Armad fell into a contemplative silence, his brow furrowed as he struggled to grasp the significance of the percentages the man had mentioned. What manner of tax was being alluded to here? Armad had never crossed paths with these enigmatic neighbors of his. However, a certain document that he had inherited from the deposed king, who had been dethroned just before Armad ascended to the throne, shed some light on the matter. It detailed a recurring tax obligation to be paid to the neighboring region for the sake of maintaining security. This tax, as per the document, was to be remitted every month.
Since assuming the mantle of kingship, Armad had not encountered any emissaries demanding this tax from him. He had never dispatched the payment himself, and even the deceased Armad, whose body Armad now possessed, had failed to fulfill this obligation. Armad found himself in a state of anticipation, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the tax collectors so that he could question them about the rationale behind this security tax. To his bewilderment, however, they never materialized. Perhaps they harbored apprehensions about the formidable Wilberforce tribe, or maybe they deemed the meager proceeds gleaned from the town of Tiriba insufficient to warrant any confrontation or provoke the ire of one of the emperor’s progeny.
Nonetheless, the status quo was disrupted when Armad successfully annexed all nine remaining towns within his jurisdiction. It was then that the tax collectors, emboldened by this shift in power dynamics, finally made their presence felt, seeking to enforce the long-neglected tax obligation, even if it meant confronting the emperor’s son himself.
Having waited patiently for their arrival, Armad was taken aback by their audacity. The document he had perused indicated that the town was liable to pay a mere 20% of the collected taxes, a far cry from the exorbitant 98% they were now insisting upon. The previous king had faithfully remitted 20% of the town’s revenue to the neighboring region. It soon became evident to Armad that the messenger had sought to deceive him by inflating the figure to 98%, underestimating Armad’s acumen and assuming he could be easily manipulated. This treachery meant that only a paltry 2% of the town’s income would remain in Armad’s coffers as if the meager offering was extended out of a sense of magnanimity on their part.
Armad couldn't decide what course of action to take. Should he cry in frustration, laugh at the absurdity, or smash the man in his rage over this brazen daylight robbery? Despite the storm of emotions raging inside him, his face remained an impenetrable mask, showing no hint of the anger he felt. He just sat there, composed and still, as if he were merely contemplating the weather.
The table before them was laden with an array of food and various juices—apple, mango, and others—in large, ornate cups. Armad reached for one of the larger cups, poured some juice into a smaller glass, and began to drink. His demeanor remained calm, untroubled by the current predicament. After finishing his drink, he placed the glass delicately on the table and gestured to the messenger to help himself to some juice. The man, however, shook his head.
Armad shrugged nonchalantly. "Do you think it's poisoned?" he asked a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
The messenger smiled politely at Armad's question. "No, my Lord. I don't mean that. It’s just that I believe it would be inappropriate for me to eat or drink in the presence of the bloodline of Wilberforce. It might be perceived as a sign of disrespect," he explained, his tone deferential.
Armad's expression darkened momentarily as he processed the messenger's words. What kind of disrespect was worse than coming to someone's home with the intent to rob them? The messenger's claim that he refrained from drinking the juice out of respect was a blatant mockery, a thinly veiled insult. Nonetheless, Armad quickly regained his composure, deciding not to dwell on the matter. He had more pressing issues to address.
"You demand 98% of all the taxes we've collected this month," Armad began, his voice steady and authoritative. "My first question is, do you want the taxes from the towns I've conquered, or are you also demanding taxes from this town, Tiriba, which I have ruled without your interference? Since I became the king of this town, you have never come to collect taxes. So now, do you want 98% of the taxes collected here in Tiriba as well, or are you only interested in the taxes from the towns I have conquered that used to pay you?"
The room fell silent as the weight of Armad's questions hung in the air. On hearing Armad’s unexpectedly tranquil and composed demeanor, the man’s countenance underwent a swift transformation. Anticipating a barrage of harsh words and bracing himself for the worst, he was taken aback by the peaceful nature of Armad’s inquiry. It was a stark departure from what he had mentally prepared for, catching him off guard with its unexpected gentleness.
