Arno decided to personally observe this extraordinary city with his own eyes. The rigid, lifeless data in written reports could never capture its true essence. Only by seeing, hearing, touching, and experiencing it firsthand could he uncover the reality hidden beneath its superficially vibrant facade.

  “Blair, come out with me.”

  At Arno’s voice, Blair froze, legs rooted to the floor as if nailed in place, an awkward flush rising to his cheeks. Arno’s brows knit together. Blair was the last surviving warrior of House Golden Thorn, a family servant for generations—what in another world might be called a “domestic-born retainer.” His ancestors had started as mere stable hands for the Alcania clan until one generation awakened a talent for battle aura, earning them the right to become the family’s guardian knights and rise to semi-noble status.

  Generations had passed, but Blair’s loyalty to his ancestral oath remained unshaken—a commendable trait, yet not enough to justify defying Arno’s command. Something had clearly changed, prompting this first act of disobedience. What could it be?

  Under Arno’s cool gaze, Blair scratched his head, the motion oddly childlike on his six-foot-plus frame. His face reddened, eyes darting away in shame as he stammered, “The carriage… was stolen!”

  Ah, so the carriage was stolen.

  Arno pieced together the situation in an instant. For local power brokers, the arrival of an outsider threatening their order meant testing his mettle was inevitable. This “art of behavioral communication”—more honest than words—allowed them to gauge his resolve, just as he aimed to gauge theirs. Even without this incident, Arno would have manufactured scenarios to test the city and its scoundrels.

  “I see. Stolen, was it? Does the city lord’s mansion have a spare carriage?” A rough plan took shape in Arno’s mind. He showed no outrage, speaking calmly as if discussing the weather—but could such an insult truly go unaddressed?

  Blair bowed deeply. “Yes, but it’s a poor substitute, unfit for your status.”

  Arno offered a meaningful smile. “No matter. I care not for such trivialities.”

  The poorly maintained carriage lurched through the mansion gates, drawing curious glances from pedestrians—though none were overly surprised. Nobles were known for eccentricities; perhaps the new lord simply favored “frugality.”

  As they traveled, Arno studied the surroundings. In urban planning, Pramisburg outshone most cities. Once a frontline against Byron, it had hosted endless supply caravans and troops, resulting in broad roads where eight carriages could ride abreast. Thick bluestones paved the streets, their weathered surfaces etched with the stories of time, each groove a testament to history.

  Houses prioritized function over luxury—square, with high doorways and wide entrances. Watchtowers stood every half-kilometer, lazy garrison members napping on recliners outside, soaking up the sun.

  The streets bustled with activity. Autumn brought peak trading season, as merchants hauled grain, weapons, and winter supplies between Orlando and Byron. Chains of slaves shuffled past, their numbed steps betraying the weight of whips; pedestrians barely spared them a glance, some even haggling over prices.

  Orlando’s population was mostly Desian, Inman, and Basran, with Desians dominant. Most slaves here were Black Barbarians from Byron and the Candace Grasslands, or defeated prisoners. Female slaves were graded by beauty, while males faced a crueler fate—most were castrated, save the strongest earmarked for labor.

  All major races enforced strict blood purity. Pregnant female slaves faced a fate worse than death; their offspring were seen as abominations, ensuring a life of suffering.

  A Black Barbarian cost 10–30 silver coins—each worth 900–1,300 copper coins.

  Wealthy families bought slaves before winter, hoping they’d last years; many perished by summer.

  Arno watched it all from the carriage, then rapped his cane on the floor. “To the garrison headquarters.”

  The clatter of hooves faded, leaving behind snickering spies who’d report every detail to the city’s power brokers. They thought this was a warning, unaware they were tightening their own noose. Only Alma waited anxiously, praying for good news.

  Pulth, the garrison captain, hadn’t expected Arno’s visit. When he asked the lord’s purpose, his stern face flickered with disbelief.

  “You’re here to… report a theft?!” He could hardly believe the words. Since when did nobles file police reports? Weren’t they more likely to raid with private guards? If not for Arno’s presence, he’d have sworn he was dreaming.

  Arno handed his cane to Blair, unbuttoning the tight collar that made him look imposing. “What? Does the garrison no longer handle thefts?”

  “No, no—of course we do.” Pulth signaled to a young female guard, who rushed over with a notebook. “Please describe the incident. We’ll log it and dispatch patrols immediately. What was stolen?”

  Arno pretended to ponder, then said gravely, “My carriage. Inside were a manor deed in the capital’s Golden Ring, a 30,000-gold-coin bank certificate, and several dozen gold coins in cash.”

  Blair, standing behind him, turned crimson, eyes blazing. By the Light God, if I catch that thief— He forced himself to calm; the thief had to live until the items were recovered.

  Pulth felt Blair’s murderous gaze and looked away, sweating as he urged the guard to record every detail. Secretly, he seethed—Nobles getting robbed? Serves them right.

  Unbeknownst to Pulth, Blair, or the guard, Arno’s fabricated losses would soon plunge this den of iniquity into chaos.