“Lord, should we send men to break up the fighting?” Richard’s forehead dripped with sweat—half from his bulk, half from terror, though the latter dominated.

  Arno glanced at him. “Why would I do that?”

  “I… uh…”

  Richard faltered. He’d navigated between nobles and gangsters for years, encountering many decisive figures, but never someone as calculating as Arno at such a young age. The noble’s icy authority was tangible, like ocean waves crashing over him—meeting his gaze left Richard breathless.

  He’s not the man he seems… he’s a dragon, calm on the surface but burning with fury within.

  Richard stared at his feet, and Arno withdrew his gaze, pulling a city lord’s seal—crafted from some beast’s scale—from his jeweled belt, tossing it to Blair. “If the garrison or city guard mobilize, show them this. No intervention in the gangs’ war.” He paused, adding, “Start with the garrison. If you see anyone racing to the police station…” Arno drew a finger across his throat.

  Blair clasped the seal, bowed, and departed with military precision.

  Over a hundred corpses now littered the street, each face frozen in the final terror of death. The stench of blood scattered the thin clouds, staining Pramisburg’s skyline crimson.

  Spectators along the street held their breath, terrified of drawing attention. Spies from other factions panicked at the carnage, uneasy and restless.

  Enough—it should end soon.

  Many silently sighed, aware of the underworld’s unspoken rule: conflicts didn’t need to annihilate one side, just establish dominance. Yet neither faction would yield first; in this shadowy world, losing face meant losing everything. No one would admit defeat—weakness invited annihilation.

  This was where the garrison or police should intervene—a third-party separation, a truce, negotiations. It was the underworld’s order, a rule all obeyed.

  A young man clutched a purse of fifty silver coins, racing toward the police station as Hutt had ordered. One turn away from his goal, he relaxed slightly—then a flash of steel, a metallic ring, and his world spun into darkness.

  Blair flicked blood from his sword, glancing at the twitching corpse and severed head before striding away.

  In the police station, Pulth paced, frowning toward the street. As head of one of the city’s violent institutions, he understood the gangs’ rules. They should have sent someone by now—losses are surpassing their limits.

  Whether for profit or maintaining order, it was his duty to intervene.

  Footsteps approached, and Pulth sighed in relief—until he saw who it was.

  Blair: a recognized Fifth-Rank Knight, soon to be a martial noble, guardian of House Golden Thorn, and Arno’s right-hand man.

  Pulth’s heart skipped beats, legs weakening as he braced against a table, sinking into a chair.

  “Here is the city lord’s seal,” Blair said, pausing as the garrison guards looked confused, only standing at Pulth’s bark. Blair’s gaze sharpened, a humorless smile playing on his lips. “The city lord commands you to secure the area around the mansion. Ensure no disturbances reach it.” He offered the seal.

  Pulth blinked, confused. “But I received reports of a gang battle—”

  Blair cut him off, voice dripping with disdain. “Do you intend to disobey the city lord’s orders?”

  Pulth paled, bowing his head. “I dare not… but—”

  “Execute the order. I won’t repeat myself.” Blair’s hand rested on his sword hilt. As a Fifth-Rank Knight on the cusp of nobility, he needed no backup to cow dozens here, especially under the Golden Thorn banner.

  In Fountain Garden Street, Hutt glanced toward the street’s end, unease growing. By now, guards should have arrived to break the fight, allowing both sides to retreat to negotiations. Was Pulth delayed? Did something go wrong?

  The slaughter continued—primitive, merciless. Men fell, their warmth fading, Hutt’s power draining. He felt the hostile gazes multiplying, but retreat was death; as a wolf pack leader, one show of weakness meant overthrow.

  Les sensed it too. Surrender, even if accepted, would invite betrayal from his own men.

  They had no choice but to fight on.

  The battle raged until noon, ending not in surrender but mutual exhaustion. Of 500 combatants, fewer than thirty stood, each side now sworn to annihilation.

  Hutt glared at Les, blaming him for the chaos, before withdrawing with his men.

  Les’s jaw ached from gritting teeth, scanning the carnage before stomping away.

  “Drag the survivors to safety. Find priests for the wounded…”

  The city’s atmosphere shifted, opportunistic factions suddenly interested now that Hutt and Les had weakened. Merchant princes visiting Pramisburg began eyeing the conflict—after all, it concerned a million gold.

  Only Alma grew more terrified. Abandoning patience, she scrambled to the city lord’s mansion that sunlit noon.

  Arno sliced into a Colmer veal cutlet, the silver fork piercing tender meat, juices and pinkish blood oozing out. Glancing at the trembling Alma, he popped the bite into his mouth. The veal, from a nine-month-old Colmer calf, was perfectly rare, melting into a savory pulp against his palate.

  “Care for some?” Arno asked, knife and fork poised. Alma flinched, shaking her head vigorously. He shrugged. “Pity. This veal is exceptional.”

  Alma forced a smile, her mind racing with dread. The city saw Arno as a fool, an easy target, but the boy who’d inherited his title prematurely had already shattered Pramisburg’s power structure. The gangs ignored him, blinded by the “million gold” bait.

  He’d thrown a bone to dismantle underground resistance, then struck. His goal was clear: absolute control. He would be king here, their joy and fear at his whim.

  The thought drained her courage to even meet his gaze.

  The nobleman dining elegantly across from her seemed less man than demon—untouchable, irresistible in his ambition.