When Harvey saw Arno again, all traces of arrogance had vanished. He kept his head carefully lowered, finding his actions at the mansion banquet some time ago increasingly absurd and even terrifying in hindsight. It was like a lamb dancing before a lion—utterly foolish. His experience as a small-time operator had taught him: when a nobody offends a powerful figure, the best course is to admit fault frankly and show submission. No matter if one still harbors a shred of defiance or hasn’t truly recognized their error, the gesture must be presented with the utmost sincerity, not resistance.

  Resistance brought no good—just ask the enemies who had once shouted, “Kill me if you dare,” and now lay as piles of bones.

  Some could afford to lose, like Arno.

  Others could not, like himself.

  In the exquisite gift box, gold coins glimmered enticingly against the red velvet lining—twenty brand-new coins, so lovely they invited a kiss. Arno was pleased with Harvey’s gift. Unlike Sarkomo, who would offer showy trinkets to flaunt status, Harvey, a nobody in the Orlando Empire, used his small-time wisdom to choose the most practical gift: twenty gold coins.

  Arno’s slender fingers pressed the box lid shut as he stared at Harvey, his face warm with smiles but his eyes like searing rays, making Harvey uneasy.

  “I am satisfied with your gift,” Arno said, the simple words filling Harvey with an unfamiliar thrill of gratitude. Perhaps due to Arno’s noble status or Harvey’s own awareness of his lowly position, he bowed like a gentleman of good breeding rather than the bloodstained slave trader he was.

  Arno approved of Harvey’s attitude—friendship or enmity often began with such gestures. He flicked his fingers, rubbing the copper ring on his hand. “This is our second meeting, and you’ve left a lasting impression. I am no ungrateful tyrant. For friends, I offer the sweetest wine and finest roast; for enemies, I show tolerance and magnanimity. Spend more time with me, and you’ll understand who I am.”

  Harvey could only smile and nod—liar!

  He lifted his head slightly, stooping like a man carrying a heavy burden. “Honorable and great Lord, did you summon me for a specific task?”

  “I need one hundred slaves: muscular, strong, uncastrated, and, above all, obedient.” From Arno’s memory, such slaves were often prisoners of war or deserters, prime targets for slave traders like Harvey.

  This was Harvey’s livelihood. After a moment of thought, he slapped his chest in assurance. “It is my honor to serve you, Great Lord. Your request is noted. I recommend Bell Province’s specialty: Blackfire Warriors. Most are from the Black Barbarians—we select the strongest adult males, around twenty years old, through cruel trials where only one in ten survives. They have extensive combat experience, master five or more weapons, understand common battle formations and tactics, and, crucially, are perfectly obedient!”

  Here, Harvey suddenly wore an awkward smile, contrasting with his earlier enthusiasm. “As you know… Black Barbarians are castrated for easier management. Losing their male instincts makes them less prone to impulses and more accepting of their lot.”

  Blackfire Warriors? Arno knew of them—elite slave soldiers in the Imperial Black Soil Legion, though those were uncastrated. In his view, uncastrated slave warriors better suited his needs. Instinctual bloodlust and brutality, channeled into combat, could become a fearsome force. History had seen such groups conquer half the world, only to collapse into their own desires.

  Arno needed consumables, not a foundation, and he would not build on castrated slaves.

  In a flash, Arno decided. “How much for one hundred Blackfire Warriors, including their equipment and weapons?”

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  Harvey rushed to refuse. “How could I take your money, Lord? Consider them a gift from me!”

  A Blackfire Warrior cost between sixty to eighty silver coins—one hundred would be seventy to eighty gold. For Harvey, who had recently gained a windfall from Sarkomo, this was a trivial expense. Besides, currying favor with the lord could only benefit him.

  Arno’s smile was genuine now. He pointed at Harvey, who immediately bent forward, but Arno laughed. “Good. I like clever men—you, and Alma.” He paused, letting the name sink in before continuing, “Now go. Deliver what I need as soon as possible.”

  Harvey left the mansion with a hint of confusion. The moment he stepped out, his subordinates surrounded him. “Boss, did the Lord bother you?”

  Harvey’s eyes narrowed, a flash of coldness in his gaze. He slapped the man across the face and snapped, “Call me boss from today. Anyone who dares call me ‘Master’ will have their tongue cut out and be sold to the harshest mine pit.” A wise man, Harvey added, “Find out what Alma gave the Lord to save her life.”

  Harvey knew Arno’s mention of Alma was no compliment. It was a reminder: to survive, he must offer as much “loyalty” as she had. Resistance was now a naive and foolish choice—Arno had already gained the merchants’ support, and opposing him meant certain doom.

  Watching Harvey leave, Arno stood and told the chief maid, “If Pulth and Kent request an audience, say I’ve retired for the night. Send them away.”

  The chief maid, now acting as steward, agreed promptly and assigned two maids to follow Arno.

  “Why would Pulth and Kent come?” Blair asked, puzzled. He knew Arno couldn’t wield magic or battle aura, but as a family retainer, he had the right to question.

  Arno didn’t mind explaining to his blunt but loyal enforcer. “If I’m right, they’ve been spying on the mansion, monitoring my every move.”

  Blair’s eyes flared, shouting, “What? How dare they treat you so insolently? Give the order, and I’ll chop off their heads!”

  Arno waved him off. “They still have some use for now. I’ll tell you when to act.”

  As Arno expected, news of his meeting with Harvey reached Pulth and Kent quickly. In a secluded, dilapidated house, Kent had shed his usual sycophancy, his expression grave, while Pulth wore a worried frown. Both puffed on drug bricks, a luxury reserved for nobles, smoke filling the room.

  Dim light filtered through closed curtains, casting an anxious haze over the space.

  “Why did he meet Harvey?” Pulth inhaled deeply, smoke pouring from his nose. “Just days ago, he tried to provoke a fight between Harvey and the mercenaries. Now this? What did they discuss?”

  Kent frowned. “Can we bribe a mansion steward? We need spies. If he moves against us, we must be warned in advance!”

  Pulth nodded. “I’ll try. Some maids are locals—they can be bought. You keep tabs on Harvey’s movements. And…” A flicker of light flashed in his eyes, “We should test his attitude toward us. I can’t shake this feeling of conspiracy.”

  Kent, thrown off balance by recent events, had lost his composure. Past lords had used gentle methods to dissolve Pramisburg’s alliances, but Arno’s unconventional tactics had disrupted their plans, leaving Kent both resentful and terrified.

  His face contorted with rage, he slammed the table, making Pulth jump. “I say we pay Black Clerics or Shadow Dancers to kill him! End this once and for all!”

  Pulth was tempted but refused. “Calm down. He’s a Golden Noble—different from past nobles. Killing him would destroy Pramisburg, and we’d perish with it. Not worth it!”