“My Lord, I believe this matter is not as significant as it may seem at first glance. Whether the town of Tiriba exists or not, the percentage we demand remains unchanged. This is because all the neighboring towns you have triumphantly conquered boast significantly higher incomes than Tiriba. For instance, the town of Fida alone generates a monthly revenue tenfold that of Tiriba. Once we have concluded the formalities concerning the other nine towns and you have affixed your signature to the agreement, we can then turn our attention to the matter of Tiriba. Please, do not be disquieted, my Lord. I can assure you that my esteemed master, the King of Montaj, is known for his benevolence. He will not levy exorbitant taxes that would leave you struggling to maintain your town. Furthermore, I wish to convey that we are cognizant of the conflicts that have plagued your relationships with your siblings. The protection we offer is not merely a hollow promise; we are committed to assisting you in the development of your town, thereby enabling you to realize your aspirations of establishing an independent empire. Our partnership will endure far beyond the establishment of your empire, continuing to thrive long after its inception.”
Upon hearing these words, a faint smile of comprehension played upon the lips of the man. It was a smile tinged with a subtle sense of inquiry as if silently hinting to Armad that even in the event of him attaining an empire, his autonomy would remain circumscribed by their influence. This cryptic gesture implied that, despite Emperor Ayrion granting him independence, his ties to their dominion would persist.
With each passing moment, Armad’s simmering resentment gradually reached a boiling point. Their intentions extended beyond mere exploitation; they sought to perpetuate his servitude indefinitely, treating him as though he were a commodity to be bought and sold at their discretion.
Armad scratched his forehead, then took a long, deliberate breath. “You said your name is Liam, one of the council members of the King of Montaj? Well, Liam, I have a message for you to deliver to your king. First and foremost, tell him that he will not receive a single percent of the income from any town in this region. Even if the kings I have eliminated used to provide him with a cut, that arrangement is over. These towns are mine now. He will not get a single grain, not even an ant, from any of them. This is the first message I need you to deliver.”
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Armad paused, allowing his words to sink in before continuing. “The second message is this: I want him to remove his ugly mouth from the relationship between me and my siblings. It does not concern him. The affairs of the Wilberforce tribe are beyond his reach. He has no right to interfere. This is the second message. The third and final message is a warning. If he dares to meddle in any matter related to this region of mine, he will face severe consequences. Should he interfere in the broader affairs of the Wilberforce Empire, I might turn a blind eye. But if I hear of any involvement in this region, tell him that any action I take against him will be something he has bought with his own money, not given to him for free.”
Armad meticulously enunciated each word, ensuring the gravity of his statements was fully comprehended. The clarity and force of his message left the messenger, Liam, with his mouth agape in astonishment, his body frozen in place.
Liam began to grapple with the implications of what he had just heard. Wasn’t this boy reputed to be the weakest among the emperor’s progeny? Did he genuinely believe the Wilberforce tribe would shield him after showing such blatant disrespect to the town of Montaj?
As these thoughts raced through his mind, Liam’s expression darkened. His cultivation energy began to circulate within his body, a silent storm brewing. Though he kept it restrained to avoid alerting those outside the door, Armad’s keen eyes, capable of perceiving cultivation energy even within a person, noticed the power emanating from Liam’s core and coursing through his veins. This messenger was indeed special, skillfully containing his cultivation to avoid detection.
Armad couldn’t help but chuckle silently to himself, a knowing gleam in his eyes. It was evident to him that the man standing before him harbored nefarious intentions, seeking to inflict harm upon him before any potential aid could arrive. The man is either aiming to eliminate him before reinforcements can intervene or merely intends to inflict grievous injuries. Armad’s impassive exterior betrayed none of his inner musings as he astutely recognized that the man was circulating his cultivation in his body.
“My Lord,” Liam’s voice rang out with a tone of reproach, “your words are beyond reproach. I implore you to retract them, for they carry a weight of disrespect that I cannot condone. While I hold you in the highest regard, such utterances cannot go unchallenged. I urge you to reconsider your choice of words at this very moment.”
Observing the messenger’s aura, it appeared that he stood at the third stage of deva cultivation, as per the indications of his cultivation. However, Armad, with his keen insight into the nuances of cultivation levels, discerned a deeper truth – the man had already ascended to the peak of deva. A master of deception, the messenger cloaked his true prowess to mislead those around him. Surpassing even Commander Silaini in cultivation, the discrepancy lay solely in their lineage. With the blood of Wilberforce flowing through his veins, Commander Silaini could best the messenger in combat, albeit not without sustaining injuries. While the messenger may have had cause for arrogance, Armad stood as an exception to his bravado.
