Charles lay down in the black coach. Along the lacquered blackwood walls, warm diamonds shone from within. The plush seats with pillows embraced his body. He looked at the gold-plated ceiling with no interest.
The Thunderhoof stallions ran with a lot of power outside. Their hooves made sparks on the curving stone route.
Rob sat confidently atop the carriage, relaxed as a wind sage grinning into the darkening sky. His staff, made from tempest-forged elderwood and topped with a crystal humming with storm qi, glowed while he cast a layered acceleration spell.
"Vortex Stride. Gale Surge. Thunder Blessing." Rob chanted, his tone casual.
Waves of wind wrapped the stallions, shimmering blue and silver. The carriage surged forward with smooth power. Similar gusts buffeted Wendy and Borris, flanking the vehicle. Their mounts responded instantly, speed rising yet unfatigued.
Though Nimbus could have ferried them in an hour, Charles had chosen this method purposefully. Low-profile travel avoided attention, and the last thing he needed was a flying dragon causing noble panic across the skies.
Inside the cabin, he gazed through the crystal window at the horizon. The sun had set, and twilight deepened into indigo. The silhouette of Velmora rose—towers and skybridges cascaded along the plateau wall like a divine mosaic.
A crunching sound broke his reverie. He looked down. Little Nimbus, coiled across his chest, munched on a massive chunk of seared magibeast steak. Its surface still crackled with residual qi.
"Really?" Charles arched a brow at Nimbus. "Didn't you already eat an entire deer earlier?"
Nimbus burped and wagged her tail happily.
Charles chuckled, brushing his fingers through Nimbus's glimmering mane.
"Remind me to order you your own dinner table."
As they approached Velmora's outer perimeter, Charles tapped his ring. "SIGMA, remind me to gift Voxen Plates to Lady Micah and her father tomorrow. Communication delays are going to get me impaled one day," he muttered.
"Logged. Also, Lady Micah's group has been in Lotus Isles since midday. You are five hours behind."
He groaned. "She's probably already furrowing holes into teacups waiting on us," he said.
His mind drifted away from the present, turning over plans and possibilities.
If he fully developed the Highlands of Throm Vale, he could construct a direct trade road between Velmora and Duranth. A divergence point toward the Ziglar estate… another toward the Zephyr hunting grounds… all strategically vital.
It would be a military superhighway, hidden as a merchant road.
He tapped his ring. "SIGMA, draft the northern route proposal. Fund it ourselves if we must. Let the capital rot; we pave victory into stone," he ordered.
"Noted. Estimated reduction in military deployment time: 63.4%. Strategic superiority: undeniable."
They arrived at Velmora after dusk. No banners. No crests. Just the silent power of the carriage and the two deadly figures flanking it.
The city guards blinked at the obsidian carriage, the stallions breathing sparks, the dignified silence of Wendy and Borris radiating authority. They bowed wordlessly, recognizing high status veiled in purposeful anonymity.
Within minutes, they reached the Lotus Isles of Vermillion Grace Hotel. The sanctuary overflowed with waterfalls, spirit-lotus lakes, and wine gardens promising luxury and longevity. The hotel was legendary, attracting Daoist dreamseekers, celestial alchemists, and warlords nursing heartbreak.
Their reservations had been arranged by Lady Micah's advance team. Upon arrival, Charles immediately requested an upgrade.
"Imperial suite," he told the concubine-robed manager. "And private suites for my three companions. Also…" He glanced down at the purring dragonlet.
"Prepare a meat table for her. Assorted magibeast steaks, stew, and soup. Something from the red-tier stock. And get her a luxury beast bed. Velvet. Enchanted. Preferably one that doesn't snore louder than her."
The manager bowed so low it was nearly religious. "As you desire, Honored Guest."
The Lotus Isles shimmered with enchantments. Carpets were stitched from starlight silk, floating lanterns whispered poetry in ancient dialects, and wall murals changed with a person's mood. Courtesans offered bowls of lotus perfume and ethereal towels, while bellboys in spirit armor carried their bags.
As they walked the golden causeways toward their rooms, a woman in fine silks approached. She had bright emerald eyes and wore the crest of hotel management.
"I'm Alina, shift steward of the Lotus Isles. I trust everything is to your liking so far?"
Charles looked around, genuinely pleased. "It's excellent. You may tell your owner…" He paused, smirking mischievously. "I'm interested in buying the entire hotel."
Alina blinked. "I… I beg your pardon, my lord?"
"I said I'd like to discuss purchasing the Lotus Isles. Name your price."
She coughed lightly and bowed. "I… shall attempt to reach the owner, but she is currently meditating in a nine-day trance."
"Perfect," Charles replied with a wink. "Gives me time to prepare an offer with extra pillows."
Laughter bubbled from Rob behind him, and even Wendy cracked a small grin.
Soon, the group followed gold-lined hallways and lotus-petal walkways to their own rooms. Charles's suite looked out over a starlit spring fed by a waterfall and included a team of alchemical chefs, herbal masseurs, and tea-calligraphy monks.
Dinner was divine. Jade trays held Flame-Crushed Basilisk Ribs—excellent for blood qi circulation. Skyfire Lotus Stir-Fry enhanced spirit-nerve connection. Dreamgill Stew with Starfrond Rice suited cultivators recovering from energy burnout. Drinks included Frosted Phoenix Bloom Wine to stimulate qi harmony and Echodew Elixir, brewed from eclipse dew to sharpen mental clarity.
Rob swirled his glass and laughed. "This is what I call a recovery protocol."
Borris tore into his third plate like a one-man army. "Luxury after battle. Never better," he said.
Wendy didn't speak, but she relished her lotus-seared moonbird slices in peace, eyes half-closed.
