"Akan, where are the newbies?"
"New…newbies?" Akan's mind worked like a wheel. "Ah, does Her Ladyship mean the new servants?"
"Mm."
"Apologies for the long wait. We had another round specifically to make sure nothing goes wrong once they are done with their training."
"Yet you just introduced them yesterday?"
"Ah, don't worry, Your Ladyship, it's but a simple introduction. Three days from now, they'll start working."
Oh, now Ett wondered if her palace knight, the one with fiery eyes, would return with a dull look. That would be quite boring.
Ett gave Akan a look.
"Yes, Your Ladyship?"
"It's quite odd."
"What do you mean, Your Ladyship?"
This had been bothering Ett for all this time. Why didn't she see the head maid? Why were there fewer servants than she could usually count?
As much as she doesn't care, sometimes the eyes could still notice something is strange.
If she asks Akan, wouldn't that be out of character for her? Did Ett even care for mere maids that could come and go like the wind?
"Nothing, just don't pick the elderly."
Akan nodded, smiling gently as ever. "Her Ladyship is truly kind."
"Kind?"
Ett's acting mode had been activated. "That's too cumbersome."
Why do you even hire older people? They should be staying at their retirement home or just chilling in their bungalow. Ah, right, this isn't modern convenience.
"Oh, and Your Ladyship, the Iron Bridge seems like it'll be done sooner than expected."
Oh, nice!
"Good, let me know once it's done."
Another way to get some stash and bridge communication. Connections, more connections.
***
Larak Empire
3rd Prince Larak's Chamber
The pigeon landed on the open window.
In the grand silk-draped bed, four beautiful women lay tangled in sheets, their bare forms bathed in the dim glow of dawn, spent from the night before. And at the center of it all was Prince Larak.
His chestnut hair fell in tousled waves over his forehead, framing sharp cheekbones and a strong, chiseled jaw. Smoldering ember eyes that countless women would fall for, yet now half-lidded and lost in thought.
Larak let out a weary sigh, his gaze sweeping over the beautiful women beside him, their bodies tangled in silk sheets. Another debauchery, and no less for tomorrow. Another night spent in excess. His life was so predictable.
Living like this—pretending—is truly exhausting.
Shifting slightly, his eyes fell to his foot. Well, other than this exciting injury. Another mark had marred his tanned skin. This wound had been with him while he was traveling to the Adiand Empire, and until now, there was still no sign of who made it.
Not that he didn't have someone in mind.
He slowly got up from his bed and went to his window, opening it as the midday air could be felt on his face.
"Say it."
"Your Highness, this is the letter."
"Lovely."
'I humbly submit the following words regarding the movements and practices of His Imperial Majesty of Adiand:
The Emperor engages in swordsmanship training each day, commencing at the Third Hour and continuing until the Twelfth. Upon the conclusion of these exercises, His Majesty withdraws to his private study, wherein he remains until the approach of dawn.
Just before sunrise, he is often observed ascending to the highest elevation within the palace grounds, where he seats himself in solitude to witness the day's first light. This practice is observed with great consistency, save on the final day of each month, upon which he abstains. The cause of this exception remains undetermined.
Multiple efforts to enact an assault upon His Majesty during his time upon the hill have proven unsuccessful. The area appears to be under heightened defense, though no visible presence is detected—suggesting the employment of concealed guards or others.
It is with caution that I report an increasing danger should further attempts be made.'
"That's beguiling."
To sit on top of the hill is just saying, Come and kill me if you dare.
'We've come to learn that we're not the only eyes watching the Adiand Emperor. There are spies from other empires moving in the shadows as well—but for reasons we can't yet explain, we appear to be the only ones still in place. The others have either vanished or been removed.
The east wing, in particular, feels…different. It's too well-guarded, too tight, almost as if something—or someone—is being hidden. We haven't been able to get close without drawing attention.
For now, we remain hidden and will await your next order.
In your generosity,
Your loyal eyes in the dark.'
Then Larak looked at the smallest letters near the edge of the letter.
