Mistress Cheng did not stop where she stood.

  The old woman moved forward, dragging her five layers of silk with surprising speed. The pungent aroma of old powder and jasmine flowers instantly assaulted Arka’s olfactory senses.

  She leaned her face in, invading Arka’s personal space without permission.

  Their distance was so close Arka could see the topographic map on the woman’s face. When Mistress Cheng growled suppressing her anger, the subtle vibration in her jaw cracked the layer of putty on her face.

  Poof... poof...

  Arka saw clearly grains of white powder falling from the wrinkled face, landing like micro snow on the shoulder of his black suit.

  Arka froze, daring not to breathe, fearing his exhale would crumble the rest of the woman’s face.

  Suddenly, a wrinkled hand with gold nail guards reached out.

  Pinch.

  She pinched Arka’s cheek. Hard.

  The skin of Arka’s cheek was pulled, twisted slightly, its elasticity checked as if Arka were cattle at a livestock market.

  Ouch... Arka winced internally.

  The hand moved upward. Fingers with sharp nails combed roughly through Arka’s still-damp hair, checking its texture, checking his hairline.

  Mistress Cheng’s eyes stared at Arka with a confusing look. There was a flash of hatred seeing Rajendra’s shadow there, but at the same time, a strange fondness. Like someone who hates cats but can't resist petting an ugly stray passing by.

  Between wanting to slap and wanting to hug.

  "Hmph," she snorted roughly, finally releasing Arka’s face.

  She looked Arka up and down once more, then snorted long.

  "Lucky you are his grandson."

  Her tone implied: If not, I would have wiped you from the face of the earth five minutes ago.

  Without warning, Mistress Cheng spun her body dramatically. Her silk rustled loudly, fanning wind into Arka’s face as she walked back to the far end of her dining table.

  She threw herself back into her grand chair, then waved her gold-nailed hand casually.

  "Servant," she called lazily yet absolutely.

  "Get another chair."

  Her eyes glanced at Arka briefly, then refocused on the roast pig in front of her.

  "For my grandson who came from afar."

  Arka still stood frozen in place, his hand unconsciously holding his red, hot cheek from the deadly pinch earlier.

  He turned to William. The Blond looked relieved to death, shoulders dropping drastically as if the weight of the world had just been lifted.

  But Arka was still processing his new status.

  Grandson, damn, Arka thought in disbelief.

  His fate was truly a plot twist. From a stranger about to be skinned, now forcibly adopted as the grandson of the Northern ruler just because of his grandfather’s toxic romantic history.

  Your charm is really something, Gramps... Arka muttered softly, shaking his head as a servant hurriedly brought a velvet chair for him.

  With a forced thin smile, Arka pulled the chair and sat.

  Poof.

  The chair foam was soft, but Arka could see the Blond’s back rigid at 90 degrees. Alert. As if the velvet chair had teeth and could bite his butt at any moment.

  But that wasn't what made Arka’s eyes bulge in disbelief.

  At the far end of the long table, Mistress Cheng was conducting a culinary slaughter demonstration.

  All noble etiquette books—teaching how to hold a fork, how to wipe a mouth prettily, and the order from appetizer to dessert—had been thrown in the trash and burned.

  The old woman ate ravenously. Savage.

  Her wrinkled hand adorned with jade rings snatched a roast turkey leg, tearing the meat with teeth that were surprisingly still strong. Grease dripped heavily onto her powdered chin, but she didn't care.

  Before the turkey in her mouth was finished, she had already grabbed a boiled crab.

  Arka winced in horror at the grotesque sight.

  Long crab legs still protruded from Mistress Cheng’s red-lipsticked mouth, twitching as she chewed shell and meat simultaneously.

  Crunch. Crack.

  Damn... are her teeth made of steel or what? Arka thought, horrified.

  The woman’s left hand grabbed a wine glass, downed it roughly, then the next second the same finger scooped a cream-filled strawberry pie and shoved it into a mouth still smelling of fishy crab. After that, she sucked on melon juice.

  Crazy... Arka shook his head. No order. No pause. Sweet, salty, fishy, sour... all blended into one in her mouth. Is her stomach made of concrete?

  Suddenly, the manic eating motion stopped.

  Mistress Cheng looked up.

  The eyes behind the thick layer of powder stared at William sharply.

  Arka held his breath too. The old woman’s expression was totally dead. Under the putty mask and pile of thick clothes, there was no clue. Was she angry? Happy? Or just wanted more rice? She was like an idol statue demanding a sacrifice.

  Then, the greasy lips opened.

  "Eat plenty, Young Man," her voice rasped heavy, echoing down the long table. "I don't want to be blamed by Old Sagara or that Old Man Ironseat if one of his children dies of starvation on the warm floor of Black Keep."

