"I’ve never understood why anyone thinks 500 knights can take Pramisburg," Arno said, standing on the auditorium stage as the sun set, addressing the crowded room in a calm tone. "Many look down on me, on this city, believing a backwater like this can be conquered with 500 knights—that we’ll prostrate ourselves along the main road to welcome their victory without a fight. It’s absurd. One man’s strength is limited, but the strength of an entire city is boundless."

  "People thrive on miracles, on forging futures from hardship. What do we have? Our hands, our lives, our weapons. What can we achieve? We can build dreams with our hands, slay enemies with our weapons, and carve an infinite future with our lives."

  "Today was just the first probe by those bastards outside. They’ll find not quivering chickens before them, but a dragon fighting for glory and hope!"

  "Tomorrow, we won’t just defend—we’ll strike back. I have faith in you, and in myself."

  "This city has been silent too long, forgotten by the world. The time has come, my people: use your weapons to shatter the clouds looming over us, to make the world acknowledge our existence and never underestimate us again."

  "I can’t give you much, but I can give you this chance—a chance to earn respect."

  "Tomorrow, we attack!"

  No cheers, no screams. Every Pramisburger stood tall, right hands raised, fists clenched with resolve.

  Back at the mansion, the night was quiet, each soul both agitated and solemn. They needed time to absorb the truth.

  In his study, Arno stared into his black tea, lost in thought.

  Pramisburg stood at a crossroads. Decades of stagnation had numbed its people, but external pressure was awakening them. Harnessing this awakening would shape his future.

  He wouldn’t stay forever—this was a backwater, far from the capital’s politics. But before returning, he aimed to leave an indelible mark: this was his territory, a thorn named Pramisburg on the stem of Golden Thorns.

  "Are you worried about tomorrow’s battle?" Celeste asked, sitting across from him, her fair face flushed with youth, the vigor of her age radiating through her features.

  Arno snapped back, sipping his tea. "Not at all, Celeste. With 300,000 people here, I don’t fret unless they bring 20,000 troops," he said, pausing to gather his thoughts. "The truly fearsome are those with nothing to lose. I must empower them without breaking their spirit. The Bohr family is a clown—defeating them is easy. But what comes after?"

  Celeste frowned, her small brow furrowing with confusion. "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice tinged with self-disappointment as she dropped her head.

  Arno smiled softly. "You don’t need to. That’s my burden to bear."

  "But… I want to help," she insisted, her voice urgent as she lifted her face, newly developing chest puffing with courage. "I hate seeing you troubled. I love your smile. I want to guard your happiness."

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  Arno paused, startled, then burst into laughter. Celeste’s eyes welled with tears, but she stubbornly met his gaze, glaring through the moisture. His laughter faded quickly. "Alright, alright," he said. "From today, you’re my guardian knight. My happiness is in your hands."

  Celeste beamed, nodding firmly. "Don’t worry—I’ll make sure of it."

  Her earnestness lifted his mood, and he even hummed a few notes under his breath. "It’s late. Time for bed—you have lessons tomorrow. And you know, depriving oneself of adequate sleep is a woman’s greatest mistake."

  Celeste knew Arno needed solitude now. She rose reluctantly, clutching her skirt to curtsy, wishing she could stay by his side even if it served no purpose.

  After watching her leave, Arno pursed his lips, picking up the magical pen from the inkwell to write and draw on a blank sheet of paper.

  He first drew a circle labeled "Pramisburg," then wrote "Bohr" outside it. After a moment, he drew another circle further out, labeling it "Milin," and added several noble names. Finally, the pen tip paused on the paper, pressing down firmly.

  …

  Salcomo had just fallen asleep. At his age, prolonged deep sleep was essential for maintaining daily vigor. The Byron Empire was a lucrative region, closer to Dragon Island and thus more frequent in trading goods like ambergris—a blend of spices infused with dragon saliva and traces of dragon blood essence. Its primary use was to aid sleep; a whiff before bed significantly improved rest quality, making it a favorite among nobles who needed energy for their indulgences, their sleep often compressed to the limit.

  The faint scent of ambergris lingered in Salcomo’s room when his tightly closed door suddenly opened, outdoor light spilling in. His eldest son approached the bed, gently shaking him.

  Salcomo’s eyes fluttered open, his pupils dilating slowly as he regained awareness. He sat up, regarding his son. "What is it?"

  The son lowered his head, always uneasy in the presence of his renowned merchant father. "There’s movement from Pramisburg," he said, handing over a note.

  Salcomo took a sharp breath—news at this hour must be critical. Glancing at the note, he scrambled out of bed, pulling on clothes. "Prepare 3,000 gold coins in three boxes. Ready the horse—I’m leaving immediately."

  His son hesitated, taken aback. "Now?"

  Salcomo paused, his gaze stern and faintly disappointed. "Now."

  Watching his son hurry off, Salcomo sighed. His eldest, raised in comfort, lacked the mettle of his other children, especially Celeste’s father, his youngest son. In both courage and ability, the eldest fell far behind. A thought grew: perhaps it was time to reconsider the heir.

  Dressed, he immediately went out and boarded the carriage. By midnight, the sky was pitch-black, thick clouds obscuring the moon and stars.

  The carriage raced along broad, orderly roads, hoofbeats echoing through streets that gradually lit up as they approached the noble district, where lamps blazed like daytime.

  The carriage stopped at a sprawling manor. The night guard scanned Salcomo’s visiting card, snorted "Wait," and hurried off.

  Ten minutes later, he returned with a smile. "My lord is in the side hall."

  Salcomo ignored the formality, clutching a box as he strode past the guard into the manor.

  Outside the side hall, he took a deep breath, adjusted his attire, and pushed open the door.

  A handsome man in his forties, with black hair and noble bearing, sat on a sofa, legs crossed. He glanced up, gesturing to the opposite couch.

  Salcomo bowed and sat, opening the box to reveal 1,000 gold coins gleaming under a light spell. The man pressed the box shut with a single hand.

  "What urgency brings you here so late?"

  This was Bowen Leos, Count of Nurki, one of Bell Province’s foremost nobles. His title meant little in the capital, but here in the backwater, he reigned among the top echelon.

  "I speak on behalf of City Lord Arno Arkania of Pramisburg," Salcomo said, now firm as an envoy rather than a merchant.

  Bowen’s eyebrow rose, curiosity piqued. He crossed his arms, amused. "I’m not acquainted with Baron Arno."

  "You are now," Salcomo replied, more assertive than expected.

  Bowen eyed the box on the tea table, nodding slightly. "State your business."

  Salcomo relaxed inwardly, maintaining a composed exterior. "Does Westflow City interest you?"