The man thought the plan would work.

The intelligence was precise, and their sheer number of troops was overwhelming. Everything was in place for a swift and decisive victory. Yet now, as he lay on the ground amidst the carnage the figure above him had inflicted. The cold reality of his miscalculations bore down on him.

“Did you think it would work?” The voice was calm, almost mocking, as if the speaker already knew the answer. It was a rhetorical question, one not meant to be answered but to deepen the sting of failure. Oscar’s boots were pressed firmly against the neck of the man on the ground, a final act of dominance over someone who had underestimated him.

The sky above was a dark canvas, devoid of stars as if the heavens themselves refused to bear witness to the gruesome scene below. The interrogator’s silhouette, backlit by the faint glow of a dying fire, loomed over his victim like a harbinger of death. He was a man who could sever limbs without the slightest hesitation, a man who had once walked to his death only to reverse the roles, guiding his would-be executioner to his doom instead.

Oscar’s tousled black hair clung to his forehead, matted with sweat and grime, while his icy blue eyes—unblinking and unnervingly focused—glared down at the man who had dared to challenge him. His appearance, marred by the blood and dirt of battle, still held an inhuman beauty, his features sharp and unyielding like a finely sculpted statue.

As he inhaled deeply from his cigarette, a smirk played on his lips, accentuating the cruel twist of his mouth. “If you knew it would turn out like this, would you have come? Eh?” His voice was laced with cold amusement, as if the answer, irrelevant as it was, might offer him some small comfort in this moment of grim satisfaction.

The man on the ground, his life ebbing away with each laboured breath, could only manage a strangled gurgle in response. His hands clawed weakly at the dirt, trying in vain to push against the oppressive weight on his neck. But Oscar remained unmoved, merely watching as the life drained from his victim’s eyes, the final spark of defiance extinguished.

Behind Oscar, the aftermath of the battle unfolded in eerie silence. The blood-soaked wilderness stretched out in every direction; a desolate landscape littered with the bodies of the fallen. Men in dark suits moved among the corpses with quiet efficiency, dragging the dead into shallow graves while vultures circled ominously above, waiting for their feast.

“We’ve captured two alive,” one of the men reported, his voice cutting through the silence. “The rest are confirmed dead.”

Oscar finally lifted his boot, allowing the now-lifeless body to slump to the ground. With a deliberate calm, he rubbed the blood off his boot using the dead man’s clothes as if wiping away an insignificant stain. “Bury the dead,” he ordered, “and make the ones we captured talk.”

“Understood. What about the remaining schedule?” The man’s tone was respectful, almost reverent, as he awaited further instructions.

Oscar took his time, finishing his cigarette before carelessly tossing it aside. Removing his black gloves, he glanced at the man beside him, his expression unreadable. “A promise is a promise, Simon,” he said, a hint of irony in his voice. “Of course, that idiot wanted me dead here, but too bad.”

As he walked across the battlefield, stepping over bodies with a casual disregard, men dressed in black suits emerged from the shadows, forming a silent honour guard along his path. Their movements were precise and synchronised, a showing of the discipline and loyalty they held for their master. Oscar climbed into the waiting carriage, wiping his hands and face with a damp cloth. The blood on his sleeve was a minor inconvenience, not worth the effort of changing clothes.

He tossed the blood-stained cloth into a corner, his gaze drifting to the window. The carnage outside was a stark reminder of the brutality of war, a constant presence in his life that he had grown weary of. There were only two ways to escape this endless cycle of violence: by severing the head of Luxen’s King Leopold or by succumbing to death himself.

But death was not an option for Oscar. He had no intention of losing, of sacrificing any part of himself in the pursuit of victory. He wanted an absolute, overwhelming triumph that would leave no room for doubt or opposition. His mind was fixed on this goal, unwavering in its determination.

He lit another cigarette, the bitter smoke filling the carriage, mingling with the lingering scent of blood. His eyes, cold and unyielding as ever, reflected the icy resolve within him. What he sought was not just any victory—it was a flawless, bloodless victory that would cement his place in history as an unrivalled strategist.