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  Without waiting for an answer, Cheng’s hand grabbed a large beer mug—not a pretty crystal glass, but an iron tankard the size of a dock worker’s ration.

  Glug. Glug. Glug.

  She downed it greedily. Muscles in her wrinkled neck bobbed swallowing the liquid.

  After finishing, she slammed the glass onto the table hard.

  SLAM!

  "Hehehehe..." She chuckled, wiping her messy mouth with the back of her hand, exactly like a construction worker on payday.

  Arka turned to William.

  The Blond fell silent for a moment. He stared at the empty plate and the row of neatly arranged silver cutlery in front of him.

  Arka could see the gears in William’s brain spinning fast. He realized. At this table, politeness was an insult. This wasn't fine dining. This was a test of guts.

  William exhaled a short breath. The corner of his lip lifted crookedly, a reckless smile Arka rarely saw.

  Whoa, what's he gonna do? Arka wondered curiously.

  William ignored his knife and fork.

  He stood slightly, reached into the center of the table, and with bare hands he snatched a whole roast chicken.

  "Oy?!" Arka gaped.

  Hot oil and spices instantly coated his delicate noble fingers.

  Without a second of hesitation, William lifted the whole chicken to his mouth and bit directly into the breast. Brutal.

  CHOMP.

  He tore the meat roughly, imitating his host’s style. William’s cheeks bulged full. Grease flowed at the corner of his lips.

  Awesome, Arka praised silently, smiling wide. The Tidy Kid can be wild too apparently.

  While chewing, William glanced at the end of the table.

  Mistress Cheng stopped chewing. Those old eyes stared at William, then narrowed slightly. There was a glint of recognition there. As if saying: Not bad mentality, Kid.

  Mistress Cheng resumed her dinner, this time with more enthusiasm.

  After swallowing the chicken meat whole, William raised his voice to be heard across the six-meter distance between them.

  "Rest assured, Marquis Cheng!" William exclaimed, tone casual but respectful, waving the chicken leg in his hand like a command baton.

  "I will tell Father that my nutrition here is very fulfilled. Even overflowing!"

  William patted his own stomach covered by a silk vest with greasy hands.

  "I'll show the scale numbers to my Father later! My weight will surely increase drastically returning from the North. He will have no reason to send a complaint letter to you!"

  Mistress Cheng fell silent for a moment.

  Then, her shoulders covered in five layers of clothes shook violently.

  "Khkhkhkhkh... Hahahaha!"

  The old woman chuckled raspily. Her laughter sounded like grinding stones painful to the ears, but at least she didn't make things difficult for them.

  For Arka, this was paradise.

  He didn't care about table etiquette. He had just beaten up undead, frozen in a storm, and hadn't eaten properly since the capital.

  Arka grabbed a smoked venison leg, bit huge chunks, then spooned the orange sauce directly into his mouth. Delicious. So delicious. His tongue danced disco.

  But when he turned to the side, the view was different.

  William looked... dying.

  The Blond’s face was deathly pale, greenish around the mouth. His Adam's apple bobbed with difficulty every time he swallowed meat.

  Poor kid, Arka thought while chewing casually. Really obvious he's holding back vomit.

  Arka could see cold sweat seeping on William’s temples. His stomach must be screaming for mercy. But for noble pride and this crazy diplomacy, William kept grabbing chicken legs, forcing a wide smile that looked like a toothache, then biting.

  Crunch.

  Limitless totality, Arka praised silently, then focused back on his own plate. I wouldn't torture myself like that. While it's free, dig in.

  Arka shifted his gaze across the table.

  The view there was far more horrifying than William about to vomit.

  Pork fat oil and chicken sauce had flowed down past Mistress Cheng’s wrists, seeping into the gaps of her expensive layered silk sleeves.

  And her face...

  Half face down, the thick white powder had totally melted away washed by oil and food friction. Now her face was striped; forehead pale white like a corpse, but chin and lower cheeks naked displaying genuine wrinkled skin that was reddish and oily.

  Damn... Arka shuddered in horror, stopped chewing for a moment. She looks like a horror clown just finished slaughtering a circus.

  Suddenly, William put down his chicken bone. He wiped his lips with a napkin—mere formality—then looked straight into Cheng’s eyes.

  Arka knew, William’s "cunning diplomat" mode was active again.

  "The wooden chairs in the Ironseat round stone room..." William said softly. His voice calm, slicing the chewing silence.

  Arka pricked up his ears. "Ironseat? That supreme council?"

  Mistress Cheng stopped chewing for a moment, but her hand still held a beef rib dripping fat.

