Humans are sometimes pitiful. Whether dressed in suits and ties or luxurious finery, whether as lowly as slaves or as noble as heads of state, beneath the gorgeous exteriors lies an essential truth: we are all products on a supermarket shelf, our prices clearly marked beneath our feet. Everyone’s value in society is plainly labeled, without even room for debate.

  We are both products and customers. As we pick suitable goods with the money in our pockets, we too are being selected by others.

  Arno had never been a romantic. He knew a harsh truth: romance couldn’t protect him—only a blade could.

  His attitude toward Harvey shifted swiftly—from planning to eliminate him and his forces to willing cooperation—simply because Harvey’s “market value” had risen. In the supply and demand market, his value increased, and Arno, with limited resources, prioritized maximizing benefits by adding Harvey to his “shopping cart.”

  The Orlando Empire was showing signs of centralized feudal rule, with the royal family increasingly consolidating power—most notably by ceasing to grant “duchies.” All land under heaven belongs to the king; all people within the borders are the king’s subjects. While the royal family sought to clutch power, it also feared backlash from the noble class, meaning conflict would soon intensify and become normalized.

  Many had foresight, but few knew how to secure their safety first. Arno didn’t claim to be brilliant, but he was already acting.

  Harvey was invaluable: ruthless, cunning, having known both poverty and power. Used wisely, he was far more useful than noble lackeys.

  Arno ordered red wine for Harvey, bid him sit, and sipped his tea.

  “I don’t need to ask who orchestrated today’s attack,” Arno said calmly, lacking any trace of post-assassination fury. Harvey’s eyelids twitched, bowing slightly. “I’m fair: help me, and I’ll reward you exponentially. Strike me, and I’ll sever the hand that struck.”

  “Pramisburg is a backwater—300,000 to 400,000 people, 99% poor. No real specialties, unless bandits count. The top 1% own 99% of the wealth, but it’s mere pocket change to a mid-tier noble, maybe two generations’ accumulation at most.”

  “Honestly, I hate this place—poor, backward, barbaric, desolate. I ignored them until they overstepped, thinking local power gave them the right to sit across from me. Ridiculous!”

  “I don’t know why you changed sides, but I have one question: can I trust you? Or rather, can you trust me?” Arno paused.

  Harvey drained his wine, licking his lips, and used the honorific prefix reserved for retainers. “My lord, command me.”

  Arno’s expression sobered. “I hear Kent and others have stakes in South District casinos. I need those casinos to have… incidents they can’t handle, forcing them to call the city guard and security.”

  “Easy. Every city has desperate gamblers—perfect pawns. I’ll make it clean and convincing.” Harvey’s eyes flashed with cruelty; Arno noted it but cared only for results.

  “Make the casinos chaos in three days.”

  After dismissing Harvey, Arno summoned Blair, who had played a crucial role in the assassination—he’d held off four Black Clerics proficient in curse spells, saving Arno. He deserved respect and higher status.

  Blair arrived bandaged—four rapiers had pierced his muscles, not organs, but such wounds needed at least twenty days of rest to heal. He walked slowly but firmly.

  Arno studied him before smiling. “Apologies, but I have few trusted hands. Even injured, I need you for this.”

  Blair didn’t boast, instead pounding his chest in dedication. Arno handed him a scroll sealed with oil clay. “Give this to Sarkomo. He’ll assign your next task. It may be tricky, but I trust you.”

  …

  South District casinos were Pramisburg’s two main money sinks, the other being Alma’s Pleasure House. Daily, hundreds of gold coins flowed through their books, a portion split among backers. To ensure operations, the city’s underground forces tacitly protected them.

  Without Hutt and Les, though, some funds became unclaimed, dividing the backers—yet they restrained themselves to keep the casinos running.

  Night fell, and gambling shouts didn’t cease. Gamblers crowded tables, spending until empty-handed and returning to family scolding.

  The casino manager, after a round of inspection, retreated to his office, where cloth pouches of copper and silver filled the air with rust. The casino offered loans, unafraid of defaults—debtors were sold to Harvey, ending up as farm slaves or mine laborers, depending on “luck.”

  The door burst open; the manager wasn’t surprised—desperate gamblers lacked manners, and kicking doors was common.

  He recognized the gambler, a regular. “How’s your luck tonight?”

  The man spat, leaning arrogantly. “How else would I be here? To see your ugly face?”

  Unfazed, the manager weighed a gray pouch. “Ten silver coins. Enough?”

  The gambler’s tone softened, snatching the pouch. “Enough to win back my losses.” He left without a backward glance.

  Shaking his head, the manager logged the debt—11 silver due tonight, 13 tomorrow, 35 in a week. The gambler might sell family: used women fetched little unless beautiful, but his own strong body might cover the debt.

  To him, such tragedies were mere transactions.

  Hours later, the gambler reappeared, bloodshot eyes, collar torn, chest hair visible. “Another ten—now!”

  The manager frowned; casino rules limited loans to avoid loss. “You’ve borrowed ten. Rest—this isn’t trivial.”

  “Lenders shouldn’t fear! It’ll circle back to you anyway. Hurry, I’ll win it back!” The man stomped, agitated.

  “Five days to repay. You know the consequences of default.” The manager offered another pouch.

  “Enough talk!” The gambler grabbed it and ran.

  The manager sighed. Pramisburg would lose another family. Such a shame.