"Have you heard?"

  In the filthy alley, stagnant sewage formed stinking puddles along the uneven ground, rats picking through garbage in the shadows. Three men huddled together, their well-kept clothes and polished boots reflecting the dim light—an odd contrast to their squalid surroundings. They leaned in, eager for the latest gossip.

  The speaker, a man with a pronounced lisp and flying spittle, gestured wildly. "The city lord’s carriage was stolen! I can already picture that pompous noble’s face—priceless."

  "We know that," one interrupted. "Any juicier news?"

  "But you don’t know what was inside!" The man smirked, chin raised. "Got it from Lucy: a manor deed in the capital’s Golden Ring, a 30,000-gold-coin bank certificate, and hundreds in gold!" He slammed his fist into his palm. "Nobles are filthy rich—disgusting!"

  The others inhaled sharply, greed flickering in their eyes. In this world, cities mirrored others: the Golden Ring was the equivalent of a prime downtown district, a manor there worth at least 200,000 gold, possibly over a million. Even if the deed and certificate were lies, the "pocket change" alone—fifty gold coins—could fund years of indulgence in Pramisburg’s dens of vice.

  "Who did it?" one asked, leaning forward. "Who stole the carriage?"

  The man grinned. "That’s why I called you here..."

  This scene played out across Pramisburg. The city’s power brokers had intended to mock the city lord’s "incompetence," eroding his authority. Instead, greed overshadowed scorn—every capable scoundrel now fixated on the rumored loot. Gold’s allure was too potent, even for souls already wallowing in depravity.

  Hutt glared at the kneeling youth before him, Les, the city’s thief king, sitting nearby with a thunderous expression. Hutt ignored Les, focusing on the trembling messenger. "I want the deed. Swear you’ll hand it over, and I’ll guarantee your safety in Pramisburg. Otherwise..." He let the threat hang.

  The youth, barely twenty, paled, teeth chattering as cold sweat poured down his face. "I swear, sir! No deed or certificate—just a dozen gold coins in change..."

  Hutt laughed darkly, turning to Les. At fifty, Les ruled Pramisburg’s thieves, overseeing hundreds of subordinates—a power second only to the city’s three magnates. He seethed: the plan was Hutt’s, the thief selected by Hutt, yet now Hutt dared humiliate Les’s men in his own territory. Among underworld ranks, face was everything.

  Les forced a calm tone, addressing the youth: "Tell us again—every detail, no matter how small."

  The story was simple: recruited by Hutt’s men, he and others had stolen the carriage from the city lord’s mansion, hidden it in a rural barn, and split a dozen gold coins. Now he’d been dragged here, accused of hoarding treasure.

  Hutt’s gaze turned icy, reminded of his own past: robbing a caravan and lying about the loot, only for his boss to discover the deception. "Bring in the tools," he said flatly.

  Les began to protest, but Hutt’s murderous glare silenced him. "Greedy eyes get gouged, Les. A million gold? You’d be dead before reaching the next block."

  Les stiffened, trapped between loyalty to his men and fear of Hutt’s wrath. Outside, Sword and Shield mercenaries loitered, eyes fixed on the flimsy door—ready to storm in at a signal.

  Meanwhile, Alma’s brothel girls suddenly grew overly attentive, plying mercenaries and thugs with false affection, fishing for details about the theft. Harvey, inexplicably, paraded his slave gang through the streets, even arming some slaves—a bold, provocative move.

  Tension hung in the air, palpable to anyone perceptive. Yet the man at the center of it all, Arno, sipped northern black tea, a silver cup gleaming in the sunlight. Across from him, Kent, the city defense officer, squirmed like a man with a guilty conscience.

  "How many men in the city guard can you truly control?" Arno asked, eyes on his cup. "How many are bought, how many still swear loyalty to the empire?" Kent opened his mouth to protest, but Arno waved him off. "Think first. I’m not a fool—choose your words wisely."

  Kent swallowed, sweating. "Bad news, my lord. Here, loyalty starves. But I can muster at least a hundred reliable men."

  Arno shook his head. "No ‘guarantees.’ When was the last battle here? Even ‘reliable’ men grow soft. I need fifty—pick them now. Each gets a gold coin when the job’s done."

  Kent’s face lit up, bowing as he rushed out. Arno sneered—fools, all of them. Did they truly think his gold came easily?

  He smiled, gazing at the cloudless sky, humming a tune. His mood mirrored the weather: bright, clear, and full of promise.