WHOOSH...

  A fierce afternoon gust snatched the small origami.

  The lightweight paper body offered no resistance. The yellow butterfly was jerked upward, spiraling into the air, forcibly evicted from the balcony where Arka stood.

  Arka did not open his eyes.

  He had no need for physical sight. Because inside his head, a new visual feed had just flickered to life.

  It felt like wearing high-resolution VR goggles, though slightly vibrating and swaying dizzily in sync with the wind gusts. His vision became panoramic, elevated, and... yellow-tinted.

  The paper drifted past the electrified perimeter fence, penetrated the no-fly zone, and plunged deep into the heart of Ironseat.

  And when the vision stabilized... Arka’s breath hitched.

  "Whoa..." he hissed softly on the balcony, his hand unconsciously gripping the iron railing.

  Down there, another world lay sprawled.

  This was not merely a government complex. This was the Palace.

  Through the eyes of the paper butterfly soaring high, Arka saw copper domes oxidized to a verdant green, glistening under the sun. The walls were not dull concrete, but ivory-white marble polished so smooth it reflected the clouds.

  The main building stood arrogant in the center, with colossal Corinthian pillars soaring ten meters high, supporting the terrace from which rulers gazed down upon their subjects. The windows were tall and slender, framed in genuine gold that glittered gaudily yet expensively.

  The butterfly was carried down by a draft, gliding over the gardens.

  Insane... Arka thought.

  The garden was perfectly symmetrical. Terrifyingly neat.

  The grass was a uniform green, sheared with military precision—not a single blade stood taller than another. Shrubs were sculpted into intricate geometric labyrinths. At the center, a three-tiered fountain spewed crystal-clear water that danced in the air.

  Arka saw statues of past heroes striking heroic poses in every corner, cast in gleaming bronze.

  Then, he saw the inhabitants.

  From this height, they looked like diligent ants.

  Dozens of servants in black-and-white uniforms rushed silently along natural stone pathways. Arka saw a manservant carrying a silver tray with a teapot, walking with a spine so straight it seemed he balanced the fate of the nation upon that tray.

  In another corner, a gardener worked with small shears. He wasn't mowing grass en masse; he was pruning leaf by leaf, snipping anything that dared ruin the aesthetic. Maddening dedication.

  Guards patrolled with modern assault rifles slung across their chests. Their uniforms were dark gray, their faces obscured by tactical helmets. They stood like statues at every entrance, not moving a muscle even as Arka’s paper butterfly flitted over their heads.

  This was the definition of absolute prosperity. Order purchased with limitless wealth.

  "So this is where the people's taxes run off to," Arka muttered, a mix of tacky awe and the cynicism of an outsider.

  He had never seen luxury this brutal. Compared to his leaking, moldy wooden temple and the campus in the small town, this place was paradise built on earth.

  The paper butterfly continued to drift, maneuvering between marble pillars, carrying Arka’s eyes deeper into the secrets of Ironseat’s opulence.

  The yellow butterfly was finally snagged by a sudden strong gust, caught in the branches of a neatly trimmed boxwood shrub, right beside a large window of a room on the ground floor of the palace's west wing.

  Arka’s vision tilted forty-five degrees.

  "Damn, stuck," he cursed on the distant balcony.

  But this angle was sufficient. The heavy velvet curtains behind the window were slightly parted, leaving a vertical slit that allowed Arka to peek into the aquarium of monsters in suits.

  He saw this:

  A room defining dark masculinity. Black ebony wood panels absorbed the dim lamplight. Mounted heads of game animals—stag, bear, tiger—stared blankly from the walls, their expressions of eternal death framing the atmosphere.

  In the center of the room stood a man. Rhavas Rahgaras.

  Arka recognized the face from political magazines, a Duke from the eastern territories. But seeing him "live" gave off a different aura.

  Rhavas was hissing softly. White steam escaped his mouth.

  Cold? Arka wondered. It's warm out here.

  Rhavas pulled his crocodile skin coat tighter—it looked expensive and stiff—drawing the collar up to cover his neck.

  CLICK.

  The carved teak door across the room opened heavily.

  And in walked a mountain of flesh.

  Rams Ghandarvya. Arka held his breath, quickly recognizing the Duke of the western territories, a vast desert region. The man did not walk; he rolled.