He could presume that either there is a precious treasure, or... someone other than the Emperor of Adiand living within the palace.
"Would it be a woman?"
He smiled.
This is already good progress.
Knock. Knock.
"Your Highness, it's time for your bath."
"Alright, come in."
Larak turned to the women on his bed.
"Give these deflowered women their money and drag them out of the palace. Replace everything."
His maid nodded. "Shall we send you maidens tonight, Your Highness?"
He shook his head.
"No. Instead, is there any letter from Alatair?"
"Yes, we've just received his letter, Your Highness. Please see."
'Your Highness, I have arrived at Baron Rulan's estate. I will report back once successful.'
Larak smiled.
Slowly, he'll be able to know more about the Adiand Emperor, whether to be allies or to crush him.
***
Baron Rulan's Estate
Hidden Underground of the Lower Nobles
Southern Outskirts of Adiand
In the southern outskirts of Adiand, where rules remained, but the eyes were fewer, Alatair was watching a match of sold men fighting like bulls.
"What do you think, sire? Do you have a slave in mind?"
Alatair had been sitting silently for the past few days, watching the matches of various enslaved people.
Yet none of them fit his liking.
It was true; people from Adiand admired strength. Or at least, they claimed to. But in truth, few among them possess any real physical power.
Perhaps that was the reason. Was it because this place was one of the empire's outskirts? Would it have been wiser to hide deeper within the capital, away from eyes that only pretended to be blind?
Alatair shook his head, brushing off the thought, and continued watching the spectacle unfold.
Baron Rulan, who had posed the question earlier, smiled politely as he took a seat beside him.
"Then please," the baron said smoothly, "enjoy the delights we've prepared for tonight."
The herald returned to the podium, his ever-present grin practically etched into his face. He boomed with performative excitement, "Ladies and gentlemen, now presenting the finest portrayal of the evening, the most savage, the most fearsome beast from the Western Outskirts of the Adiand Empire! Son of the Atu Tribe's chieftain!"
A wave of gasps rippled through the crowd, quickly drowned by thunderous applause.
The barbaric tribe—of course!
From the shadows, Hamada was dragged into the light. He squinted as the brightness stabbed at his vision. Slowly, the glare faded, revealing a sea of dark silhouettes—nobles cloaked in silk and smugness.
"Move forward!"
"Agh—!"
Hamada gritted his teeth against the pain.
His body bore the evidence of relentless abuse: deep bruises, open wounds still weeping blood. Standing over seven feet tall, his massive, bear-like form was battered, his long brown hair matted with dried blood where he'd been beaten.
The herald spoke again, his tone dripping with mockery. "Deemed unworthy of succession by his own father, he was sold. And now, dear guests, you shall witness a true spectacle of survival!"
Laughter erupted. Applause followed.
The nobles of Adiand may have welcomed the Atu Tribe into their empire, but they had never accepted them. Not truly. They saw their traditions as crude, their ways uncivilized. Yet, paradoxically, they admired their strength. Just not the raw strength they deem very worthy. No, not their blood. Still, it's neither pleasing nor likable.
To them, Hamada was no more than an animal—a beast to be displayed, beaten, and bled.
"Begin!"
Across the arena, a heavy gate creaked open.
From the darkness emerged a lion—slow and deliberate in its steps. A low growl rumbled from its chest, thick strings of saliva dripping from its fangs. Its eyes, wild and starved, locked onto its target.
Hamada.
This is not good.
That was Hamada's first thought, yet he didn't step back.
He watched the maned lion lower its massive head and charge.
Hamada's heart pounded against his ribs—not from fear, but from focus. He was a hunter—a warrior of the wilds. Even weakened, even wounded, there had to be a way to kill this beast. He wouldn't die here, not like this. He wouldn't fight for his life, even if it meant tearing the creature apart with his bare hands.
"Roar!"
The lion lunged forward, jaws wide, and teeth glinting in the arena lights. Hamada dropped low and rolled hard to the side just as the beast's fangs snapped where his throat had been a second ago. He landed on all fours, breath ragged, muscles coiled like a wild animal.
