Chapter 303 : Chapter 303

Chapter 303. Troublemakers and the Isolated

As ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍this secret telegram crossed the vast ocean, the Kingdom of Tyrenia, which faced the continent across the sea, swiftly revealed the ferocity and sharp instincts left in its bloodline by its pirate ancestors. It was an island nation founded on maritime trade and an intelligence network that reached into every crack.

The ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍sea fog that never dispersed from the capital all year round was like a gray shroud, wrapping layer after layer around its Gothic spires. The air was filled with the salty tang of the sea breeze and the coppery stench of money.

Inside ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍the Prime Minister’s residence, the current Prime Minister of Tyrenia, Oberon, sat upright behind a broad mahogany desk.

This ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍refined old man, who wore a gold-rimmed monocle and an exquisitely tailored tailcoat, held the secret telegram from Valeria that his subordinates had organized between his fingertips. A faintly mocking smile hung at the corner of his mouth.

He ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍did not even finish reading it before casually throwing it into a pure-gold tray at the corner of the desk.

A ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍cluster of ghostly-blue magical flames ignited out of thin air and instantly swallowed the letter paper sealed with the Valeria Empire’s eagle wax seal, reducing it to flying ash.

“That old madman Theodore, the one with an iron arm, really thinks we are privateer hounds he can summon whenever he pleases.”

The Prime Minister picked up the wine cup on the desk, which had been carefully polished from the skull of some unlucky lord and inlaid with a gold rim, then gently swirled the amber-colored strong rum inside.

In the depths of his eyes, a pirate’s greed flashed, entirely at odds with his gentlemanly appearance.

“He wants absolute control over the waters near Astrelia? Hah. He thinks he can dismiss us with the few broken islands left from the Tidelan Kingdom? What does he take me for, a beggar?”

The Minister of the Navy sat across from him with one leg crossed over the other, leisurely wiping a well-maintained magitech pistol with an expensive silk handkerchief.

He let out a sneer, and the crisp sound of the mechanism was especially clear in the silent office.

“Astrelia is now a leaking giant galleon. The captain is dead, the first mate has run off with the treasure, and no one is watching the gold and jewels filling the hold. A good thing like this may not come once in several hundred years!”

“Those landlubbers in Valeria are only thinking about biting off the fattest piece of meat from the west while everything is in chaos. I can hear their abacus clacking from across the sea.”

The Minister of the Navy aimed the pistol out the window and made a vague gesture through its sight, then grinned.

“But we are not only going to take a share of this feast. We are going to carry away the whole pot!”

“Well said.”

The Prime Minister stood up. His slender shadow fell over the enormous nautical chart hanging on the wall, like a giant shark ready to devour someone.

Wearing white silk gloves, he elegantly traced his long fingers along Astrelia’s long and mouthwatering coastline, like a butcher picking the fattest, tenderest piece of meat on a chopping board.

“Pass down the order. Accept Valeria’s commission. But our target must never be limited to a blockade.”

The Prime Minister pushed the gold-rimmed monocle on the bridge of his nose. The corner of his mouth curved into an extremely gentlemanly yet chilling smile.

“Astrelia is now leaderless. Those panicked ocean-going merchant ships and Magic Crystal Drilling Platforms floating on the sea must be in great need of ‘protection’ right now.”

He deliberately emphasized the word “protection,” and the meaning behind it was self-evident.

“Send our fleet over. ‘Escort’ all of them back to Tyrenia’s ports for temporary and friendly safekeeping.”

“As for Moran, who fled with countless secrets...”

The Prime Minister turned around. A fanatical gleam flashed in his eyes, like an auctioneer seeing a one-of-a-kind masterpiece.

“If our ‘Abyssal Submersibles’ are fortunate enough to catch this big fish, do not rush to return him to Theodore.”

“Those siblings in Astrelia, and even the Demi-Human Empire, will certainly offer a much higher price than a few broken islands.”

“Tyrenia has always believed in free trade. The highest bidder wins.”

With this supreme order, filled with the shameless air of a pure troublemaker, the vast state machine of Tyrenia began to operate secretly and efficiently in the shadows.

