The hour was late, deep into the velvet shroud of night, on Baker Street, where grand mansions of nobility lined the roads like monuments to power and legacy, one estate stood taller, prouder, and far more ostentatious than the rest: the mansion of the Royce family.

Its immense size, its architectural extravagance, was often criticized by others among the noble class, those who frowned upon wealth divorced from bloodline prestige.

“They’re the quintessential nouveau riche,” people would say, curling their lips.

“Peasant nobles who think money alone makes a man noble.”

But for Ain Del Royce, the patriarch of this so-called ‘peasant nobility,’ such accusations were mere cover-ups.

“They wrap their envy in laughter. They scoff because they lack what I have, the power to build, to acquire, to dominate.”

His personal office was a fitting reflection of this mindset; an expansive chamber lined with furniture made from the finest timber, hauled all the way from the deepest southern forests.

This wood was no ordinary luxury, it was believed to contain mystical properties, capable of sharpening the mind and soothing fatigue. Priceless, yet it filled the room wall-to-wall.

To the untrained eye, the extravagance might have ended there, but there was more.

Mounted on the walls and positioned on pedestals were relics of such rarity that even members of the Imperial Court would widen their eyes in astonishment; the shimmering mane of a White Lion, a guardian beast of the western deserts; drinking vessels carved from Northern Snow Crystal, so flawlessly transparent and cold they could sting the skin; trinkets and displays so rich in origin, they seemed to hum with latent history.

Ain Del Royce stood at the center of it all, utterly assured.

“No one else could indulge in such grandeur. Not even the princes of the Empire.”

He reached for one of the Snow Crystal cups, rumored to be considered heirlooms even among the oldest noble families, and uncorked a slender glass bottle.

The whiskey within was a century old, its flavor aged to perfection. Only thirteen bottles had ever been produced across the entire breadth of the Empire. The price of a single bottle was equal to that of a nobleman’s estate.

As the amber liquid slipped smoothly into the cup, its aroma, a symphony of fruit, spice, and warmth, began to permeate the chamber.

Yes, his life was precious, and yet, for all his luxury…

“Why would His Highness say something like that?”

The image came unbidden, Prince Aziel, blood still trickling down his forehead, chewing through meat like it were bark, indifferent to pain or elegance.

Ain Del frowned.

He recalled the prince mentioning that even he rarely had access to food of this quality.

How would he react upon seeing this office?

Aziel’s nobility was something inherited, unearned, a matter of bloodline.

So why was it, then, that despite being bloodied and brutish, the prince never once appeared pitiful?

Why did he still exude dignity?

Why did he, Ain Del, who had climbed so far and fought so hard, feel lesser in comparison?

“Noble… He looked noble.”

A bitter chuckle escaped his lips. He turned toward the one person who could reflect his own thoughts back at him.

“What do you think, Sophia?”

Gone was the doting warmth he usually offered his daughter. Now, his eyes were frigid, his tone flat, perhaps even tinged with distaste.

Sophia, ever composed, replied without the tremor that had once marked her voice.

“He resembled the rumors in many ways.”

Gone, too, was her earlier fear. In its place; a detached calm, her eyes blank as she called the image of the prince to mind.

“But in other ways, he was entirely different.”

“In what way?”

“He was cruel, yet not needlessly so. Arrogant and furious, yet oddly calculating.”

“You think the accident was deliberate?”

“He weaponized his own infamy. With precision. No one would question his behavior, not when they already believe he’s insane.”

“Exactly. He’s already branded as mad. And yet, he didn’t lose an ounce of his dignity. Honestly… in the final moment, I expected him to throw that knife.”

“I thought the same.”

“Then why didn’t he? Why did he hold back? The air was thick with bloodlust, enough to draw sweat from my palms.”

“Because he could resist.”

“He could resist? Ha! Then what of the madness the world believes in?”

“Fabricated. Deliberately shown.”

“To deceive the eyes of others?”

“Most likely.”

“Just like you.”

Her silence this time was deafening.

Ain Del clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he looked into his daughter’s eerily lifeless eyes.

“You’re not angry that I sent you to him, are you?”

“No, Father.”

“Good. I’m sending you to Aziel. I intend to use him to eliminate the eunuchs. If what we witnessed today is genuine, he’ll obliterate them. If not, then we’ll simply be consumed.”

“Yes.”

“Go. Judge him. See if he’s fit to carry the Royce legacy. If he’s not…”

He took another sip of the hundred-year-old whiskey, locking eyes with her.

