Sunday—elsewhere, a day for church services, where believers would gather in temples to seek peace.

  But this was Pramisburg. Not only were there no churches, but there were hardly two priests left. Missionaries had once tried to bring faith to this city, but the desire for food outweighed the longing for spiritual tranquility. Plus, thugs treated missionaries as easy prey, killing each one that arrived. Eventually, the Holy See declared Pramisburg one of the continent’s most depraved cities, abandoned by the Light God’s protection.

  Arno sat in the garden, now preferring to think alone. The quiet atmosphere allowed his mind to race at high speed, free from distractions, giving him ample time and space to plan his future.

  Hutt and Rice, the two scourges of Pramisburg, had been eliminated completely. Smaller factions were now fighting fiercely for the territories left by these two powerful figures. Their influence was not yet apparent, but Arno never underestimated such insignificant scum. Illness often starts as a minor ailment and progresses until it becomes incurable, claiming lives.

  However, ruling a city through official means alone was far from enough. In the dark depths untouched by light, the rule of underground forces was an indispensable part. How to deal with these newly emerging factions depended on whether they could be controlled. If yes, Arno didn’t mind supporting a lackey to act as his blade. If not, they would be consigned to the garbage heap of history, becoming rotting remains in some alley.

  After Alma left, she immediately made changes. She secretly took in many beggars and vagrants, providing them with hidden lodging and meals, and was willing to pay for information. Due to Alma’s generosity, wherever there were beggars and vagrants in the city, there were her informants. Combined with the enthusiastic services and tricks of her courtesans, a flood of information poured into Alma’s hands daily, with some important pieces selected and sent to the city mansion.

  Of course, Arno was not satisfied. He ordered Alma to expand her influence beyond Pramisburg, ideally across the entire Bell Province. He would stay here for some time, at least two years, or more.

  Merchants were also adapting to the changes. The Bell Province Merchant Guild had restructured internally into several teams, each specializing in the first seven monopoly products. Of course, this power was not granted by Arno but was won by the merchants themselves. Arno’s method was simple: there were seven goods, and only seven people could trade and transport them. So they bid: whoever offered the highest buyout fee would obtain the one-year monopoly rights for these goods in Bell Province.

  This matter had caused an uproar. The capital of Bell Province sent letters questioning Arno, accusing him of disrupting the market and demanding immediate correction. Arno ignored the capital’s censure—he was a Golden Noble; let them send troops if they dared. The imperial capital remained silent, but news reached Arno that the royal family and the finance minister were watching. If Arno’s plan was effectively implemented and achieved a win-win, they intended to seize power and monopolize the benefits.

  This was a good sign. As long as the royal family saw a steady stream of gold flowing into the treasury each year, they would never forget who brought this wealth, which would have a very positive impact on his return to the imperial capital.

  In addition, the matter Arno cared most about had come to a close. One hundred Blackfire Warriors were secretly delivered by Harvey to a farm outside the city. The farm had originally belonged to Harvey, but he gifted it to Arno. Arno appreciated this gesture—he was not an ungrateful bastard and knew how to govern and win over others.

  His thoughts turned to the mercenary groups entrenched in the city. Although these scoundrels had temporarily laid down their arms, this cancer needed to be removed. He would not allow uncontrolled forces to rampage in his territory, especially those that posed a threat to him.

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  Sometimes Arno resented his luck. Others who transmigrated either became magic prodigies after eating a few sweet potatoes, carried systems, or were born into hidden noble families, becoming archmages or war gods within three to five years. For him, not only could he not practice magic, but he couldn’t even cultivate battle aura, failing to become even a first-level knight. Yet he had become part of a high-risk noble class—pathetic when he thought about it.

  Sighing, he put down his teacup and tapped the tea tray. The aroma of black tea rose instantly, filling the air. He wondered if there was green tea here. He should find an opportunity to have someone pick some young leaves and try frying them; he missed that taste terribly. During his ten years in the office, his best companions had been a cup of green tea and a newspaper.

