The buyout fees for the seven monopoly goods ranged from 500 to 1,100 gold coins annually, raising around 6,000 gold coins for Arno. This sum would fund Pramisburg’s reconstruction—repairs were long overdue, and living amidst squalor was hardly comfortable.

  Finally, Sarkomo’s smile faded, replaced by gravity. Arno waved a hand. “Escort the young lady to choose her chambers and familiarize herself with the grounds.” The chief maid took the cue, summoning all attendants to leave Arno and Sarkomo in private.

  Sarkomo pursed his lips, lowering his voice. “Lord Mayor, we are ready, but are you? Without the city guard’s cooperation, enforcing exclusivity will fail—both your plans and ours will collapse. A solid dam needs no cracks; even a tiny flaw risks flooding.” He glanced around uneasily. “I distrust these men. They’ve colluded with locals for years—most are natives themselves!”

  In the Orlando Empire, Byron Empire, and distant Jace Dynasty, garrison soldiers were never local. Complex social ties made native soldiers prone to factionalism and deception. The empire enforced non-local service by law to prevent this, but over time, laxity had eroded compliance. Border regions with conflicts remained stricter, but in peaceful Pramisburg, military discipline had decayed. Kent, the city guard captain, had replaced half his men with locals to line his pockets—they required minimal pay, accepted poor rations, and handled dirty work willingly, ideal for his greed.

  These locals had intricate connections, often serving as spies for factions. Kent turned a blind eye, focused on profit. Locals knew the terrain—hidden paths, climbable walls—and could track fugitives swiftly.

  Sarkomo’s fear was justified. Monopoly profits were staggering: a 50-gram Dragon Island drug brick cost 3 gold in Byron, sold for 7–8 gold in Pramisburg, and 11–12 gold in Bell’s capital. Monopolizing Bell Province could drive prices even higher, tempting guards who oversaw checkpoints daily.

  Arno nodded. “I’m already addressing this. I may need your escort guards.”

  “Of course—say the word.” There was no disagreement here. Sarkomo felt both excitement and unease; Arno was unlike any noble he’d met, decisive and unhesitating in both violence and strategy, whether silencing dissent at the meeting or planning to purge the guard.

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  Before leaving, Sarkomo sighed, emotion flickering in his aged eyes. He hesitated, then said softly, “As a grandfather, I beg you: care for my granddaughter.”

  Arno nodded, patting the old man’s wrinkled hand. “Rest assured.”

  Watching Sarkomo depart without a backward glance at Celeste, Arno felt respect. This man was a true merchant, ruthless in trade and sentiment alike, seeing everything as a transaction. Such a mind would make a powerful ally, but Arno’s current leverage was too small to sway the legendary merchant.

  The mansion buzzed with curiosity over the new mistress. Servants whispered about Celeste—her appearance, temperament, and why she’d won Arno’s favor. Arno allowed this; he knew balance between leniency and authority was key to loyalty.

  He recorded notes in Chinese in a small notebook—a new habit, trusting ink over memory. Forgotten details could ruin plans, and he couldn’t afford such slips.

  In his chambers, Celeste had changed into a light blue silk gown, its hem sweeping the immaculately cleaned floors. Her bare shoulders glowed like dew-kissed fruit, collarbones delicate and pink-tinged. Linen-colored hair, tied in a bow, cascaded freely, fresh and sweet.

  She rose at his entrance, curtsying silently, head bowed. For a girl thrust into a strange world and an arranged marriage, her composure spoke to uncommon resilience.

  Arno sat, gesturing her to join him. “Did tutors teach you at home?”

  Celeste hesitated, then nodded. “Grandfather hired a scholar for math and Orlandoan, a piano master, and a dance instructor. Mother taught etiquette; Father taught me swordsmanship.” Her voice, clear and vibrant, trailed off as she blushed—swordplay was unusual for a girl.

  Arno knew Sarkomo had three sons and two daughters; Celeste was the youngest son’s child. In this world, primogeniture left second sons little but status, forcing them to fend for themselves. Her father, a swordsman and caravan guard, taught her swordsmanship—a practical skill in an unpeaceful era.

  “I think it’s admirable,” Arno said. “Wealth can be lost, but knowledge and skill endure.” He turned to the chief maid. “Fetch a respected scholar, a music master, a dance instructor, and a reputable, titled swordsman.”

  Celeste’s lips parted, pink tongue fleetingly visible, as she stared at him, forgetting her shyness. Under his gaze, she blushed deeply, lowering her head in silence.

  “I’m not like other nobles,” Arno smiled. “You’ll understand me in time. Critics may condemn me, but I strive to be good.”

  Celeste nodded earnestly. “Yes, my lord. You are good.”

  He laughed warmly—genuine, rare. The chief maid glanced at Celeste, then looked away, noting the softened edges of his usually stoic face.

  A day like any other: ordinary yet brimming with newness and unknowns.