“Then claim that you were forced by a mad prince. And survive however you can.”

He was making it clear, she was a tool.

“Understood, Father.” Her reply was emotionless, mechanical.

After she left, Ain Del took out a letter from his desk drawer. It was from the Sixth Prince.

A proposal , assistance in fending off the eunuchs in exchange for the Royce family’s allegiance.

Cunning flickered in Ain Del’s eyes, he would play the princes against each other, and walk away with everything.

Sophia, from the doorway, glimpsed that greedy glint in her father’s eye, and she made a decision, not just to escape.

“I’ll destroy it all.”

She would shatter every chain that had ever held her, and to do that, she would need the blade of madness, she would need Prince Aziel.

Her expression, pale and hollow, held an icy resolve.

[The fate surrounding you begins to twist.]
[The trait ‘Fortune in Wealth’ thrashes violently. Sub-fates of scheming begin to emerge among those connected to you.]
[Schemes and plots ripple outward with you at the center.]
[You have amassed a vast number of Fate Alteration Points. Investment advised.]

He smiled faintly as the messages floated before him, just as expected, something had begun between Sophia and Ain Del, and at the core of it all, stood a new variable, himself, the Empress, the eunuchs, the Royce family

“They’re starting to gather.”

In his previous life, the tyrant had been truly mad, unloved, unguarded and unchecked.

But not this time.

Now, power and opposition were beginning to converge; Jealousy. Scrutiny. Paranoia.        He was not afraid, he had seen the Empire’s downfall. There was nothing left that could shock him. If consuming fate was the only way to survive, then so be it. He would consume conspiracies, consume death, and consume the very concept of manipulation.

As he walked, reviewing his strategy, 

“We’re almost there,” Andre said, breathing heavily.

The stench of rot hit like a slap, they had arrived in the southeast sector of Ferma.

The slums.

A festering sewer district, reeking of cheap liquor and cheaper morals, crude laughter, shouts, and con artists slithered between shadows. Muscles flexed, eyes followed too long, and lies curled in every breath.

“Hey, brother. Wanna hit?”

A large man offered him a rolled cigarette of unknown origin.

“Not interested.”

Andre growled and pushed the man away. He knew all too well how dangerous it was to accept things here. Appear weak, and you were prey, seem soft, and they’d swarm like flies.

He raised his energy, posturing strong, 

“I’ll take one.”

The prince stepped forward and accepted the cigarette. Andre nearly shouted ‘Your Highness’ before catching himself.

“Ssshh…” A pungent sting filled the prince’s nose.

Even though it was bottom-grade, this cigarette was everywhere.

“Snap.” Fire sparked at his fingertip, he took a deep inhale, a strange sweetness floated into his lungs.

“Hey, pal…you gonna pay for that? A pack’s a silver coin. Special deal. Just 1 milne.”

The man flexed, trying to extort him, ten sticks for a silver… Outrageous.

“Ting.” The prince flipped a coin into the air, not silver, gold.                                                 All eyes locked on the shining coin.                                                                                       The thug reached for it like a dazzled fool.

“CRACK!” A fist slammed into his jaw.

No wasted motion, the prince’s whole body moved, foot to hip to shoulder to fist, the thug spun, collapsed, and went still.

The cigarette still hung from the prince’s lips, he inhaled again.

“Watch your dirty mouth.”

Smoke billowed as he retrieved his gold coin and resumed walking, behind him, scavengers rifled through the thug’s pockets, they stared hungrily at the prince’s back, but didn’t dare move.                                                                                                                                    The first step had been taken.

“So, um… right.” Andre tried to recover.

“Take me to the biggest, dirtiest den in this place.” Andre said no more, he simply led the way.

The prince felt dizzy, with a breath, he ignited the flames of his cultivation method, burning away the toxins, even one puff had been enough.

Night Sky.

A drug that had once corrupted the Empire. Twisted minds. Ruined bodies, he would purge it, before it spread.

He knew exactly who was behind it, and while he was at it, 

“I’ll remove a few thorns too.”

The schemes swirling in his head were pitch-dark.

Andre walked a step behind him, silent, he was worried.The cigarette’s scent. The air’s foulness. Why had His Highness insisted on coming here?

“I’ll protect him,” Andre vowed silently.

He would serve and safeguard the prince. Once, he’d lived in an orphanage. These streets had been his playground, and his battlefield. But the prince didn’t know.

Didn’t know how vile, how low, how cutthroat this world could be. And even now, unseen eyes continued to watch them from the dark.