At the head of the table, little Nimbus sat proudly on her new beast-padded throne, devouring a bowl of magma-spiced hydra stew, slapping her tail happily against the silk-padded seat.
Charles held up a glass. "To luxury that doesn't kill us."
"To food that tastes better than rats in a dungeon!" Rob cheered.
"To beds that are softer than stone floors," Borris grumbled.
"To not getting stabbed today," Wendy murmured softly.
There were echoes of laughter in the suite.
Everyone went back to their spa rooms after the feast. The bath in Charles's suite was like something out of a movie. The chamber was lighted by floating lotus lanterns.
Steam that Violet Ember turned purple. The air was full of salts and scents from volcanic darkwood, tempest jasmine, and soulgrass.
He slid into the bath. The water was so perfectly tuned to his qi resonance that it sang against his skin.
His body sighed. Muscles released. For the first time in weeks, the grind paused.
A knock. A beautiful attendant entered, her nails silver-gilded, her form shaped like a divine hand. She bowed deeply.
"Honored guest… would you like company tonight?"
Charles smiled politely, but firmly shook his head. "Tempting. But no."
She bowed deeply, her arms sweeping low, then turned and disappeared into the mist.
"I'm tired," Charles whispered to the ceiling, closing his eyes. "Not lonely."
With that, he let himself drift, surrounded by warmth, soothing herbs, and dreams of future kingdoms.
Tre Sorelle, Wine, and Missing Men
The private lounge of the Lotus Isles of Vermillion Grace Hotel glowed with golden light. The air was filled with orchid incense and rare wine. A marble table held magibeast carpaccio, lotus-seared spiritduck, moonvine bread, and chilled firefruit nectar.
The Tre Sorelle expansion team sat in tasteful silence, except for Lady Micah Sorelle. She had stopped swirling her goblet and now only stared into it.
It was already well past dinner hour.
First, Charlemagne Ziglar's group had failed to arrive at the planned overnight stop in Rubai.
Now they were hours late to Velmora, with no message, no signal, and no polite noble apology sent by teleporting messenger squirrel. There was only silence.
Micah's face was serene, but the death grip on her wineglass was anything but.
"What the hell happened to him?" she muttered, half to herself.
"Eaten by a very punctual magibeast, I presume," Marlon quipped, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he scribbled on a parchment ledger. "One with excellent taste in targets."
"Do you really trust Young Lord Charlemagne that much, my lady?" Marlon asked more seriously, eyeing her with measured curiosity.
Micah leaned back, sighing. "It's not about trust. It's about the franchise blueprint. My father chose him. That means something," she answered.
Danica, their pragmatic and perpetually snarky bookkeeper, raised a brow. "And if he's dead, the plan doesn't have to die with him. We've got the schematics, the proposal outlines, even his ridiculous tiered pricing model. It's salvageable," she said.
Head Chef Bobby clucked his tongue dramatically as he sliced into his spirit boar roast.
"You people have no poetry in your souls. That boy's got fire. And I don't mean the flashy kind. I mean the let's-serve-every-household-cultivator-a-five-star-dish kind of ambition. You can taste it."
"You mean the kind that gets itself eaten in the highlands?" Danica teased.
Micah half-laughed, but her brows stayed drawn.
The Tre Sorelle project was her academic crown jewel. As a third-year in the Merchant Department of Embersteel Academy, she had to launch a business venture for full certification. It needed to be new, not a family inheritance. So she created a two-part innovation: franchising the elite Tre Sorelle restaurant and introducing a bold catering model for noble banquets with custom menus.
Ironically, the only current franchisee in all of Davona Kingdom was missing.
Her utensils lay untouched on the plate as she pushed food around. "This was supposed to be a celebration," she muttered, downing another sip of Stormgrape Elegance.
Across the table, Bobby patted his belly and exhaled like a satisfied beastlord. "If he actually pulls through, I'll cook him a Soulfire Marrow Roast myself. With a side of immortal thyme."
Danica snorted. "Please don't feed the ego that already wanted gold-plated serving trays for roadside vendors."
As if conjured by divine drama, a gentle bell chimed.
A messenger spirit—shaped like a silken moth—fluttered through the lounge window and projected a brief image above the table.
"Message from Lotus Isles front desk," the spirit intoned.
"Charlemagne Ziglar and entourage have arrived. Checked in under reserved names. The Imperial suite and three high-tier suites are claimed. Special accommodations made for… one small beast?"
Micah stared. "So he's alive."
"And rich, apparently," muttered Marlon.
"Typical," Danica sighed. "Late. Loud. And buying his way out of it."
Micah exhaled, the tight coil of anxiety finally loosening. A sharp part of her still wanted to march down there, throw her shoe at his face, and demand an explanation for his unexplained detour.
But another part of her—the part that knew her team was exhausted, the day was done, and Charles Ziglar clearly needed a bath and a sleep—made a different decision.
She stood.
"We won't disturb them tonight," she announced. "He made it here. That's enough for now."
Bobby pretended to groan and said, "Aww. And here I was ready to greet him with a truffle soufflé and an interrogation."
Danica smiled. "Then tomorrow?"
Micah nodded, and her voice was strong again. "Tomorrow."
She looked at the empty seat next to her one more time before going back to the wine that was only half-finished.
"Not forgiven yet," she said under her breath. "He owes me three classes and a foot rub."
"Be careful," Marlon cautioned in a dry voice. "He might draft that into a business clause."
The table laughed.
Dinner went on, not as a celebration, but with an odd mix of relief and anger that wouldn't go away.
With all the luxury and careful planning, one thing was clear: the meeting tomorrow would be one to remember.