The merchants in the conference room were as silent as cicadas in winter. Some wore iron-gray faces, seething with resentment but too afraid to speak. Others were overcome with fear, sweating profusely and avoiding Arno’s gaze.

  Sarkomo, seated at the head of the table, wore an impassive expression, though his eyes sharpened with resolve. He knew every change upset vested interests—Bell Province’s guild history proved it. Those who resisted were not incompetent, but fools who overestimated themselves, attempting futile resistance like mantis arms blocking a chariot. After his detailed talks with Arno days prior, he’d vowed unwavering support for every decision.

  And he was certain these restless merchants would soon forget their unease.

  A merchant raised his hand and stood, voice trembling. “Er… I need to relieve myself. Drank too much tea, heh.” Wiping sweat, he kept his head down, daring not meet Arno’s gaze.

  Arno glanced at him; the man’s portly frame shuddered. “Sit.”

  The merchant paled, forcing a laugh as he obeyed. “No problem, I can hold it.”

  Sarkomo summoned servants. The lifeless body was swiftly wrapped in fine cashmere and carried from the room, blood and traces cleaned within minutes.

  The room heaved with oppressive tension. A familiar life extinguished in an instant—shocking, even to these hardened merchants.

  Arno nodded, returning to his seat under countless eyes. “Back to business. Take Dragon Island drug bricks: higher taxes come with commensurate benefits. Here, they fall under ‘special commodity monopoly rights’.” He crossed his legs, fingers interlaced, right index finger tapping his wrist. “What is a special commodity monopoly right? Simply put, only merchants with this license may import drug bricks from Byron. Each commodity has one exclusive quota.”

  “For example, if Mr. Sarkomo obtains the drug brick monopoly, only he may legally trade and transport them in my territory. All others? Contraband—seized and burned.” Merchant glances flickered to the empty chair—the man’s ill-timed interruption had cost him everything.

  This monopoly right was state-sanctioned exclusivity. With over two thousand noble families and tens of thousands of merchants in Orlando consuming drug bricks annually, controlling imports could build a commercial empire in years. Beyond profit lay nobility: money and connections could buy titles. And with official protection, no obstacle was insurmountable.

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  But doubts lingered—Arno was a city lord, not an emperor. Their excitement cooled slightly.

  Arno read their hesitation, pausing before continuing. “After this meeting, no monopoly goods will enter the empire illegally through Pramisburg or the entire Weimar Corridor.”

  Sarkomo interjected, “Bell Guild will back Baron Arno’s political ascent. Influence we may lack, but gold? Limitless.” His confident smile eased the room—merchants understood wealth better than anything.

  Eyes lit with ambition. If Arno rose in the Capital, monopoly rights could expand empire-wide. Even as a provincial lord, controlling the Weimar Corridor made sea routes uncompetitive due to cost and risk.

  In short, supporting Arno’s reforms was worth abandoning outdated norms—if he kept his word.

  With his piece said, Arno exchanged a glance with Sarkomo and departed, leaving the guild to debate adjustments for the “Arno Doctrine”.

  Post-meeting, Arno walked rather than took his carriage. The city’s decay was palpable—generations of failed lords had left it a slum, reeking of rot and despair. Jobless residents wandered, destined to become lowly pawns for local factions.

  Yet he saw potential. Unlike aging port cities clogged with retirees, Pramisburg was “young.” The average resident was under forty; the elderly were rare, with most streets filled with able-bodied adults in their prime, around forty years old.

  A young city meant that if guided onto the right path, it would surge forward at breakneck speed, stunning all who watched.

  “Have Kent and Pulth sought an audience recently?” Arno asked, purchasing handmade wooden trinkets from a roadside vendor—mythological figures and two wooden crosses, symbols of the Holy Light Church. Its ancient deity statue in Sunset City, said to have stood for millennia without moss, glowed on holy days, drawing pilgrims worldwide.

  Blair scratched his head. “Not that I’m aware. If they come, I’ll turn them away.”

  Arno paused mid-step, his gentle demeanor chilling slightly as he pondered whether the two men were about to cause trouble again. He never indulged in random conjecture about others’ motives. Instead, he put himself in their shoes, assessing how he would act in their position from every angle. By his reasoning, Pulth and Kent should now be eager to request an audience, desperate to clear their names and beg for forgiveness.

  With Harvey setting a precedent by earning Arno’s leniency, they had even less reason not to try.

  After all, he was the city lord, its master and highest administrator, holding the power to appoint or dismiss their positions at will. If needed, he could directly replace the head of the security garrison or petition Bell Province’s capital to change the commander of the city defense force.

  But two days had passed without a word from them…

  Arno couldn’t help but imagine the worst: they might be planning a desperate gamble-Assassination.

  His eyes narrowed, a cold snort escaping him. “Tighten security at the mansion. Request any personnel you need from the guild. My life is in your hands, Blair.”

  Blair thumped his chest, oblivious to the danger. “Count on me, my lord!”