The moment came that shattered their understanding of commerce.
Charles's steps slowed, his voice deepening. He positioned himself before the projection orb, now pulsing with gold, as if anticipating what came next.
"Let me introduce you," Charles said, relishing the moment, "to a foreign concept. Ancient. Replicable. Revolutionary."
He turned back to the room, and the single word fell like a stone into still water.
"Franchising."
Murmurs rolled across the Golden Bloom Chamber like distant thunder.
Alvin, the pragmatic engineering leader, furrowed his brow. "Franch-what?"
Charles raised his hand, and the projection shimmered—an immense tree unfurled in golden light. Its trunk is thick and glorious, bearing hundreds of branches, each flowering with ornate blossoms marked by Tre Sorelle's crest.
"Imagine this," Charles said, walking along the illuminated image. "Tre Sorelle is the trunk. Strong. Refined. Rooted in tradition, excellence, and the Sorelle name."
He flicked his fingers. Each branch lit up—cities, regions, districts. Velmora. Rubai. Avensol. Even the Capital City. More dots spread like wildfire.
"Every branch is a franchise. New owners. Local twists. But—same formulas, menu, training, experience." He turned, eyes keen. "The same brilliance."
He paused, hands behind his back.
"The same brilliance."
A few gasps. A few looks of enlightenment.
A young logistics officer of Tre Sorelle whispered in awe, "It's success, copied many times without dilution."
Charles's smile was razor-sharp. "Exactly."
He gestured, and SIGMA projected a three-tier diagram labeled:
Brand Licensing Operational Uniformity Profit Share Protocols
"We will provide the training," Charles explained, "the recipes, enchantments, uniform design, alchemical wine pairings, decor guidelines, management protocols, and logistical supply chains. You, our franchisees, pay a fee to use our system. A royalty. You run the restaurant. You build your wealth. But you do it under our banner, and under our terms."
He let that sink in.
"No creative liberties. No rogue spirit chefs. Tre Sorelle is a brand—a promise. One misstep ruins everything."
A hand raised—Danica, Micah's lead bookkeeper and supply network liaison.
"What about risk? What if the franchise fails in a bad region?"
Charles didn't hesitate. "Then we treat it like a corrupted node in a spell array. Isolate it. Diagnose it. Correct or cut. That's why we're the ones designing the protocols. Location approval, market testing, demographic forecasting—my assistant (SIGMA) handles it all. You don't plant a flame lotus in dry sand. You plant it in spirit-fed soil."
A light chuckle broke the tension.
Alvin raised a brow. "How do you ensure consistency?"
Charles nodded, pleased. "Great question. That's where our Quality Officers come in—inspectors trained to monitor every branch for deviation. From food texture, plating aura, scent profile, and even ambient qi circulation. We'll use enchanted taste beads—each dish's energy imprint logged into the central matrix. Deviations are flagged."
The room blinked.
"Wait," someone whispered. "You're enchanting… flavor?"
Wendy smirked from the side of the room. "He's enchanting everything."
Charles waved a hand again. A new map unfurled—a clean network of connected Tre Sorelle hubs across the north, branching like veins from the beating heart of Duranth.
"Our first branch is Velmora. We will polish it into a gemstone. From there, every new branch will bear our signature dishes, luxury standards, and brand language."
He turned fully toward the crowd, his tone growing quiet, sincere.
"Each one a flame lit from the same hearth."
But in his mind, other plans burned brighter.
Of course, I'm not truly opening it up to everyone, Charles thought. That would be suicide. Quality would collapse. Control would fade.
This kingdom is a rotting beast with noble leeches gnawing at its spine, he mused. I need leverage—not just over business, but politics. Culture. Nobility.
Franchises will only go to people I choose, he decided.
For Davona, I'll keep it all to myself. Every branch owned, directly or indirectly, by Ziglar's hands. If I must use proxies, so be it. But the power will not drift.
As for other kingdoms… Trusted allies only. Loyalty—sworn not just in business, but in intent.
Tre Sorelle is not just food. It's infiltration.