Inside a dark, top-secret underground military harbor, the dull grinding of meshing gears intertwined with the deep rumble of mana engines.

As the enormous gate slowly opened, cold seawater poured in.

Fifty pitch-black “Magitech Abyssal Submersibles,” as if forged from the bones of deep-sea leviathans and obsidian, slowly slid out of the dock.

These deep-sea submarines, representing the highest crystallization of Tyrenia’s magitech industry, had smooth, seamless hulls, like living deep-sea predators.

They silently concealed all mana fluctuations and dived like ghosts, silently approaching the waters near Astrelia, where undercurrents had already begun to surge.

While Tyrenia secretly deployed troops and made ready to profit from the chaos, its public response was filled with the cunning and ruthlessness of merchants.

As soon as the news was confirmed, they made the most decisive severance.

At the press conference that afternoon, the Minister of Foreign Affairs of Tyrenia, a man wearing a gorgeous velvet coat while still habitually carrying a ceremonial musket at his waist, slowly exhaled a thick ring of cigar smoke before countless flashing Magic Crystal Lamps.

Amid the curling smoke, his slick face was filled with undisguised contempt.

“Before the Astrelia Kingdom restores a stable and credible political order, Tyrenia will suspend all official dealings with that nation.”

He split his mouth open, revealing tobacco-yellowed teeth, and his smile was filled with humiliation.

“We Tyrenians only do business with the living. We do not sign contracts with the dead. From this day onward, we will temporarily close the consulate located in Seabreeze City in the Eastern Territory to ensure the safety of our citizens.”

...

Far across the ocean, on the New Continent, the Meriga Confederation’s response was full of the arrogance of capital and the respectable polish of suits and leather shoes.

The glass curtain walls of skyscrapers reflected the magitech neon below that never went dark. Steam pipes ran between the buildings like steel pythons, playing the roar of capital and efficiency.

In the President’s Office on the top floor, the President of the Confederation stood before the huge floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking this prosperous metropolis known as the “Shining Land.”

He wore the finest tailored suit and held a glass of expensive bourbon whiskey with ice in his hand as he listened to the Secretary of State’s top-secret report on the drastic changes in the Astrelia Kingdom.

“Those feudal remnants of the Old Continent are playing their bloody and inefficient power games again.”

The President lightly swirled his glass. The ice cubes clinked crisply, and his tone was full of superiority.

“With a vast ocean between us, we have no interest in getting involved in those rotten disputes. What we need is a stable market and flowing gold coins, not a meaningless quagmire of war.”

The Secretary of State understood his meaning and bowed before withdrawing.

The President took a satisfied puff of his cigar and was just feeling pleased with his own far-sighted diplomatic finesse when the expensive mahogany door of the office was suddenly slammed open, without even the symbolic courtesy of a knock.

His Chief Secretary walked in with a miserable expression.

“Mr. President! Something has happened again! The magitech mining district on the West Coast... fighting has broken out again!”

“The local Golden Elf natives have had a serious bloody conflict with the security forces we stationed there! The elves accuse the new factory’s mana pollution of affecting their sacred ground. They have already injured dozens of workers and even detained a batch of expensive magitech equipment that had just arrived!”

The calm dignity on the President’s face instantly stiffened, as if he had put on a cracked mask.

He irritably rubbed his throbbing temples, then harshly stubbed out the expensive cigar he had only just taken a puff from in a pure-gold ashtray, sending sparks scattering.

“Damn it! Can those stubborn long-ears not settle down for even one day?!”

He gnashed his teeth and loosened the silk tie around his neck, which symbolized status and respectability, suddenly feeling as if his head might split open.

“Tell the National Guard to go immediately! Right now! Suppress this matter!”

“Use money or use guns. I do not care what method they use! No matter what, this absolutely cannot affect my midterm election!”

To hell with the Old Continent’s disputes! Meriga could not even properly deal with the almost irreconcilable conflict between humans and Golden Elves in its own backyard. How could it have the spare attention to care whether the one sitting on someone else’s throne was dead or alive?