The nobles burst into laughter and jeers.
"Look at him! Like a dog!"
"Barbaric brute! Using brute tactics!"
"Perfect," someone mocked. "Let beasts fight like beasts!"
Hamada ignored them all. His eyes locked onto the lion, now turning back to face him with predatory eyes.
His lips curled. His teeth bared.
Heh, yes, he could feel it.
"Roar!"
The lion charged again, faster now, more furious.
Hamada didn't back down either. He ducked low under the lion's swipe, the beast's claws grazing his back and reopening wounds. Pain flared. He grunted as blood continued to drip on the ground. Stubbornly, Hamada pushed forth.
He grabbed a fistful of dirt and flung it into the lion's eyes.
The beast recoiled with a snarl, shaking its head violently.
Hamada surged forward. He slammed his shoulder into its side, knocking it briefly off balance. The crowd grasped—momentary silence fell across the stands.
The lion pounced again, but this time Hamada met the lion head-on.
They collided in a flurry of limbs and snarls. The lion sank its claws into Hamada's arm, drawing blood, but it hadn't reached his throat. That was its mistake.
Hamada seized the lion's head with both hands, muscles trembling from the opened wound that was becoming wider. Then, with a guttural roar louder than the beast's own, he slammed his forehead against the lion's skull.
A sickening crack echoed through the arena.
Pain exploded through his skull—sharp, blinding, but Hamada didn't stop. His vision blurred, the world spun, but he endured.
The lion staggered, dazed from the impact.
"AHH!"
Hamada screamed. With all the strength he could muster, he drove the beast to the ground with a powerful shove. In one swift, primal motion, he moved behind the lion and locked his bloodied arms around its thick neck, veins bulging in his arms as he tightened his force with every ounce he could muster.
The lion lashed out violently, trying to throw him off, but Hamada held on like a beast possessed.
The struggle was primal—a frenzy of claw and muscle, of snarling, slipping, suffocating fury.
The lion's head jerked, its hind legs kicked, and its claws tore through Hamada's skin—he didn't let go.
Hamada gave his all.
Squeezing the lion to death.
Every ounce of strength in his broken body went into crushing that throat. Bones popped beneath his grip. The lion's eyes bulged. Growls turned into chokes.
The nobles had stopped laughing long ago.
"Wh-What's happening?"
"Is he…Is he winning?!"
Hamada drove his knee into the lion's gut, kept twisting, and choked, his teeth clenched in fury and survival. The lion's movements began to slow. Its body jerked once, then again, then sagged.
Until finally…
Thud.
The lion collapsed beneath him.
Dead.
Bloodied and heaving, Hamada remained crouched over the corpse, his arm still wrapped around the lion's neck. His chest rose and fell, stained red and streaked with sweat and dirt. He didn't move.
The arena was silent.
Utterly still.
Then, amidst the silence, a single voice broke through—soft and shaken.
"He…won."
Even the herald stood frozen, his eternal smile faltering for the first time. It took him a moment to find his voice again.
"The slave of Atu…has emerged victorious!"
There was a single clap, one after another, until all the audience clapped with mixed feelings, both in awe and in horror.
But Hamada heard none of it.
He released the lion's neck at last, and the great beast collapsed fully, lifeless. His arms fell to his sides, slick with blood—his and the lion's. His knees buckled beneath him, and he slumped beside the corpse.
The lion's glassy eyes stared back at him, frozen in death, yet still fierce.
They had both been starving—desperate to survive.
But only one of them had.
He was the one who lived.
Hamada gently closed the lion's eyes.
It was a good fight. Until then, he'll take this fight into his heart. If one day he has a chance, he'll make sure wild animals are hunted in the wild.
A fight that made him realize more of what he should do.
Hamada's breathing slowed, the blood pounding in his ears giving way to silence. His heavy eyelids shut, not from weakness, but from the quiet calm that followed the storm.
In that moment, the silence in his mind continued. There was no applause. No glory. Just the sound of a survivor sinking into the darkness.