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After receiving their father's permission, the children quickly dispersed. Each of them was eager to prove that they were the most suitable successor.

Once the children had all left, the Provincial Governor remained seated in his chair. His elbow rested on the armrest, his chin propped up by his knuckles as he lost himself in thought. The butler entered shortly after and began tidying up the study once more. This room contained many important documents, and no maids or other servants were allowed inside.

As the butler prepared to leave, the Provincial Governor suddenly posed a question. "What do you think? Whose approach was best?"

The butler had been standing outside the door while the Governor had questioned his five children about their solutions. The Provincial Governor hadn't bothered to hide anything from him. In truth, there were times when the butler knew far more confidential matters than any of the Provincial Governor's own children.

The butler bowed slightly, keeping his head lowered. "Master, I don't understand such things."

The Provincial Governor chuckled softly. "You do. You understand better than anyone—better than all of them…" He sighed, a hint of melancholy creeping into his voice.

The butler and the Provincial Governor had grown up together. When the Provincial Governor was around eight or nine years old, the butler had begun serving at his side, initially as a protector. Back then, though the ruling class's power struggles had largely stabilized, ripples of intrigue, betrayal, and assassination attempts still occasionally surfaced.

It was futile to expect a Provincial Governor with many children to show genuine concern for the emotional growth or safety of any one son. Such matters were better handled independently. To put it bluntly—and perhaps cruelly—when faced with the choice between power and family, men like the Provincial Governor, including his father, grandfather, and even the child who would one day inherit his position, would always choose power without hesitation.

With power in hand, one could have as many "family members" as desired.

Throughout their lives, the butler had, in some ways, filled the emotional voids left by the cold realities of a politically driven family. He stood in for the absent bonds between father and son, brothers, and among family members. Though not blood-related, their relationship was closer than kinship.

And yet… they were not truly family. This fact was especially clear to someone in power. The butler understood this well, which was why he never spoke out of turn. Even if the Provincial Governor's children made mistakes, the worst they would face was punishment or discomfort. But if the butler himself erred, it could mean the disappearance of both him and his entire family. Thus, he never took the Provincial Governor's occasional sentimental musings at face value—unless he wished to court death.

Seeing the butler remain bent over, head bowed, the Provincial Governor felt a flicker of irritation mixed with a strange sense of emptiness. Shifting his posture, he stretched his shoulders. "What has the eldest been up to recently?"

The butler's heart tightened. In an ordinary household, this might have sounded like a concerned father asking about his eldest son's work and life. But in a family ruled by absolute authority, such a question signaled a shift in the patriarch's attitude toward his firstborn.

"The young master has been very enthusiastic about attending salons lately…" The butler kept his head slightly lowered as he spoke. It wasn't that he was lying—he dared not lie to the Provincial Governor—but rather that he harbored some concern for the Provincial Governor's eldest son.

Sure enough, the Provincial Governor's eyebrows furrowed. "Salons?"

"Yes, it's essentially group discussions where participants gather around a given topic to share their thoughts." While the butler's description wasn't entirely accurate, it was close enough.

The Provincial Governor sneered. "It's nothing but an excuse for indulgence!" His assessment was spot-on. His brow furrowed again. "Who are the organizers?"

Who else but merchants? These businessmen understood how to leverage their wealth to gain influence. In Nagalier, a backward and ignorant land, they formed clubs and hosted salons, organizing various recreational activities at regular intervals.

For this impoverished and underdeveloped nation, anything imported from developed countries became an object of desire. Clubs and salons fulfilled that craving. The latest magazines, records, film reels—even items unseen elsewhere—could be found here.

These events attracted loyal patrons, and the merchants never demanded anything in return, making people even more eager to join. Yet, despite the seemingly harmless nature of these gatherings, the Provincial Governor's expression darkened.