  Lost in thought, a pair of slender, soft yet firm hands slid from behind him, down his shoulders to his chest, caressing gently. Arno’s face instantly darkened. “Vox, touch me again, and I’ll chop off your hands!” he roared, slapping away the hands on his chest and turning to glare. The blond boy looked wronged and trembled. If one ignored his handsome face and Adam’s apple, maybe Arno wouldn’t have been so angry.

  This damn thing!

  Arno magnanimously allowed Alma’s so-called four “treasures” to stay in the city mansion, instructing the chief maid to treat them as ordinary servants. But would the chief maid really do as he said? Don’t be ridiculous! If one day the lord remembered these “delicate beauties” and called for them, only to find them turned into clumsy servants, she feared her head would be removed.

  So the chief maid, a woman with her own survival rules, replaced Arno’s personal attendants with these four “treasures.”

  Wendy, one of the four “treasures” and only thirteen, bit her lip to suppress a laugh. By the Light God, this world was terrifying!

  Vox, the blond boy, had tears welling in his eyes. Arno patted his shoulder and glared again. “Just don’t touch me. I really can’t stand it.”

  Many great nobles in the imperial capital were attracted to both genders—they would even bed blackfire sheep if they were good-looking. Arno didn’t resent those who stooped to such tastes, but he himself couldn’t stand such heavy preferences. He must find a way to send Vox away.

  Damn it!

  If Arno were truly a cruel man, he might have chopped off Vox’s head, but in life, he was relatively easygoing, so he couldn’t do that.

  In the awkward silence, the chief maid approached, glancing at Vox and giving a meaningful look. “My lord, Master Sarkomo and his granddaughter have come to visit. Will you receive them now or ask them to return another time?”

  Arno stood up quickly. “See them now!” But after taking a few steps, he turned back. “I don’t want to see him recently. Send him to the stables!”

  The chief maid could only give Vox a helpless look before following Arno out of the garden.

  Upon seeing Sarkomo, Arno breathed a sigh of relief. These recent days had been terrible. He wondered how the trainers had trained such a handsome boy into that state—terrifying!

  His gaze soon shifted to the little girl beside Sarkomo. She was truly a child, younger than Wendy, not yet developed. Though tall like her grandfather, she was clearly just a little girl.

  Sarkomo’s cooperation with Arno was in full swing, yet he remained respectful. The moment he saw Arno, he stood up, pulling his granddaughter up by the hand. The girl behaved with great polish, a product of being born into Sarkomo’s family—she had reincarnated into a good family, not needing to sell her dignity for survival and having time for a high-level education. She curtsied meticulously, clearly trained.

  Sarkomo smiled at Arno, stroking his granddaughter’s head. “This is my granddaughter, Celeste.” In Orlandoan, Celeste meant “blessed one,” and she was indeed fortunate. Turning to Celeste with paternal kindness, he said, “From today, he is your husband. You must respect and love him; he will always be your final refuge.”

  Celeste may or may not have understood, but she acted appropriately. She silently moved to Arno’s side, head lowered, her linen-colored hair cascading to hide her face, making her expression unreadable.

  The fair, delicate nape of her neck peeking from beneath her hair glowed temptingly, making Arno’s heart skip a beat. He calmly averted his gaze.

  Arno suddenly wondered if he was being a scoundrel, but this doubt was quickly cast aside. Almost all great figures in history had been scoundrels; he would be no exception.

  After sitting down, he asked, “How is the internal resolution progressing?”

  At this topic, Sarkomo couldn’t help laughing. After giving his granddaughter to Arno, he was slightly more at ease in Arno’s presence—only slightly.

  “It’s all-out war. The guild originally planned to allocate the seven monopoly goods, but as you know, merchants’ nature to chase profits made no one willing to let go. If not for us guild leaders suppressing them, they would have started a war.”

  Arno also laughed. “So you’ve gained a lot too?”

  Sarkomo smiled like a fox. “Benefits are mutual!”