After inviting the four men to sit, Arno fell into silence, the reception hall so quiet that a pin drop would echo. The four long-acquainted imperial bureaucrats exchanged glances, holding their breath, both guessing Arno’s thoughts and careful not to be the first to speak.

  This maddening, motionless silence lasted ten minutes before Arno emerged from his thoughts. He offered an apologetic smile, then turned to the portliest man, Tax Collector Richard. “As you all know, I’m new to this city. Frankly, I’m younger than any of you, and the management of a city is still a new frontier for me. I don’t yet know how to do this well, but I do know that before taking action, one should first understand what kind of city this is.”

  “Richard, my friend, can you tell me about the tax revenues from last year and this year?” Pramisburg was not yet Arno’s fief, so his income depended on taxes—the more collected, the greater his share. The empire was not so stingy as to starve its local administrators; in a sense, these city lords were the crown’s employees, operating territories not yet annexed by noble houses. Thus, skimming benefits from taxes was an unspoken rule, tolerated by the royal family.

  Richard dabbed his forehead with a fresh handkerchief, his breath labored under the weight of his obesity. His small eyes narrowed to slits as he smiled. “As you wish, Lord. You may feel anger or discouragement at what I’m about to say, but I must report truthfully. Last year, I collected only seventeen gold coins. This year’s first half yielded three.”

  Arno rubbed a bronze ring on his left index finger—the only memento from his mother. His expression gave nothing away as he nodded. Richard’s fleshy face trembled, and he continued, “I’m sorry, I did all I could. Tax collection here is impossible; the rabble refuse to cooperate, even using violence. They all deserve to hang!”

  “How long have you served here?” Arno interrupted. “Is it like this every year?”

  Richard’s smile was pained as he nodded. “Nine years in this city. My best year brought in a hundred gold coins.”

  This was odd: any tax collector failing for nine straight years would have been stripped of office and returned to the common fold, not allowed to remain in the privileged class.

  Arno turned to Pulth. “Has the garrison not assisted Richard with tax collection? The Imperial Constitution states that tax collection is sacrosanct—armed support from garrisons and city defense forces can be requested when necessary.” During the reign of Orlando II, the empire couldn’t collect a single coin from the provinces, leading the tyrant to enshrine armed tax collection in the constitution, sparking an eleven-year civil war. Orlando’s victory proved it was a matter of enforcement, not inability. Since then, armed tax collection had been standard, only declining in recent centuries as tax-paying became habitual.

  Pulth’s face stiffened, less flexible than the others. “Lord, it’s not for lack of cooperation—this is the best we can do. Pramisburg is unique: few local residents, mostly foreigners who resist by claiming they’ll pay taxes in their home regions. With armed resistance, we can’t enforce the law.”

  Arno nodded; he’d expected such an excuse, asking only for form.

  He pressed on. “What about public order? Do conflicts break out frequently?”

  After exchanging a glance with Queto, the clerk forced a smile. “Order… is good. No major crimes reported this year so far!”

  Arno’s thumb paused on the ring, a flash of sharpness in his downcast eyes. No major crimes? Even in the capital, Pramisburg’s notoriety for chaos was known—deaths occurred daily. For half a year without major incidents meant the underworld had supplanted official authority, settling disputes through street bosses, not the law.

  The situation was worse than he’d imagined. This was an Orlando imperial city, yet it had slipped from official control—a challenge to the entire ruling class. It also showed the empire had neglected Pramisburg: after generations of intermarriage with Byron, the Weimar Corridor was an undefended passage, even border troops withdrawn.

  Taking control would require drastic measures.

  After further questions, Arno’s expression darkened. He dismissed the four officials with the chief maid’s help, then sat back, legs crossed, deep in thought.

  A great man from his previous world had said: Struggle is about aligning with allies, isolating opponents, uniting the majority, and striking at the minority—breaking through weak points to gradually seize ground.

  But where to start?

  Meanwhile, in the city’s most upscale brothel, its real power brokers convened.

  “Let’s hope this new lord is smart,” Hutt said, his face flickering with menace. “If he behaves, we’ll send him off after five years. If he tries to disrupt our order…” He gripped his collar tightly. “We’ll send him to join the ‘Old Man.’”

  “The Old Man” was code for the Light God, though these underworld figures trusted only their own blades.

  Alma, the faction leader, frowned. “Arno is different from the others. He’s from a Golden House—his heritage towers over those minor nobles. What if he’s not a plover but a basilisk?” She paused, scanning the room. “We should wait, gather intelligence first.”

  “Heh.”

  Hutt scowled at the snort from Barto, captain of the Sword and Shield Mercenaries, the largest and most notorious band in Pramisburg, with 170 members—mostly deserters, including two half-orcs. They’d do anything for profit, from slave-hunting to toppling tribal regimes.

  Barto shrugged, propping calfskin boots on the table. “Why overthink? If he plays nice, give him 1% of the profits. If not, kill him. Blame someone, hide in Byron for a few years. Heard a rumor…”

  Harvey, the slave trader, raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What rumor?”

  Barto leaned in conspiratorially. “Word is someone high up tried to kill him but failed. Enemies or allies—doesn’t matter. His status means powerful foes want him dead here. If we do the job, they might even help clean up.”

  Harvey chuckled, falling silent. Hutt frowned, lost in thought, his expression shifting.

  Alma alone paled. As an intelligence broker, she knew the stakes: Arno’s death at commoners’ hands would be seen as a declaration of war on the nobility. He could die by royal or noble hands, but not by theirs—that would ignite a relentless conflict.

  Fools! she cursed inwardly. Persuasion was futile now; she already planned an escape. Siding with Arno was unthinkable—even in disgrace, he’d view her as less than a noble’s pet. Better to find another path.

  “Damn them!” she seethed silently, praying Arno would be a lazy, pleasure-seeking noble.

  “Suppose I test him?” Hutt suggested. “The best way to know his intentions is to make him show his hand.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Worth a try.”

  “Just don’t overdo it.”

  Unlike the cautious officialdom, these men acted swiftly. In minutes, a small plan took shape.

  Early the next morning, a major incident occurred at the city lord’s mansion!