Prince Konrad’s decision to solicit Arno’s support had been reached after careful deliberation.

  Others might have assumed that Arno’s exile to Pramisburg had severed his ties to capital politics, rendering him irrelevant in the imperial court. But these vulgar observers failed to realize that no matter how remote his post or how obscure his exile, Arno’s political influence among the capital’s highest echelons remained undiminished. The status of Sacred Bloodline and Golden Noble ensured that his words carried weight with the top-tier nobles who shared his divine lineage, commanding serious consideration from those of equal standing in the hierarchy of sacred blood.

  This innate "talent" bestowed by birth was beyond the imagination of ordinary nobles.

  The empire exiled dozens of nobles each year, but none like Arno remained under the scrutiny of the capital’s true power brokers even from a border city far from the imperial heart. If Arno were to openly and clearly support him, Konrad would gain a greater chance of securing an advantageous fiefdom in the upcoming allocation, laying a better foundation for his future rule.

  Failing to become a grand duke meant eventual extinction after several generations, as the law of title reduction applied to all princes and princesses. "Extinction by the fourth generation" described the fate of nobles who fell from grace.

  When Konrad first revealed his purpose, Arno was clearly stunned, as it differed entirely from his speculations. Initially, he had thought Prince Konrad’s visit to Pramisburg was influenced by Yoberg, intending to cause trouble—a conclusion supported by aggregated intelligence. But he quickly realized the arrogance of guessing the prince’s motives based on superficial information: born into the royal family and exposed to intrigue from childhood, even a mediocre prince like Konrad would not be manipulated by royal in-laws.

  This concerned his vital interests and personal safety.

  So what was Prince Konrad’s purpose? Setting aside the dazzling information and focusing on the essence—since all political actors’ actions revolve around interests—Arno speculated that Konrad aimed to profit from Pramisburg’s rise. Monopolistic operations inevitably created powerful interest groups, and it was natural for Konrad to seek a share if he intended to intervene.

  To put it bluntly, if Arno were not a Golden Noble with Sacred Blood, he would have been reduced to ashes by now had he not compromised. Top-tier nobles would not allow such a "monster" to grow healthily; if they could not use him, they would destroy him.

  This was why Arno had publicly delivered a warning to Konrad, making it clear that any attempt to obtain more benefits than allowed would lead to an open break.

  Only the situation had changed too quickly, and he had misunderstood.

  As his thoughts raced, Arno sorted out the logic, gazing at Prince Konrad and weighing the pros and cons. What benefits would supporting the emperor’s favorite son bring? Clearly, no substantial advantages. Though Konrad would seem powerful with a fiefdom after fiefdom allocation, it had nothing to do with Arno. The fiefdom was not granted to Arno, nor would its taxes go to him; instead, he would offend other princes, princesses, and their supporting nobles.

  The decline of House Goldthorn was precisely because previous clan leaders repeatedly backed the wrong factions, leading to their current state step by step.

  After clarity, he said, "I need to deliberate carefully before giving you an answer."

  Prince Konrad nodded without urging, pausing before continuing, "Additionally, I am interested in Pramisburg’s development. We may have opportunities for cooperation."

  Arno tilted his head slightly, assuming a listening posture—he wanted to hear the conditions Konrad would offer, while the last trace of doubt vanished from his mind.

  "I have funds to invest here and can smooth relations in certain departments, such as the Military Ministry, Ministry of Civil Affairs, Council of Elders, and Imperial Diet," he said, scanning the hall with his eyes. "The help these people can offer is far inferior to mine. Different approaches yield different results."

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  His words were not baseless. Who were the hall’s attendees? Commoners, mercenary captains, slave traders, workshop owners, bandit leaders—all operated at the grassroots level, a world apart from Konrad’s elite connections.

  After a moment of consideration, Arno said word by word, "I welcome anyone who sees potential in Pramisburg to invest and develop here, provided they abide by the rules I have established. Since Your Highness has this intention, I believe there will be no major issues." He beckoned to Salkomo, who stood not far away, adjusting his already neat attire and approaching with a wine glass. "This is one of the presidents of Bell Province’s chamber of commerce, responsible for Pramisburg’s commercial affairs. You may consult with him."

