The palace radiated serenity and splendor. The elegant floor reflected harmonious royal colors, while the walls were engraved with strange patterns telling tales of people long gone. Over the tiles stretched a long, ornate carpet in captivating shades of red, gray, and white, lending the place a refined regal atmosphere.
Before the glittering golden throne, flanked by ivory accents, stood a man in his thirties, sporting a beard and mustache, leaning on his right arm with the confidence of a king. Beside him was his loyal advisor, Raf, alert and vigilant. A few royal guards silently observed the scene.
A strange man bowed before the throne, his voice trembling with excitement:
— "So, how are you, Your Majesty, King Sajjad, the great, magnificent, astonishing, powerful, radiant, illustrious..."
The king interrupted him with calm irritation:
— "Stop the flattery… you're beginning to annoy me, Marthoth!"
Marthoth smiled lightly, a touch of malice in his grin:
— "As you command, my magnificent lord!"
The king sighed, then looked at his advisor:
— "Give him the document, Raf, and tell him what he must do."
Raf replied seriously:
— "Very well, my lord."
Then, addressing Marthoth:
— "So, this merchant named Marthoth… my king wants you to go to the province of Molar and manage it. This paper is the document."
Marthoth lifted his head slightly, a mischievous smile decorating his face, and took the document from the advisor:
— "As you command, my lord!"
The advisor looked at Marthoth with a hint of disgust, while the king remained calm, his eyes tracking every move:
— "Go now, Marthoth. You must save your province."
Marthoth looked at the floor gently, then said:
— "Do not worry, my lord… I shall save my province and make it splendid for your grace. Pardon me, my magnificent lord."
Marthoth left the hall smiling, leaving everyone in curious glances, even the advisor looked on in despair:
— "I hope he doesn't ruin it…"
The king reassured:
— "Do not worry about the foolish; we must focus on matters of importance. Now, everyone, remain in your places!"
Everyone answered in unison:
— "At your command, my lord."
Marthoth exited the palace, his steps calm yet filled with confident menace. The dim light reflected off his black-and-gold hammer, as if telling a story of power hidden behind a sinister smile.
The royal streets were empty, except for a few guards who cast a brief glance at him before he continued, unaware of the danger surrounding this man.
In his hand, the document glowed faintly under the scattered candlelight on the walls. Marthoth had not yet read it; his smile alone was enough. He knew every action he would take would be a masterpiece of cunning and control.
When he reached his luxurious car, it stopped silently. He got in, leaving behind the distant sounds of the palace, beginning his journey toward Molar. Every step along the road was calculated, every glance around part of a grand plan that no one yet knew.
And in his heart, a single thought echoed endlessly:
"This province will change forever… by my will, and my madness."
Inside the car, the sunlight streamed through the glass, bright and warm, but within the vehicle, madness lurked behind Marthoth's smile.
He looked out the window, grinning at a small boy chasing a squirrel that had stolen his wallet.
— "Well done, little squirrel! Make him despair! Hahaha!"
The driver's eyes were fixed on the road, his heart racing:
— "My God… where have you brought me!"
Marthoth then moved his gaze away from the window, slowly leaning his head toward the third mirror—the driver's "third eye"—with a terrifying smile bordering death. Each inch of his movement increased the driver's fear and trembling.
The driver screamed, filling the cabin:
— "Please, sir… forgive me!"
Amidst his tears, Marthoth calmly replied:
— "What's wrong with you… I just want the juice box."
Marthoth handed over the juice box and returned it to the window, watching outside with a calm, sinister smile, while the driver could not control himself.
Finally, they reached the province of Molar.
Marthoth's smile remained unchanged, his calm reflecting absolute confidence as he muttered strange, meaningless words:
— "Sikashonier… Sikashonier… Sikashonier…"
The driver, tears streaming down his cheeks, tried to focus on the road but could not resist the tension, as if the whole world pressed down on him.
Finally, the car stopped in front of Count Molar's residence, where Marthoth's real game would begin.
From the shadows emerged a servant, hair green, with silver strips between his ears adding a strange touch to his appearance, and shining silver eyes. He stood firmly, right hand on his stomach, left behind his back, his expression serious.
— "Welcome to Count Molar's province. I am your humble servant… Archsel Aslant. You must be Mr. Marthoth?"
Marthoth smiled mockingly:
— "No… I am his wife!"
Archsel's eyes widened in surprise, a mixture of anger and confusion.
The driver hurriedly set down Marthoth's bag, still laughing hysterically, leaving Archsel puzzled:
— "What's gotten into you?"
But the driver remained silent, his terrified laughter filling the air, as Marthoth entered confidently.
— "Take me to the Count's room, Arschspel."
Archsel stopped, astonished:
— "At your service, Ma—wait! Did you call me Arschspel?!"
Archsel felt frustration rise within him but did not dare object.
Marthoth walked behind Archsel, holding his bag, his mad grin filling the air, reflecting madness and mischievous intent.
Archsel, unable to bear the behavior, looked at him full of disgust, his sword in its sheath gleaming softly beside him:
— "Then… why not let me carry your bag?"
Marthoth's grin turned terrifying, as if destroying every ounce of calm:
— "I do not wish to pay you, you wretch!"
Archsel's mind exploded with a mix of anger, humiliation, madness, and disgust. He whispered inwardly:
— How I wish I could punch his hideous face…
Finally, they reached the desired room, a massive brown door separating Marthoth from the events within.
Archsel spoke calmly and seriously, gripping the doorknob:
— "You know about Count Molar's illness?"
Marthoth smiled lightly, quietly, yet mysterious:
— "Yes…"
Archsel sighed, then slowly pushed the door open to reveal the inside.
The Count lay in bed, his condition miserable, his body weak and frail, his features carrying fatigue and pain.
Beside him, a woman with black hair sat on a chair, holding his right hand, her eyes filled with deep sorrow.
Nearby were three maidservants, two almost children, the other an adult, all silently shedding tears, the room steeped in grief and distress.
At the entrance, Marthoth's smile softened slightly, his voice laced with light mockery:
— "How are you, Count Molar?"
The Count opened his eyes slowly, acknowledging Marthoth's presence.
— "Come in, son…" he said weakly.
Marthoth and Archsel entered quietly, moving away from the door to maintain silence.
Marthoth approached the Count and sat across from him, his vile, composed smile reflecting absolute confidence:
— "So, sir… what is your will?"
The Count smiled, closing his eyes, a tear falling from his right eye. Nivin, his wife, looked on with shock and sadness, while the servants stared in astonishment.
Archsel stood behind Marthoth, sword in hand, ready to act, but the Count intervened:
— "No… Archsel, let him…"
He coughed lightly, trying to calm the atmosphere.
The Count rose slightly from the bed, his wife gently helping him, saying:
— "Thank you, Nivin… so the king sent you…" He coughed again.
Marthoth pulled a document from his pocket, placing it before the Count:
— "Yes… Count!"
The Count took it, opened it behind his back, handing it to his wife:
— "So, son… from now on, you shall manage my province…"
He coughed again.
Marthoth smiled mischievously, sarcastically:
— "So… what is your illness?"
The Count looked at Marthoth, his voice calm yet laden with sorrow:
— "Young man… my illness… is unknown!"
He sighed slightly, raising his weak hands:
— "The doctors could not determine it…"
Grief and fear filled the room, Nivin holding his hand, the servants watching anxiously, while Marthoth's smile never left, reflecting his curiosity and wicked desire to know more.
The Count spoke, his voice heavy with sorrow and anger:
— "This illness… which