Firm in his resolve, Armad had already made the decision that the messenger would not leave unscathed. However, before meting out justice, Armad sought to extract valuable information from his adversary’s lips. The strained relations with their neighboring region hinted at an imminent clash, a foreboding foreshadowing of a battlefield confrontation. This encounter presented a prime opportunity for Armad to glean essential intelligence, enabling him to strategize effectively for the inevitable conflict that loomed on the horizon.
The first thing Armad did was to emanate a single pol string from his Miyura and direct it toward the core of the man. The string swiftly pierced through, embedding itself in the person’s core. It floated there, suspended as if it were weightless air. Liam, oblivious to Armad’s actions, had no idea that a pol string now resided within him. All it would take was a single command from Armad, and Liam’s cultivation would implode, causing catastrophic injuries.
Satisfied with his covert preparations to neutralize Liam if necessary, Armad shifted his posture, turned to face his adversary more directly, and began to speak. “I might reconsider my stance,” he said, “but don’t you think demanding 98% of my income is disrespectful? If you take that much, what benefit do I get? Isn’t your demand unreasonable? Why not ask for something feasible, like 20% or 10%, but never exceed 25%? If you requested such a percentage, I might be open to negotiating with you. However, your current demand is nothing short of mockery. Aren’t you afraid of being eliminated, just like the kings in my region? Don’t you fear that I might seize the power you hold in your town at any moment?” Armad’s smile was both confident and menacing as he spoke.
On the other side of the conversation, Liam was deep in thought. He weighed the option of unleashing his full power to create a fatal wound in Armad’s chest. Yet, a part of him still believed he could persuade the young man to comply without resorting to violence. This belief was not just out of confidence in his persuasive abilities, but also because of an unsettling fear he couldn’t quite place. It was a primal fear, one that people experience without understanding its origin—like the sensation of a sharp knife hovering at their neck, ready to strike, even though the blade itself is invisible.
After Liam began feeling an inexplicable fear, he immediately activated his cultivation to investigate the source. With practiced precision, he cycled his cultivation and activated three of his most reliable skills, aiming to detect any foreign substances in the air that might have induced the fear. He meticulously scanned his body, his senses heightened to their peak, but he found nothing out of the ordinary. Realizing that the fear had no tangible source, he chose to disregard it, focusing instead on the task at hand: negotiating with the boy to reach a mutually beneficial agreement.
Liam understood that his master’s demand for 98% of the boy’s income was a strategic move rather than a genuine expectation. Even securing 50% would be a considerable victory, given that previous kings had never contributed more than 30%. The exaggerated demand of 98% was a tactic, designed to underscore the gravity of aligning with Armad, which could be perceived as a betrayal to Prince Ikenga. Hence, from their perspective, the demand was not an act of injustice but a calculated measure to safeguard their interests.
A subtle smile played on Liam’s lips as he ceased the internal cycling of his cultivation energy. He adjusted his posture, sitting up straighter, and turned to face Armad directly. “Your Highness,” he began, his tone respectful yet firm, “it’s important to recognize the scale of your region. You govern over 10 towns and a small village. Allow me to clarify: it’s not 11 towns, but 10 towns and one village,” Liam repeated deliberately to emphasize the modest size of Armad’s domain.
“In stark contrast, our region is not only more populous but also strategically positioned. We share borders with larger, more influential regions, attracting a steady influx of people for commerce and trade. Our region boasts 20 towns, each one significantly larger than Fida, the largest town in your territory. The scale and prosperity of our towns are incomparable,” Liam continued, his voice steady and measured.
“My Lord, I don’t mention these facts to belittle your region but to highlight the strategic differences. Your region is bounded by the sea, which isolates you economically and logistically. The coastal inhabitants, struggling with basic sustenance, often come here seeking food, bartering whatever meager weapons they possess. In contrast, our region thrives on robust business activities and advanced cultivation practices,” he explained, drawing a clear distinction between their respective regions.
“There is a profound difference in the power and sophistication of our cultivation skills compared to yours. Our cultivators are more advanced, our resources more abundant, and our influence more extensive.”