Fortune was a whore, always leaving men embarrassed.

  Terman had lost—500 knights, Luos, and his pride.

  Milin City, a backwater far from the imperial capital’s political hub, was as stagnant as a fetid pond. Nobles here lived tedious lives, their days as unchanging as meals they now viewed with nausea, forced to consume them out of necessity.

  No exciting diversions, no thrilling rumors—just endless monotony, day after day.

  But today, news thundered through Milin like a thunderclap: Luos, the "Star of Westflow City," had been beheaded in Pramisburg. To nobles, Luos might have been no more than a name, but behind that name stood the Bohr family, Bell Province’s oldest noble house from Westflow City.

  Since his appointment, the golden noble of Pramisburg had been anything but peaceful. Everyone had sensed that this noble from the capital would eventually clash with local forces—they just hadn’t expected the conflict to erupt so soon. Exclusive trade rights, slavery permits, and plunder privileges had struck Bell’s elite like three dull blows, leaving them dizzy with calculations of gain and loss. While they debated the odds of cooperation, Terman of the Bohr family had stepped forward, igniting the first war.

  All nobles awaited the final outcome. No matter who won or lost, their rule would remain unshaken, but their tedious lives would gain a modicum of entertainment. Of course, a Terman victory would be ideal; defeat would teach the capital-born upstart that this was no capital city, but a backwater where local nobles were far less accommodating than their counterparts in the capital.

  Terman had spent 70,000 gold coins hiring a 1,000-man mercenary band, rallied four noble allies, and assembled 6,000 troops to declare war on Pramisburg.

  This was a do-or-die war—win or lose, it meant a power player would be cast out of the ruling circle. Many were skeptical of Arno, not due to doubts about his personal ability, but because Pramisburg was hardly a defensible stronghold. It had no trained soldiers, no surplus warhorses, and Arno had been in charge for less than two months, still struggling to fully grasp control of the city.

  On this day, nobles who had lain dormant like hibernating beasts awoke, revealing their fangs at the scent of vast profits.

  If this war had been delayed by three years, Arno’s chances of victory would have improved significantly—three years would have given him time to raise a 5,000-man army. But two months were far too short: even if those commoners trained from dawn to dusk, they remained commoners, not soldiers.

  Every qualified soldier was forged with gold, requiring ample time and careful training.

  Desperados might look fearsome, but on the battlefield, they were no match for even newly qualified soldiers.

  War was never an individual’s game—it was a collective endeavor.

  Yoberg was likely the happiest man in all of Milin. He had provoked this conflict, ignited this war. Most importantly, no matter the outcome, he would emerge a winner. This filled him with pride and self-satisfaction, and out of public view, he celebrated wildly.

  Three of Yoberg’s trusted confidants, also city lords of other cities, joined him in a manor outside Milin, indulging in hedonistic excess. The vast, empty chamber contained only a massive bed capable of accommodating a dozen people, with naked prostitutes coming and going. The four men, like masters of the realm, reveled in the most licentious services provided by dozens of prostitutes.

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  "Governor, do you think Terman will win?" asked the Lord of Moonlight City, a short man of about 1.6 meters, slightly overweight with a receding hairline. Nude, his pale, flabby flesh sagged as five beautiful young prostitutes ran their tongues across his body, causing his eyes to narrow in pleasure.

  Yoberg’s breath was slightly labored, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling rapidly. Suddenly, he grunted, frowned, and shuddered twice, his features gradually relaxing from their tense scrunch. A prostitute beside him knelt between his legs, swallowing a glucose mixture with a strong odor, then wrapped Yoberg’s genitals in a hot towel. Two other prostitutes pressed similarly hot towels to his lower back, making him nearly moan with pleasure.

  He nodded slightly. "Of course…" he hissed. "Two thousand knights, four thousand infantry, and a thousand shield guards—by sheer strength, they’re enough to flatten any city in Bell Province. Pramisburg doesn’t produce soldiers. What does it have? Prostitutes? Thugs? Thieves? Murderers? But no soldiers—effectively a ghost town. Terman is certain to win; there’s no doubt."

  Yoberg spoke with absolute certainty, as if stating the obvious: Pramisburg, yet to produce real soldiers, was a "ghost town." Those ruffians could never defeat true warriors on the battlefield—one group trained for war and slaughter, the other for bullying the innocent; their combat power existed on entirely different planes.

  The other three men nodded in agreement. The Lord of Moonlight City pressed further, "Following your reasoning, should we begin preparing for the exclusive trade arrangements?"

  Yoberg shot him a sideways glance, his gaze somewhat menacing. "Halt your foolish plans, my brother-in-law. The imperial prince has written to me—the royal family is interested in the exclusive trade rights and may send representatives to Bell. Whether these rights will remain and in what form is still under discussion. Don’t consider meddling in this for the short term—be careful not to draw the royal family’s attention." He paused, opening his mouth to accept a piece of fruit peeled by a prostitute, juice spilling from his lips as he chewed, only to be licked away by another prostitute. "We’ll revisit this after the capital’s envoys have left. You three can rest assured that in Bell Province, you’re my inner circle—I won’t forget to share the benefits."

  Another city lord voiced concern: "Won’t the envoys from the capital want to meet Arno? What if he seizes the opportunity? After all, he’s the one who initiated the exclusive trade, so he knows the details and methods best."

  Yoberg waved dismissively. "Don’t worry. Once he’s defeated, the merchant guild will step in. They’re the ones running the exclusive trade and know the situation better than Arno. The only thing to do now is wait for Terman to capture Pramisburg and bring Arno to Milin."

  In noble wars, nobles rarely lost their lives—the "Ransom Decree" was the highest charter nobles had created to protect their own safety. Defeated nobles would lose their territories but not their lives, instead being exiled to the capital or imperial city as wealthy nobodies, relying on past glory until their fortunes ran out. Don’t assume nobles are immune to danger: every year, some starve to death, their noble titles meaningless without financial backing, eventually fading into history as nourishment for others.

  All eyes were fixed on the Bohr coalition forces. In private, casinos even opened betting rings, taking wagers on the war’s duration, from one day to fifteen. Of course, there was also a betting option for Arno’s victory, with astonishing odds of 15:1. It was said that on the first day casinos in Milin began accepting bets, someone placed a massive wager of 35,000 gold coins on Arno—a fact many treated as a laughingstock.

  Most dismissed the idea of Arno winning out of hand. The coalition had brought siege engines, ample supplies, and all necessary equipment. Had imperial law not prohibited transporting ballistae, Terman would have dismantled Westflow City’s three ballistae and sent them to the front lines.

  Beneath the universal skepticism, an undercurrent surged wildly.

  This war drew attention not only from Bell Province but also from neighboring provinces and even the imperial capital.

  The reason was simple and singular: Arno’s identity and background. As a golden noble, his fate naturally drew widespread interest.

  Amid this intense scrutiny, the Bohr coalition, after ten days of marching, closed in on Pramisburg. The clouds of war gathered thickly.

  War was now just a hair’s breadth away.