In the city of Felphe, there wasn’t a soul who didn’t know of the luxurious stone mansion by the Daube River. A relic of a bygone era, the mansion had once been a gift from a king to his beloved mistress, a woman who had captivated him like no other. Over the course of a century, the mansion had changed hands many times, serving various purposes—from a theatre to a summer residence for nobles. Yet, fifty years after the king’s mistress had passed away, the mansion reclaimed its original name: Arman Rose.

Arman Rose was more than just a building; it was a symbol of Felphe’s history and culture, a place steeped in scandal and opulence. In a city where prostitution was not only legal but thriving, the Arman Rose Mansion was the most famous den of pleasure. Unlike the common brothels hidden away in back alleys, Arman Rose catered to a different clientele—royalty and nobility from across the Norfolk continent. A single night within its walls could cost as much as two months of living expenses for an average middle-class household.

When the mansion hosted well-known figures on certain nights, its earnings could surpass those of an entire month for most businesses. Today was one of those nights.

“He finally arrives!” The gatekeeper, ever vigilant, called out as a carriage approached the mansion’s grand entrance. Kathryn, the owner of Arman Rose, hurriedly stubbed out her cigarette, her hands trembling slightly with anticipation. “What is His Grace doing?” she asked, her voice betraying a rare hint of nervousness.

The man who approached her shook his head; his expression grim. “It’s chaos already. The doors are locked and won’t open. The Duke’s secretary is pleading to buy some time.”

Kathryn’s intuition, honed by decades in the business, told her that something was amiss. The guest who was expected to visit Arman Rose today was no ordinary patron. He was a figure of immense power and influence, known to everyone in East Norfolk.

While Duke Baden, the half-brother of the King of Felphe and president of the Bank of Felphe, was indeed a significant person, he paled in comparison to the Marquis of Reinhardt of the Kingdom of Luxen. The Marquis’ presence at Arman Rose was not merely a social visit; it was an event of monumental importance that could have far-reaching consequences.

Kathryn’s mind raced as she considered the implications. The Marquis of Reinhardt was not a man to be trifled with. His reputation for ruthlessness and cunning was well-deserved, and any misstep in dealing with him could be disastrous.

As she stood at the entrance, waiting for the Marquis’ arrival, Kathryn couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight would be different from any other night at Arman Rose. The air was thick with tension, the kind that preceded a storm. And Kathryn, ever the shrewd businesswoman, knew that she had to be prepared for whatever might come her way.

Kathryn’s heart skipped a beat as the carriage door opened and the Marquis stepped out. She forced herself to remain calm and greet him with the grace and poise that Arman Rose was known for. But deep down, she knew that this encounter would be anything but ordinary.

The strange feeling began when Duke Baden arrived at the Arman Rose Mansion much earlier than anticipated and with an entourage of uninvited guests. His arrival disrupted the carefully laid plans meticulously crafted for the evening. The Duke, known for his indulgent tastes, wasted no time asserting his presence. He drank wine like water, each bottle worth a small fortune, between fifty to a hundred million Kerte. The vintage wine was not a rare treat for him but a mere refreshment to complement the impromptu billiards game he had started with the men he brought along.

Kathryn, the owner of the Arman Rose Mansion, observed this with growing unease. The appointment was fast approaching, yet there was no sign that the Duke was preparing to welcome the guest he was supposed to meet. Instead, he seemed intent on raising the level of revelry, turning what was meant to be a formal meeting into a boisterous party. His behaviour was undeniably rude, not just in the ordinary sense of the word but in a way that signalled something more—disrespect, even defiance.

There was only one scenario in which such behaviour could be interpreted as anything other than outright insolence: if the Marquis of Reinhardt, the guest who was supposed to meet with Duke Baden, had no intention of showing up. That would explain the Duke’s nonchalance, his utter disregard for decorum. But that assumption was swiftly overturned when Kathryn received word that the Marquis of Reinhardt had arrived.

Her heart skipped a beat as she processed the implications. Swallowing nervously, she turned to the woman standing beside her—a striking figure with a dress cut so low that it left little to the imagination. The plunging neckline barely covered her ample chest, a sight so alluring that even Kathryn, with her decades of experience in the business, could understand the magnetic pull it had on men. But it wasn’t just her figure; the woman had a face that could make anyone pause, a foolishly innocent smile that belied the gravity of her presence, and a voice that, while sultry, never crossed the line into vulgarity.