He didn't flinch, even as the next thought hit him.
Where nobles gather, they talk. Where they talk, they plot. Where they plot, they slip. And where they slip… I listen, Charles noted inwardly.
Tre Sorelle is a honeypot wrapped in silk, he reflected. It is a confession booth where no one knows they're confessing.
And I will turn every branch into an eye. A listening ear. A ledger of whispers.
The business is the bait. But the legacy… that's the empire, he concluded privately.
Back in the room, Micah leaned toward Charles, her brows slightly furrowed.
"This… could change everything. You're basically inventing a new economy."
"I'm just monetizing elegance," Charles replied, "and weaponizing comfort."
Alina, the steward of the Lotus Isles and silent observer until now, stepped forward nervously.
"Is expansion limited to the north?"
Charles smiled gently. "For this quarter, yes. The Kingdom of Davona will be our foundation building ground. But I will dispatch scouts and expansion teams to the southern duchy and beyond this kingdom. Slowly but surely. Strategically."
He gave the team a reassuring look. "I'm not in a rush. Domination takes patience. And seasoning."
Laughter echoed in the hall, followed by murmurs of awe. each member imagining their new roles and the benefits they will receive.
He raised his hand for one final projection.
It showed a silhouette of the entire Davona Kingdom, with glowing flame-lotus markers pulsing where branches were planned.
Duranth. Velmora. Rubai. Caelestia. Even the royal capital—though that dot pulsed more dimly, as if biding its time.
Charles waited in the silence.
Charles declared, in a calm, icy tone: "Tre Sorelle will not just join noble culture."
"I want it to define it."
The applause that followed shook the hall.
He had redefined their understanding of business. And they hadn't even gotten to catering yet.
But Charles, leaning ever so slightly on the dais, knew something no one else did.
This was just the appetizer.
The Catered Crown
He took another step forward, eyes gleaming like he'd just drawn a royal flush in a game only he understood.
"Now…" Charles said, letting the pause breathe, "Let's take it a step further."
The orb at the dais hummed and dimmed—and a second crystal was unveiled, softly glowing with swirls of gold and lavender, like stardust wrapped in silk. It hovered above its platform, then spun into activation.
Suddenly, the projection changed.
The stately map of Davona vanished—replaced by a lavish illusion of a noble dining hall. Massive banners bearing aristocratic sigils floated from the ceiling. Incense-like mist curled around long spiritwood tables. Dishes danced midair in synchronized spirals.
Alchemiecal chefs flipped qi-infused meat with flaming knives. Enchanted forks bowed as guests approached.
This is a literal feast for the senses.
Charles's voice dropped into something almost reverent.
"Let me introduce you to… something never before seen in this empire."
He opened his arms.
"Catering."
A collective gasp. Somewhere in the back, a scribe dropped his pen with a dramatic clink.
A younger aide blinked. "Wait. What?"
"Catering," Charles repeated with a grin, as if revealing the secret to immortality.
He walked toward the edge of the platform, his stride lazy, confident, theatrical.
"Picture this," he said. "A noble House is hosting a wedding. A coronation. A treaty signing. A blood duel between cousins. You know, the usual."
Chuckles rippled through the room.
"They can't leave. Maybe paranoid. Proud. Maybe their cousin won't eat anything but moonlit spirit-chef food."
He paused, then pointed toward the illusion behind him.
"So we bring Tre Sorelle to them."
Eyes widened. Borris leaned forward, half-mouthing the words.
We send our chefs. Our ingredients. Our enchanted serving arrays. Our signature dishes. Our plates. Our mood lighting. Even our fire dancers, if needed."
He twirled his hand, and a new illusion shimmered into view, projected one after another.
A high mountain clan dining beneath suspended lanterns, devouring smoked hydra ribs with volcanic salt.
A cultivator sect, seated on crystal cushions, enjoying lotus pearl soup while spirit-monks played zither.
A barbarian lord's feast, where a whole chimera was brought in on a floating slab of obsidian and carved table-side with flaming blades.
