Arno shoved aside the strange woman wrapped in a bedsheet beside him, his gaze sweeping past her exposed skin. Rubbing his faintly throbbing head, he stepped naked to the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling window and yanked open the heavy curtains.
He’d drunk heavily last night. Those scoundrels hadn’t achieved their apparent goal, so they’d retaliated by plying him with alcohol. He had to admit—these bastards were sharp. Tyrant could ignore them, but he couldn’t. He’d be stuck here for the next five years, and his past life’s experience of reading newspapers in an office told him that to control a region, one first had to understand it.
And alcohol, it seemed, was the perfect tool for understanding.
Pramisburg was more chaotic than he’d expected, ruled by three major factions locked in a constant dance of alliances and rivalries.
The first was led by Harvey, the slave traders. They dominated because of sheer numbers: five slave-hunting squads, over three hundred blood-stained thugs at his command, and five hundred slaves ready to be conscripted. Plus, his friendly ties with slave traders in nearby cities meant he could summon aid by offering up some profits.
The second faction was headed by Alma—a surprise, as one might not expect them to outrank the underworld. But Pramisburg’s wretched geography and economy drove away anyone capable; the city relied entirely on gray and illegal income, with no agriculture, livestock, or minerals. Here, women and money were the keys to controlling scoundrels.
The third was Hutt’s underworld—organized, hierarchical, with clear divisions of labor. Hutt’s income came from protection fees, merchant shakedowns, and fencing stolen goods. Though less obviously aggressive than the slave traders, he couldn’t be underestimated: why would one group of scoundrels pay protection to another? Fear—of pain, of death.
Smaller factions dotted the landscape: smugglers posing as legitimate traders while trafficking contraband, their private guards lavishly equipped for safety; mercenary bands, many made of deserters who became fearless killers for coin. Even ordinary residents weren’t innocent—surviving among scoundrels required cunning, not kindness. The rotting corpses in alleys, crawling with flies and maggots, whispered a warning: underestimate no one, overestimate yourself at your peril.
Sunlight poured through the crystal panes, jolting Arno from his thoughts. His lean, muscled body didn’t fit the traditional noble mold—most nobles were healthy but not this toned, lacking the discipline to spend hours training.
Two soft knocks rapped at the bedroom door. Arno acknowledged them, and the chief maid of the city lord’s mansion entered with a procession of blushing maids. They carried freshly laundered, incense-infused clothes and began dressing him. Meanwhile, two burly serving women spread a woolen blanket on the floor. The shorter, stockier one pulled a palm-sized crystal vial from her waist, filled with glowing green alchemical potion.
She uncorked it, pried open the sleeping woman’s jaw, and poured the liquid down her throat. The woman choked awake, screaming in terror as she tried to scramble away, clutching the bedsheet. Her fearful gaze locked on Arno, but he looked away. A hereditary baron’s companion shouldn’t be a commoner—or worse, a brothel girl. The woman was roughly seized, rolled into the blanket, and carried off. He’d likely never see her again; she might become a star attraction in some other city’s brothel—after all, a noble’s favor held irresistible allure to commoners. Such was noble life, unremarkable.
Arno inwardly loathed her. She was probably a pawn sent by one of the factions, and he was simply refusing the game.
Dressing in noble attire was a tedious ritual. Commoners mocked nobles for needing help, but even they couldn’t manage the complexity: first, a thigh-and-waist suspender buckled over the shoulders to enforce posture; then a shirt with twenty-four buttons on the back, each fastened according to strict rules of fit and form; finally, a heavy coat supported by hidden animal bones to maintain its shape.
No noble dressed themselves in formal wear—unless they skipped it entirely.
Twenty minutes later, guided by the chief maid, Arno stood dressed. The mirror showed minor flaws, but in this backwater with little regard for nobles, it sufficed.
“Honorable City Lord, the tax collector, clerk, garrison captain, and city defense officer await your summons in the reception hall. Will you dine first or meet them now?” The chief maid stayed behind after the other maids left; normally a steward would handle this, but Arno had arrived with only a Level 5 knight, so she’d taken on the role.
As he headed for the door, Arno asked, “What’s for breakfast?”
The middle-aged chief maid, stern as a nun, forced a smile. “Main dishes: Kolmer veal, Seaton wheat porridge, oat porridge. Sides: buttered bread, Kolmer smoked beef slices, wyvern eggs. Plus fresh Kolmer milk and squeezed juice.”
Arno paused briefly. “I’ll see the guests first.”
The empire’s local governance had five main branches: the City Lord’s Council, the largest ruling body; the tax department, crucial for funding; the clerk, a vertically managed legal recorder answerable to the Imperial Grand Court; the garrison, maintaining law and order; and the city defense officer, protecting territorial integrity under the city lord’s command.
There was also the Advisory Hall, overseen by clerks to gather public opinion, though it rarely influenced nobles who ignored commoners’ criticism.
The city lord’s mansion was modest—Pramisburg, a former war zone, had no need for luxury. Guided by the chief maid, Arno reached the reception hall quickly. She’d wanted to use the study for a better impression, but he’d refused; in this rotten city, he had no friends, and not everyone deserved closeness.
“Greetings, I’m Kent—honored to meet you!” The burliest man in the group grinned widely, yellow teeth flashing, bowing deeply as he approached. “I’m Pramisburg’s city defense officer, a Desian. I serve you faithfully, at your command.”
Arno nodded and extended his hand. Kent clasped it with both hands, shaking warmly but respectfully—a rare honor, as nobles often dismissed commoners with a snort. The other three men’s eyes lit up, their smiles more genuine now.
“Queto, clerk of Pramisburg—honored to be summoned.” Thinner, more refined, Queto spoke slowly, clearly deliberate in his words. Arno shook his hand; Queto stood politely aside, detached—clerks often looked down on peers, eyeing promotions.
Next was a portly man, sweating profusely despite the autumn chill. “Richard, tax collector of Pramisburg—pleased to meet you.” He struggled to bow, belly sagging. A tax collector weighing 300 pounds was unusual; most were lean, pressured by quotas and job insecurity.
The last man, though smiling, wore a permanent sternness, his spine rigid—something Arno admired. “Pulth, garrison captain—pleased to make your acquaintance.”
After brief introductions, the four men sat at Arno’s urging.