In Kathryn’s experienced eyes, Anna, as the woman was called, was a rare gem, a seductress par excellence. She was the kind of woman who could make even the most disciplined of men falter, the kind who could make the powerful forget their power. Kathryn knew that unless a man was a eunuch, he would not stand a chance against her charms, especially not in a place like this.

“Anna,” Kathryn said, her voice steadying as she gave her final instructions.

The carriage wheels rolling to a stop signalled the Marquis’ arrival. Kathryn straightened her attire, adjusted the collar of her classic dress, and buttoned it to her neck. The dress was deliberately conservative, making her look more like a housekeeper in a royal palace than a brothel owner. As she stepped toward the wide-open main door, she whispered to Anna, “This man could spend the budget of five years for Felphe in one night.”

The foolish look in Anna’s eyes vanished, replaced by a sharp, calculating gaze. The transformation was instantaneous as if the allure she exuded was a weapon she could wield at will.

“A man who could spend the budget of five years for Felphe in one night,” Kathryn repeated, letting the weight of her words sink in. It was no exaggeration. The Marquis of Reinhardt was not just any nobleman. He was the owner of the railway that spanned the continent, the head of a giant steel company that fuelled the entire Norfolk continent’s industry, and the leader of the prestigious Reinhardt family. Moreover, he had achieved all this through his efforts, and he was still young, with a future as bright as his past was formidable.

“If you play your cards right,” Kathryn continued, her voice low and conspiratorial, “it wouldn’t even compare to being the king’s mistress.”

Anna remained silent, absorbing the implications. Kathryn’s eyes narrowed as she delivered her final instruction, “So, buy us some time. Just until the Duke realises the Marquis has arrived.”

The moment she finished speaking, the carriage came to a halt. Kathryn’s serious expression melted into a welcoming smile that was as warm and inviting as false. She moved forward to greet the Marquis as though she were welcoming a long-lost relative, someone she hadn’t seen in years. Meanwhile, Anna stayed by the door, ready to intercept the Marquis immediately.

“Welcome, Your Excellency. We’ve been expecting you,” Kathryn greeted, her voice honeyed with respect.

But the Marquis did not respond. The only sound that followed her greeting was the firm, deliberate rhythm of his footsteps on the marble floor. His presence was intimidating, a force filling the air with a palpable tension.

As Anna prepared to play her role, she glanced at the Marquis, her expression carefully crafted to be both demure and enticing. She planned to block his path, to make him pause, perhaps long enough for the Duke to make his entrance. Her hand moved instinctively to cover her chest as though embarrassed by the deep cut of her dress, even though this was the exact reaction she had been trained to provoke.

Yet, as the Marquis approached, Anna could not execute her plan. He walked past her with a brisk, decisive stride, his focus so intense that it was as if she did not exist. Her carefully laid trap was rendered useless by the sheer force of his indifference. All she could do was watch in dumbfounded silence as he moved away, his broad shoulders and tall stature diminishing her in his wake.

Anna couldn’t recall the details of his face; it had all happened too quickly. Yet, in those brief moments, she knew she had never seen a man with such aura of power and beauty. He was unlike any other she had encountered at Arman Rose, and she had met more than her fair share of influential men.

Kathryn noticed Anna’s bewilderment and nudged her sharply in the waist. Anna hastily regained her composure and followed after the Marquis, though he was already turning the landing and ascending the stairs.

Anna looked up, her eyes following the man’s figure as he ascended. His slightly wavy black hair seemed tousled yet perfectly in place, as though styled to give off an air of casual nonchalance. His deep-set eyes, framed by dark lashes, contrasted sharply with his nose’s straight, prominent lines. Each step he took was confident, almost languid, as though the concept of urgency was beneath him. He carried himself with a complete absence of manners, but this very lack of conventionality made him all the more formidable.

“Your Excellency,” Kathryn called out, her voice tinged with urgency, but the Marquis did not so much as glance in her direction. He either did not hear her or chose not to acknowledge her presence. Anna tried to catch up by rushing up the stairs but could not match the Marquis’ pace or the four men following closely behind him.

