Barto’s mind was still buzzing. He couldn’t believe that in just one day, Kent was dead and Pulth had disappeared without a trace. If he were just one of the small forces still struggling in the city’s mud, he might have laughed out loud. After all, with the two overbearing figures who had ruled over everyone suddenly vanishing, a round of power reshuffling was inevitable. Coupled with the territories left by Hutt and Rice, several brand-new forces would rise steadily and become part of the city’s "respectable" circles.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to feel glad. The established power boundaries had been broken, and now watchful peers and restless challengers—their eyes were all fixed on this territory, and even on him. What chilled him most was the bone-chilling scheme behind these events. To claim the city lord had no involvement? He’d never believe it, even if it cost him his life.

  His face was as gloomy as the night itself, and he snorted angrily from his nose. "Let’s go back first. Goddamn it…"

  A dozen mercenaries were driving two carriages. When they were about a hundred meters from the city gates, two squads of cavalry approached, torches in hand. Barto glanced at them, annoyed. If Kent were still alive, these men would never have been so proactive—or dared to be. In an instant, countless thoughts raced through his mind: Where was Pulth? Who would take over as police captain? Would it be someone from the police force, or directly appointed by the city lord?

  After Kent’s death, the capital would surely investigate. No one would believe the absurd story of a city garrison officer being bitten to death by dogs. When they arrived, would they directly appoint a new city defense officer, or transfer someone from the capital? Whether there was room to intervene or manipulate required careful thought.

  In short, it was going to cost another sum of money.

  As the knights drew closer, Barto raised his hand to halt the convoy. He looked back, and when he turned again, his face paled—the merchant who had hired them to transport goods was gone. Just moments ago, the merchant had been sitting by the carriage, but now he was nowhere to be seen. He demanded sharply, "Where is the employer?"

  A newly joined mercenary explained, "The employer said he needed to relieve himself, that the city gates were close, and we didn’t need to wait—he’d catch up after."

  Barto cursed angrily, drawing his longsword with a clang. The entire convoy tensed instantly.

  This goddamn was a trap too!

  He yanked the reins to turn his horse and shouted, "Move! Hurry! Leave the goods!"

  Most of the mercenaries escorting the supplies were young men who couldn’t make a living in the city. They didn’t want to toil for just three meals a day and hoped to rise in status. Joining various factions was their only way out. Perhaps in other cities, these young men would be seen as beyond redemption—choosing to join underground forces over honest labor. But here, in Pramisburg, becoming a member of a powerful faction was a source of family pride.

  Having a child take this path meant escaping the constant extortion of street gangsters and protecting family women from harm, plus a steady salary. In the imperial capital, a child’s academy admission was cause for celebration; here, being chosen by a powerful figure was akin to entering a prestigious school.

  These young men were still naive. Subconsciously, they drew their longswords, obeying Barto’s orders to turn or flee. Why? They didn’t know, and they didn’t dare ask.

  In the dark night, the torch-bearing knights showed no sign of speeding up. Instead, they surrounded the two carriages. A squad leader with a captain’s armband pointed to the first carriage. "Pry it open."

  Two soldiers dismounted, hacked the lock apart, and opened several boxes. Inside were ordinary goods: clothing, spices, and a few gold trinkets. The soldiers handed the trinkets to the squad leader, who kept two delicate gem-inlaid rings and tossed the rest to his deputy. "Sell them and divide the money."

  The knights grinned. They knew the captain was currying favor for his bid to become city defense officer. After all, who wouldn’t work for someone offering immediate benefits?

  The squad leader pointed to the clothing and spices. "These might be stolen. Take them back and guard them." In reality, these items would eventually be divided; owners could redeem them for a fee. Better than losing everything, even if it meant a small loss.

  This was the unspoken rule of Pramisburg: comply or leave—no arguments.

  The squad leader pointed to the second carriage. When soldiers opened the smallest box, everyone froze, swallowing hard.

  Inside, on a gilded stand, was a cleaned severed head—gray eyes wide open, skin pale and waxy, tinged with blue.

  It was Pulth’s head.

  …

  Late into the night, most would be asleep by now—unless in a casino or brothel. Pramisburg lacked the capital’s entertainment; after dark, options were gambling, pleasure, or intimacy. Or simply resting warm in bed, listening to the wind howl.

  Tonight, though, every influential figure in the city crowded the city lord’s grand hall. Chandeliers enchanted with permanent light spells lit the room brightly, revealing every forced smile and worried frown. Alma, in a linen dress, sat first on the left guest bench, whispering with Harvey beside her.

  Many glanced at her. Word had spread: she’d defected to the city lord’s side, a betrayal of Pramisburg’s "tradition." Yet envy lingered—who wouldn’t want the city lord’s favor? His power grew daily, no longer to be dismissed.

  They’d been summoned due to the day’s surreal events: a casino massacre, a guard officer’s "horse fall" (a kinder story than dog mauling), the police captain’s disappearance, and his discovery in pieces, blamed on the fearsome Sword and Shield Mercenaries.

  One after another, the city’s pillars collapsed. Two forces remained: one had defected to the city lord, the other seemed allied. Even the dullest noticed the pattern: allies of the city lord survived; others perished.

  The thought left them uneasy, the hearth’s warmth no match for their chill.

  Finally, Arno entered in formal attire, Blair at his heel, sword ready, eyeing the room like a threat.

  Arno scanned the crowd and sat. Alma and Harvey looked on with awe; others avoided his gaze.

  "Apologies for summoning you so late," Arno said softly, more friend than lord, no trace of arrogance.

  "Not at all! I’d come even from my grave, my lord," one leader groveled.

  "An honor, truly!" another chimed.

  "You’re too kind, City Lord!" a third added.

  Watching the groveling leaders, Arno smirked. He remembered their arrogance on his first day, mocking him, treating him like a clown.

  Now? They mirrored his mood, rejoicing at his pleasure, panicking at his anger, anxious at his displeasure. Puppets, all—careful to please.

  This was the allure of power.