He understood better than most just how fragile human life was. Before turning thirty, he had never considered death; it seemed distant. Before forty, he hadn't worried about waning energy—sleepless nights merely left him tired. Before fifty, he hadn't paid much attention to his health, believing himself invincible. But now he knew better. Life was fragile.

Everyone understood the intentions behind these merchants courting the offspring of those in power, whether they had a chance at succession or not. After all, opportunities were created by people themselves.

The Provincial Governor rubbed his face. "Keep an eye on him. Also, I feel uneasy about the current situation. Increase security…"

As he finished speaking, he glanced at the butler. Without looking up, the butler could feel the sharpness of the Provincial Governor's gaze piercing through him like a knife, quickening his pulse and drying his throat.

"I know what to do," the butler replied promptly.

The Provincial Governor's expression softened slightly. "You've always understood me. We grew up together. You're like a brother to me. Sometimes, you don't need to be so cautious."

The butler glanced up briefly before lowering his head again. "Master, I am but a servant."

"Fine, fine, suit yourself. Have those two girls come massage me again—I've only sat here a short while, and already I'm uncomfortable…" He complained, extending his hand. "Come, help me up."

……

While the Provincial Governor conversed with his children, someone else sought out Lynch.

It was a local magnate, a foreign merchant named Simon. Lynch noticed something intriguing about Mr. Simon and other foreign merchants he'd encountered—they were far more enthusiastic about wearing traditional local attire than the locals themselves.

This practice, in a way, conveyed a message: a declaration of solidarity, an attempt to blend in and seek acceptance. Among the various methods available, cultural identification was perhaps the most direct and effective means. Hence, these merchants wore native garments with greater zeal than anyone else.

Looking at the talisman hanging from Simon's chest, Lynch decided it might be prudent to wear his own. At the very least, it symbolized his respect and support for indigenous culture.

"Mr. Lynch, I hope I'm not disturbing your rest?" Simon's tone was gentle, his speech polite.

He was a man in his forties, about five feet six inches tall (approximately 170 cm, with the customary rounding-up), slightly overweight, and impeccably clean-shaven. Lynch welcomed him, shaking hands warmly. "Not at all…" After exchanging pleasantries, they sat down in the reception hall.

Simon's visit was related to Mishahaya. Behind him stood another influential family. He had reported the matter involving himself, Lynch, and the Provincial Governor's son to his superiors. If he didn't speak now, and trouble arose later, he'd bear the consequences alone. By informing those above, he hoped they might shield him.

When three people knew, soon four, five, and more would follow. It wasn't long before Mr. Pretton also learned of the matter. He immediately sent someone to visit Lynch, hoping to gauge his stance.

If cooperation was possible, they would unite as reliable business partners, willing to share profits to satisfy Lynch's demands. If not, preparations for alternative measures would begin. Either way, probing Lynch's attitude was the first step.

Simon was a prominent merchant in the Magura province, specializing in spice exports. Each year, vast quantities of spices passed through his hands into international markets. Items worth mere dozens of galiars locally were repackaged, hyped, and sold abroad at prices hundreds or thousands of times higher.

Merchants spared no effort in pursuing profit. They even courted several minor royal families, sharing profits to secure endorsements designating certain spices or goods as "royal exclusives." This significantly boosted the international value of these products. Though feudal systems were often criticized as outdated, everyone craved prestige and luxury in their lives.

Using items endorsed by royalty was the simplest, most direct, and effective way to achieve that. However, few realized that the royals they admired might wield less power than a mayor.

Some small nations had populations smaller than those of major metropolitan cities. The status of their royal families spoke for itself—rumor had it that one king even tilled his own fields!

Semi-monopolistic ventures brought Simon immense wealth, but now he faced dangers threatening his business. Yet, he concealed his unease expertly. Merchants and politicians alike were masters of disguise, capable of displaying the perfect expression at the right moment.

"Mr. Lynch," Simon began, "are you familiar with the Pretton Trading House?"

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