  After Salkomo bowed, Arno patted his arm. "Remember, principles cannot be compromised. I will not interfere in other matters." He smiled at the prince. "You two talk; I’ll go over there."

  Far from the feasting and revelry, a procession of over a hundred people stopped to camp in the wilderness. A dozen shabby carriages formed a circle, with people huddling around campfires to gather warmth in the cold winter. Mutton roasted over the flames, its fat sizzling and filling the air with an appetizing aroma.

  Terman wrapped his thick fur coat tighter, almost forgetting how to spend a winter night in the wild. With five layers of clothing, he still felt the cold to his bones. He moved his body, stood up, and stomped his nearly numb feet, staring in the direction he had come from with endless hatred in his eyes.

  A battle that he had considered effortless had escalated to this state, making him hate Arno and, even more, Yoberg and several other families. He knew he had been betrayed—by his own arrogance. While others held back, he alone believed Yoberg’s lies, his arrogance robbing him of discernment and trapping him.

  As the defeated party, he had exhausted his family wealth to secure a life through the Death Pardon Edict, marking the end of his good days. Now he had to go to the capital, surviving under the Council of Elders’ protection and seeking a slim chance of survival.

  From enjoying endless wealth to enduring a long, cold night in the wilderness, he felt a surge of sorrow, nearly in tears. Gazing at his clansmen’s desolate faces, he was consumed by self-blame.

  "Lord Terman, the mutton is ready. Please try some," a clansman said, bringing torn mutton on a wooden plate. He nodded heavily—he still had hope. Even if it meant crawling at the feet of powerful nobles as a lackey, it was better than dying with past honors. He had a responsibility to rebuild the clan and thus must preserve his health.

  The winter night was exceptionally long and dark, with snow falling again after a pause. Except for a dozen watchmen, others crowded into drafty carriages, shivering to sleep.

  As the night wore on, dawn seemed near. The campfires had died, radiating their last traces of heat.

  Suddenly, faint horse hooves approached from a distance. The watchmen, exhausted from staying up all night, had fallen into a deep sleep and failed to notice the abnormal sound. Over a thousand knights, their horses’ hooves wrapped in cloth and mouths muzzled, advanced through the darkness.

  A blade flashed, and hot blood bloomed in the icy air with a soft "pop".

  It was a massacre without a shred of mercy, only endless indifference.

  At the first piercing scream, the small camp instantly fell into chaos. People in the carriages hurriedly put on their clothes, but before they could exit, lances pierced the thin carriage walls and their bodies. It was an unequal slaughter, calculated and clean.

  The elderly Terman slept lightly. At the first scream, he put on his cloak and exited the carriage. In the dark, he saw dense knights reaping lives, and in an instant, he felt icy cold, collapsing to his knees powerlessly. Glaring at the knights stabbing lances into the carriages, his life was consumed by thick despair.

  A rush of wind in his ear—he turned to see a cold glint approaching. Before the cold light touched his body, he felt a sharp pain on his face.

  After a hum, the knight passed by. He touched his neck, feeling a gash gradually opening. With a dull thud, a headless body fell into his view.

  Was this himself?

  There was no response. His vision blurred, and consciousness was finally swallowed by darkness.

  The killing lasted less than five minutes. When it ended, the knights put away their weapons and dragged out the bodies pierced with holes from the carriages, arranging them neatly on the ground. Two trembling servants, threatened by swords, identified each corpse one by one. A knight beside them marked names in a small notebook based on their identifications. Soon, over a hundred bodies were accounted for.

  The two servants were not spared; two daggers pierced their hearts almost simultaneously.

  "None are missing; all are here," said the leading knight, his expression unchanged, as if accustomed to such slaughter. His hoarse voice was like an aged millstone. "Clean up and burn everything. Leave no traces."

  Moments later, flames tore the darkness, ushering in the dawn. A new day had arrived!