  His body was a monument to grotesque obesity. The golden silk suit encasing him screamed for help, buttons stretched to their limit holding back an explosion of belly fat. His bald head was slick with oil, reflecting the light like a wet billiard ball.

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  Rams moved toward a Chesterfield leather sofa. The process of sitting was a slow scene painful to watch. He rotated his rotund body, then dropped his colossal buttocks.

  CREAAAK...

  Even from this distance, Arka could "feel" the scream of the teak wood frame. The foam collapsed entirely, crushed by hundreds of kilograms of sin.

  Crazy, that sofa must cost a fortune, but it’s instantly scrap, Arka commented internally.

  Rhavas smiled thinly—a snake’s smile. He walked to the bar, pouring liquid from an unlabelled crystal decanter.

  The liquid was... strange.

  Its color was deep red, nearly black at the core. High viscosity. As it poured, it didn't splash cheerfully like wine, but flowed slow and heavy like engine oil... or arterial blood.

  Rhavas offered it to Rams.

  "Wine from the East," Rhavas said. His lip movements were clearly readable by Arka’s sharp eyes.

  Rams, the golden pig, snatched the glass immediately.

  GLUG. GLUG.

  Two gulps. Crude. Without savoring. The thick liquid vanished down his wide gullet.

  Rhavas watched his guest with eyes hard to interpret. Like he was examining livestock. He looked for a reaction on Rams’ face, but the face was too swollen with fat. Rams’ emotions were buried under layers of jowls and puffy cheeks.

  Rhavas raised his own glass, took a small sip with affected aristocratic flair, then set it back down.

  Then, Rhavas leaned forward. The shadow of the fireplace flames split his face into two sides: light and dark.

  His lips moved, whispering something that changed the room’s atmosphere instantly.

  "There is one seat still empty, Rams..."

  Rams’ reaction was instant.

  His bald face changed color. A deep flush crept up from his folded neck to his crown. He looked like a balloon ready to burst.

  SLAM!

  Rams’ fleshy hand struck the ebony table.

  The crystal glass on the table vibrated violently. The thick red liquid inside shook, ruining the tranquility of its surface.

  Rhavas? He was calm. He merely looked down, watching the liquid in his glass roil, waiting until the ripples stopped completely.

  Insane, this guy is ice cold, Arka thought, horrified.

  When the liquid settled, Rhavas looked up.

  "We are merely waiting."

  Rams’ chest heaved rapidly. The wheezing sound of his asthma seemed audible even to Arka’s ears. Veins bulged at his temples.

  "Madness..." Rams hissed, lips trembling in rage. "Discussing taboo subjects inside the King’s Palace?! Under the lion’s nose?! You have lost your mind... Rhavas Rahgaras."

  Rams’ beady eyes, usually closed by fat, now opened slightly wider. There was a dangerous glint there.

  Arka, on the distant balcony, felt the tension.

  Wow, he thought. I think I just tuned into a live broadcast of a coup plan.

  His paper butterfly shivered gently in the wind, but Arka held it steady. He didn't want to miss a single second of this high-stakes villain drama.

  Inside the soundproof room, Arka watched the scene heat up.

  Hearing Rams’ defensive threat, Rhavas did not flinch. He merely chuckled softly. The sound of his laughter was low, vibrating in his throat like a luxury car engine idling.

  "Heh..."

  Rhavas raised his crystal glass again, swirling it gently. The thick red liquid spun, creating a hypnotic little vortex of blood.

  "We are strategic, Rams..." Rhavas said casually. His manner of speaking was as if discussing stock prices, not treason. "I control the East and possess strength from the West. While you... you reign in the West and possess a vast 'sweet area' in the East..."

  Rhavas’ eyes glinted cunningly from behind the rim of his glass.

  "Isn't this a fine cage to frame the lands of Carta? We pinch the kingdom’s neck from two cardinal directions."

  Rams was unimpressed.

  The obese man drew a heavy breath, then with great difficulty folded his fatty arms across his chest. Crossed arms. Defensive stance.

  The Pig is scared, Arka concluded from the tree branch outside.

  Rams’ beady eyeballs darted wildly. Left, right, up, down. Paranoid movements. He stared at the ceiling, then glanced under the table.

  Arka knew what he was looking for: Cameras. Bugs. Spies.

  Seeing this behavior, Rhavas laughed openly.

  "Hahaha..."

  His laughter echoed, bouncing off the expensive wood walls.

