In the brightly lit hall where glasses clinked and voices buzzed, Arno’s attention wandered. Three months had passed in the blink of an eye, yet his arrival in this city felt like yesterday. That unconventional banquet had first stirred his killing intent; without their mockery, he might have spent five uneventful years here, amassing wealth before returning to the capital as a carefree playboy. Life was full of such "what ifs" and "supposes" in hindsight.

  He disliked being looked down upon, a trait likely rooted in his past life—or rather, his previous life—as an office clerk. He was upright, refusing to connive not because he lacked the ability but because he clung to principle, believing that a gem would always shine. He rejected the sordid scheming of others, holding fast to the last shreds of integrity in his heart. He was no true "gentleman," but he was far from a shameless sycophant; he respected authority but revered truth above all.

  But what had that earned him? Decades of stagnation in a thankless job, promotions without real power, all ambitions and ideals reduced to bitter resentment vented in the dead of night. After transmigrating, witnessing political struggles more brutal than in his original world, the last vestiges of his integrity had snapped, transforming him into someone new. He had come to a sudden realization: no matter how noble one’s ideals or how lofty one’s political ambitions, power was the first prerequisite. He now understood why the ancients said, a man of honor cannot be without power for a single day.

  Take this city—without power, oppressed and hounded by various factions, forced to cower in the mansion, would it now glow with such radiance?

  A sudden rise in voices sharpened his focus, his dilated pupils contracting as he turned toward the main door.

  Prince Konrad entered wearing the orthodox ceremonial robes of the royal family: vivid crimson to display his dignity, gold to signal his nobility. A pink brocade collar trimmed with gold threads framed his chin, making his complexion appear even paler. The impeccably tailored clothes bore no creases or dust, and a black pocket square peeking from his breast pocket was embroidered with a tiny golden lion.

  His cufflinks were green gemstones cut into plump triangles, glistening as if dripping with dew, while his collar buttons were star-shaped yellow gemstones that refracted light into a riot of colors.

  The ensemble embodied the dignity of royalty without the stuffiness of antiquated court attire, adding a touch of youthful vitality.

  The moment he entered, laughter and chatter dropped to a murmur, all eyes turning to the prince, the undisputed master of the banquet. Born into royalty, he was no stranger to such attention, having been the focus of countless gazes since childhood. He walked with graceful steps, each stride precisely measured, neither too long nor too short. His smile was warm yet distant, the angle perfectly calibrated to convey approachability without overfamiliarity.

  He met each gaze with a gentle nod, projecting an air of affable dignity.

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  A prince of impeccable upbringing, many thought, some even shrinking back into the crowd to escape his dazzling presence.

  Arno stepped forward to greet him. This was no formal conference; banquets, by nature, had no room for rigidity. He clasped Konrad’s hand, raising his wine glass—deep red wine clung to the rim in rich streaks as he swayed it slightly, releasing a heady aroma. "On behalf of Pramisburg, I welcome Prince Konrad’s visit. To the prince!"

  Glasses rose in unison, the clinking of crystal as dense as jade beads falling on a plate, each voice joining the chorus: "To the prince!"

  Konrad took a red wine from a maid’s tray, raising it in return. "To Pramisburg!"

  A harmonious start—no disruptions, no surprises. To prevent trouble, Konrad had left Yoberg behind, recognizing that the governor’s meddling had made him a liability. In politics, value determined survival; when one’s utility approached zero, society discarded them without a second thought.

  After the first toast, Konrad graciously returned it, a gesture that thrilled the Pramisburg nobles and sent the atmosphere soaring.

  The dancers Alma had brought wore simple attire but performed with striking energy, their movements a revelation to the prince. It wasn’t that he lacked sophistication, but their style was foreign to him—capital dances were soft, sensual, vibrant, while these borderland performances carried a martial edge, a boldness and decisiveness absent in imperial courts.

  Tired of delicate, dainty dances, this "warrior-like" vigor held a unique allure.

  Salkomo stared at the prince, repeatedly catching Arno’s eye. He had rushed from a neighboring city upon receiving news, hoping for an audience. Partnership with Arno had propelled the Bell Chamber of Commerce into hypergrowth; monopolies brought not just profits but vital channels and networks.

  This had taught Salkomo the folly of the past: merchants had avoided nobles out of fear of being robbed and killed. Once a noble decided to seize a merchant’s wealth, the Death Pardon Edict gave them near-absolute power—for 100,000 gold coins, they could atone for murdering someone over 150,000 gold. Peace had relied on noble disdain for merchants and the solidarity of trade guilds—individual merchants were vulnerable, but a guild’s collective might made nobles hesitate.

  Black Priests and Shadow Dancers, however, cared nothing for noble or commoner, assassinating for gold alone. The Death Pardon meant nothing to them; their professionalism was almost admirable in its ruthlessness.

  Now, Salkomo’s chamber of commerce embraced nobles because monopolies yielded a month’s profit equal to three months prior in Bell Province alone. Expand the trade network, and profits would skyrocket—but to thrive in broader arenas, they needed more than Arno’s protection. In the Orlando Empire, whose patronage was mightier than the royal family’s?

  Arno ignored Salkomo’s meaningful glances, leading the prince to a quiet corner for their first formal conversation.

  "Regarding the events in February and March, I offer my apologies—I couldn’t intervene at the time," Konrad said, a perfect eyebrow twitch conveying genuine chagrin. "As you know, despite my title, I hold no real power."

  February and March had been a political tsunami in the capital, destroying not only Arno but another sacred bloodline heir. That noble, with deeper roots, had survived in the capital; Arno, less fortunate, had been exiled. Dozens of noble houses had been erased, some members dying in resettlement camps, others exiled to the border to face an uncertain fate.

  A disaster, as Konrad implied—during such empire-wide upheaval, even a prince risked exile by stepping in. This tactic of humility was shrewd, avoiding the resentment that arrogance would provoke. The corner of Arno’s mouth turned up slightly, acknowledging the prince’s goodwill.

  Konrad chuckled, sipping his wine, the rich vintage awakening his taste buds. He swirled the crystal glass and said, "The primary purpose of my visit, Baron, is to request your assistance in the allocation of fiefdoms."