Their strides were wide and unhesitating as if they had no time for the pleasantries or formalities expected in such a place. Even the waiter leading them had to break into a run to keep up, his breath coming in short gasps. As for Kathryn, she was left clutching her skirt, hurrying to keep pace, while Anna, who was supposed to slow down the Marquis, was now trailing behind, completely out of the equation.

The waiter’s presence became unnecessary once they entered the corridor leading to the private chambers. The Duke’s secretary was already waiting anxiously at the door, his face a mask of barely concealed panic. He knew what was at stake, and the arrival of the Marquis of Reinhardt, without the Duke being prepared to receive him, spelt trouble.

Oscar Reinhardt did not tolerate delays or excuses. His reputation for ruthless efficiency was well-known, and any deviation from the schedule could be interpreted as an insult. The secretary’s hands trembled as he prepared to inform the Marquis of the situation, fully aware that the consequences of any misstep could be severe.

But the secretary’s resolve faltered as the Marquis and his men approached. Oscar’s presence was overwhelming, a reminder that only the strongest and most decisive survived in the world of power. The secretary swallowed hard, his mind racing to find a way to salvage the situation, but deep down, he knew that whatever happened next was beyond his control, for Oscar Reinhardt had arrived.

The marquis’s unyielding steps came to a halt a few paces before the door, and as if on cue, the four men following him stopped just as abruptly.

The Duke’s secretary, pale with anxiety since catching sight of the marquis, looked like he was about to faint. His was not the only face that had turned white as a sheet. The noisy clatter of shoes suddenly stopped, and a heavy silence descended as if it were a tangible presence. But that silence was soon marred by a distinctly uncomfortable sound that began to emerge.

“Ah… Uhn…!”

“Do you like it? Have you become this wet from pleasure?”

“Yes… Yes, Your Highness…”

“More… suck harder, more.”

It was as if the scene beyond the door was vividly painted in their minds.

The marquis let out a snort of disbelief. Chuckling softly for a long moment, he finally wiped his face with a hand and then spoke to the trembling secretary in a gentle tone.

“Go ahead and announce me and open the door.”

“Y-Your Grace…”

“Open the door.”

The grand duke’s secretary looked desperately toward Kathryn, who was standing at a distance as if clinging to the last shred of hope.

Kathryn quickly nudged Anna forward.

People often fear the fist that is close by more than the authority that is far away. This was Felphe, and here, the grand duke’s secretary was a more immediate threat than the young marquis of Luxen.

Anna pushed forward against her will and suddenly found herself surrounded by the four men who had been following the marquis. The marquis, who had been looking straight ahead the entire time, finally turned around. He then addressed Kathryn, the mistress of the Arman Rose estate and a long-serving courtesan.

“Do you have the key?”

When neither Kathryn nor Anna, standing nearby, could manage to do more than gape like a fish out of water, he smiled.

Was his unkempt black hair just a ploy to set up this smile? The eyes that had seemed so deep and shadowed now gleamed a striking shade of blue, and a small dimple appeared beneath his well-shaped lips.

That smile made this rugged, mature man seem almost boyish, causing everyone to momentarily forget the danger he exuded just moments before.

After leaving everyone slightly off-kilter with his smile, he slowly nodded.

“All right then.”

Then he turned to face forward once more.

Everyone, including Anna, held their breath, feeling like they were balanced on the blade’s edge.

“Ah! Ah, Your Highness… Your Highness…!”

The trouble was that those on the other side of the door, who one would hope might sense the tension, were far too engrossed in their debauchery.

Oscar took his time walking up to the door, from which the sounds of obscene moaning continuously seeped, threatening to corrupt all who heard. Staring at the door, he made a final assessment of the consequences of his actions and the opportunity costs involved.

The deliberation didn’t take long.

Oscar shoved his hand into his pocket. Then, with a glance towards the men behind him, they immediately stepped forward, striding confidently towards the door that led to the Duke’s room and-

Bang!

They forced it open with ease.

As the plump backside of the woman shook up and down, the nasal moans grew even more explicit. When the man roughly grabbed her breasts as if to tear them apart, she ground her pelvis even harder against his erect member, rubbing with abandon.

“Ha… more… more… Shake it harder.”

At the man’s command, the woman beneath him, moving with increasing ferocity, intensified her pace.