter how naive he might seem.

  He took a step back to highlight Tyrant’s noble status, then tilted his head slightly, chin raised high, trying to project an air of inexplicable pride. He answered indirectly: “The gentleman beside me is Lord Tyrant, a permanent member of the Imperial Parliament from the capital, a grand noble of the empire, a hereditary count, and a Second-Class Armed Knight.”

  Harvey’s pupils suddenly constricted, and a faint, suppressed gasp rippled through the crowd. Whether it was the title of hereditary count, Second-Class Armed Knight (a martial noble), or permanent member of the Imperial Parliament, these were all far beyond the reach of these scoundrels. In a sense, the empire was a toy in the hands of such people, to be molded as they pleased.

  As soon as Arno finished speaking, the way everyone looked at him changed subtly. If Arno were truly a down-on-his-luck exile kicked out of the capital, he might have been accompanied by a lowly court clerk or similar minor figure. With such a prominent figure by his side, at least they wouldn’t dare act against Arno until they figured out his background—unless they had a death wish.

  Tyrant’s lips curled into a sneer, his handsome face showing disdain. These were indeed a bunch of unrefined scoundrels, like mud-covered lackeys. Even speaking to them lowered his status. He withdrew the smile that had made these scoundrels flush with envy and resentment, pursed his lips, and gave Arno a meaningful look.

  Another man stepped forward from the surrounding crowd. He was in his thirties, not well-preserved, but then again, few people here were. He wore a black ceremonial suit, and two blue gemstone collar buttons on his clean lace collar sparkled under the fixed illumination spell. If one ignored the rough, rustic aura about him, they might have mistaken him for a minor noble from a remote countryside.

  There were scars on his face and several around his neck, ferocious and terrifying. When he smiled, his wide mouth opened slowly, exuding an inexplicable pressure.

  His name was Hutt, the “emperor” of Pramisburg’s underworld.

  He clapped a heavy hand on Harvey’s shoulder. Harvey’s eyes flickered slightly, and after their gazes met in the air, he lowered his head, took a few steps back, and disappeared into the shadow behind Hutt, instantly losing all presence. Hutt laughed heartily and opened his arms. “That fool!” he said, referring to Harvey. “On behalf of all the residents of Pramisburg, welcome, Baron!”

  The soothing music suddenly grew loud and spirited with his words. The crowd that had come to welcome Arno once again burst into enthusiasm. Enthusiastic young girls sang and danced, the bigwigs offered their greetings, and the unique banquet reached its climax. Everyone spoke words of flattery, every gaze was humble and cautious, and everyone acted like a polite, refined person.

  But behind all this lay evil traps, vicious curses, and malicious glances...

  This was Pramisburg, in the southern Bell region of the empire, located in the Weimar Corridor, a place filled with scum from both the Orlando and Byron empires!