  "...of nine, five remain, Mistress."

  Silence.

  Only the sound of oil dripping onto the silver plate. Drip... Drip...

  Mistress Cheng’s eyes didn't blink. Slowly, the old woman raised both her dirty hands into the air.

  She began bending her greasy, sauce-covered fingers one by one.

  Tick. (One)

  Tick. (Two)

  ...until nine fingers bent, leaving her right thumb standing alone. A primitive and threatening counting gesture.

  William leaned forward slightly, ignoring his pale face for dramatic effect.

  "And the chair beside Theodore the senile..." William smirked, eyes glinting cunningly. "...is still empty."

  Mistress Cheng reacted. She snatched a giant white cloth napkin.

  Swipe. Wipe.

  With a rough movement insulting the fabric's fineness, Cheng wiped her hands and mouth at once. Oil, sauce, and lipstick residue mixed into abstract stains on the white cloth.

  After finishing, she crumpled the dirty cloth into a ball, then threw it to the marble floor. Thud.

  The old woman leaned forward. Candlelight made her striped face look increasingly horrifying.

  "The chair to Theodore’s right..." she hissed, voice dropping an octave to a heavy whisper. "...belongs to Sanjaya."

  Instantly, the atmosphere in the room plummeted. Cold.

  Arka saw William’s reaction.

  The Blond’s knees seemed to wobble under the table. His shoulders tensed. William’s gaze implied pure fear.

  Sanjaya... Arka recalled. That crazy military family, right? The one with the red rose sigil?

  "Do not play with Sanjaya, Boy..." Cheng’s voice pierced sharply.

  "Did your Father tell you too little about how House Sanjaya truly is? Did your father forget to tell you their blood is hotter than hellfire?"

  Arka saw William’s hand under the table tremble slightly. He squeezed his own thigh to stop it. Clearly, the name Sanjaya held its own weight of trauma for capital nobles.

  William swallowed, trying hard to return his mask of courage. He cleared his throat, trying to shift the topic as fast as possible from that deadly subject.

  "What about..." William fixed his voice that had cracked. "...what about the chair to Blackmere’s left?"

  Silence again.

  Arka glanced at Mistress Cheng, curious what other political monster would be named.

  He saw the old woman’s face change.

  On the naked chin and lower cheeks without powder, Cheng’s facial muscles twitched. Her lips curved down. Her nose wrinkled in disgust.

  A very clear sneer.

  If the name Sanjaya triggered fear and respect, then this one triggered deep nausea. Like just stepping on dog poop.

  "That..." Cheng said with a disparaging tone, eyes glancing briefly at Arka holding a chicken leg.

  "...that old chair used to belong to Sagara."

  Arka stopped chewing. The chicken meat in his mouth suddenly tasted bland.

  Huh? Arka thought. Why am I hit again?

  Hearing his family name mentioned with such disgust, Arka only snorted softly. He was immune to insults, but still felt like throwing a chicken bone at that powdered face.

  However, he held it back. His eyes chose to look away, finding a distraction so his emotions wouldn't explode.

  His gaze landed on a dim corner of the room, outside the main candlelight reach.

  There, hung an ancient war banner.

  It wasn't just wall decoration. It was a statement of power.

  The fabric looked thick and heavy, perhaps ancient iron silk weave that had absorbed centuries of dust. The color was blood red darkened to almost black.

  And in the center of that cloth, embroidered a sigil that made Arka shiver.

  A giant Black Serpent.

  The embroidery was so detailed and alive. Black scales reflected a little light, creating a wet and slick illusion. The snake was depicted coiling around something—a pillar, or perhaps an invisible enemy’s neck.

  Between the coils of the muscular snake body, ancient calligraphy was stitched with dull gold thread:

  LEIYIN.

  The position of the writing was terrifying.

  The name "Leiyin" wasn't placed above or below the snake. The name was inside the snake’s coils.

  The black snake was depicted constricting that name with lethal pressure. Its snake muscles bulged, as if crushing whatever was in its grip to dust.

  Constricting to death.

  Crazy philosophy, Arka thought, staring horrified at the flag.

  That wasn't a symbol of protection. That was a symbol of total dominance. Obsession. A grip that would never be released until the object was destroyed or surrendered.

  Arka glanced back at Mistress Cheng tearing rib meat with teeth and greasy hands.

  That old woman and the snake on the flag... they were one species.

  No wonder Grandpa ran away, Arka thought, this time with a bit of sympathy for his playboy grandfather. Who could stand being hugged by a python whose hobby is crushing bones?

  Arka swallowed his last piece of chicken with difficulty.

  In this fortress, you either become the snake... or become the prey constricted to death.