  "Relax, Rams. No one sees us. This room is soundproof and blind to the outside world."

  Rams stopped searching, then looked at Rhavas with a scornful gaze.

  "Even the walls in this palace can see, Rhavas," Rams hissed. His voice was raspy, filled with fatalistic warning. "You think these stones are dead? No. These walls embrace each other, connecting vibrations from brick to brick, all the way to the walls of the King’s chamber."

  Rams spat slightly to the side. Disgust.

  "Die alone if you want to die. Don't drag me to hang in the square."

  After cursing, Rams performed a surprising maneuver.

  He leaned his body forward. His massive stomach pressed against the table edge, his breath wheezing loudly as his diaphragm was crushed. His face turned red, but he forced himself closer until his swollen face was only a handbreadth from Rhavas’ nose.

  The smell of Rams’ breath must have been horrendous. A mixture of expensive wine and stale fear.

  Rhavas? He did not retreat. He answered that fear with a display of power.

  Slowly, Rhavas raised his left hand. He brought his ring finger right in front of Rams’ protruding face.

  There, an ancient gold ring circled the finger, bearing a conspicuous gem.

  A Ruby.

  The stone was not merely red. It was a blazing scarlet, pulsing with eye-stinging intensity. Far more alive than the wine in Rhavas’ glass.

  That... Arka thought, that stone looks like my frozen blood this morning...

  Rams was forced to look at it. His beady eyes narrowed more extremely, the folds of fat around his eyelids wrinkling as he focused.

  "Ruby... Alagnar..." Rams hissed in disbelief.

  "Hahahaha..."

  Rhavas laughed with satisfaction, pulling his hand back.

  "Good eyes, Rams... You are indeed a reliable curator of antiques."

  He tapped the stone once. Ting.

  Its red glow expanded, creating a thin visual distortion in the air—a transparent dome.

  "Three meters," Rhavas said coldly. "This magic stone creates a three-meter area around us."

  He pointed to the wooden walls Rams feared.

  "Within this radius, everything you consider the 'King’s Eyes' is dull. Those walls are blind. Those ears are deaf."

  Rhavas grinned widely.

  "CCTV, bugs, surveillance magic... in their eyes, we are just two old friends sitting quietly, getting drunk, and laughing stupidly. Our voices die here."

  Arka out there smiled crookedly. But my butterfly sees everything, Uncle.

  The explanation should have calmed Rams. But the fat man snorted roughly instead. He pulled his bloated body back against the sofa rest.

  "Tch," Rams spat.

  He stared at Rhavas sharply.

  "I am not your friend, Rhavas. My friend would never deliver my neck to the butcher's knife just for his mad ambition."

  Rhavas stayed silent, letting Rams struggle to stand.

  Rams’ fleshy hands gripped the sofa arms. With one massive push and a suppressed grunt, the colossal body lifted. The leather sofa beneath him sighed in relief, its foam expanding back after the torture.

  "Hhhrrrhhh..."

  The sound of Rams’ breath filled the room. Rough wheezing from lungs crushed by fat.

  Rams turned his body, beginning to roll angrily toward the door.

  "Rams," called Rhavas. He remained sitting pretty, his tone ice cold.

  "Leaving my seat and refusing this conversation... that is not good for your health."

  Rhavas swirled his wine glass again.

  "You had best return here. To your seat. We haven't finished exchanging greetings."

  The steps of the ball of fat halted.

  Rams turned his head. Rotating half his body with great difficulty. His face was now dark purple.

  "Rhavas," Rams growled, spittle flying. "Do not use your pretty words to threaten me."

  His beady eyes flashed savagely.

  "Who do you think you are?"

  He pointed at Rhavas with a sausage-like index finger.

  "House Ghandarvya will use sugar to drown House Rahgaras right now! I will ensure my warehouses spill their contents over your stone house. High mounds of sweet crystal... which will simultaneously become your tomb!"

  The threat is... sugar? Arka wondered. Rich people have a different way of threatening.

  Without waiting for a reply, Rams turned, continuing his roll. He reached the double doors, pulled the handle, and slammed them with all his might.

  SLAMMMM!

  The sound of the impact exploded within the room.

  Rhavas closed his eyes for a moment, disturbed by the inelegant noise. He took a deep breath, enjoying the returned silence.

  His eyes opened, staring at his wine glass.

  "Sugar..." Rhavas murmured. "A pity, I prefer something salty, like blood."