Each event displayed the Tre Sorelle golden lotus emblem on every dish, tray, sash, and performer.
Charles's tone shifted, now confident and analytical.
"Each event… becomes a performance. Each delivery is a story. Every catering event is a walking advertisement. A mobile legend. One that breathes qi-infused prestige into the lungs of every guest."
Gasps. A wave of whispered awe.
A hand rose near the logistics group—Daya, the apprentice enchantress in charge of spatial cooling units.
"But… the logistics? Chefs? Storage? How do we pull this off in multiple cities?"
Charles's grin widened. He loved this part.
"Simple," he said. "We replicate the Velmora model."
He turned to the projection orb.
"SIGMA—show logistics sequence: Mobile Sorelle Operations."
"Confirmed. Executing Catering Protocol Flowcharts."
A stream of elegant arrays burst into view:
Phase One: Order Placement and Customization. Phase Two: Alchemical Ingredient Curation and Pre-Event Prep. Phase Three: Spirit-Freezer Storage via spatial cooling cubes. Phase Four: Magical Transport Team Deployment. Phase Five: On-Site Assembly using summoning arrays and temporary illusion-walls for ambiance.
Daya's mouth opened slightly. "You thought of everything…"
Charles winked. "Of course I did."
He pointed to the uniforms now rotating on display.
"Every caterer, chef, and performer will wear enchanted uniforms imbued with anti-contamination seals, flame wards, and quality assurance markers that shimmer when food hits optimal qi levels."
A hand shot up—Janek, one of the mid-level operations officers. "But what about brand protection? You can't just let anyone go out there wearing your name."
Charles turned serious.
"Every team will be oath-bound," he said. "We're instituting Soul-Oath Contracts—a binding magical agreement where quality violations trigger backlash. Anyone who tampers with Tre Sorelle standards will feel it in their bones. Literally."
A ripple of laughter and impressed mutters followed.
"Also," Charles added, "random audits. And mystery guests who inspect service while pretending to be grumpy uncles."
Micah smirked at that. "Can I play one of the uncles?"
"You'll have to grow a mustache," Charles replied.
But beneath the polished presentation, his mind raced with deeper intent.
You see, noble houses are fortresses. Private, secretive, walled away in arrogance and tradition.
But they all throw parties. They all host ceremonies. Births. Promotions. Engagements. Death duels. And every one of those is a backdoor waiting to be unlocked.
If I can insert Tre Sorelle into their sacred halls—even just once—I gain access.
Access to floor plans. Servant movements. Guard rotations. Conversations. Hidden wine cellars.
Every catering event is a surveillance mission disguised in foie gras and floral arrangements.
No one watches their words when they're sipping elven nectar and toasting their sixth cousin.
And no one suspects the plate that feeds them could be enchanted to memorize room layouts.
They'll talk. Laugh. Slip. And we'll be there. Listening. Learning. Cataloging.
Information is the real currency. Food just gets us invited.
He didn't let even a flicker of that show on his face. Instead, he gestured again to the crowd, returning to his charismatic glow.
"Each catering operation," Charles said aloud, "will also come with an evaluation team to collect feedback, client preferences, and event flow data. We refine with every outing. With every feast, we evolve."
He swept his gaze across the gathered team.
"You—Velmora team—will be our flagship. Our testing ground. Our first catering projects will roll out with a controlled scope. A sect promotion. A merchant union banquet. A small noble wedding."
SIGMA projected the Catering Launch Schedule, including three upcoming events with their event names, locations, and priority scores.
Charles clapped once. "These are not experiments. They're statements."
A pause.
Then he pointed at the illusion of the Tre Sorelle crest—shimmering across velvet banners.
"We're not just serving food."
"We're rewriting nobility's relationship with celebration itself."
The applause was deafening.
From Head Chef Bobby—who normally only grunted—to the meticulous note-takers who barely had time to breathe, the crowd was lit with fervor and fire.
Even Marlon, their ever-stoic legal counsel, removed his glasses and murmured, "This… is dangerously brilliant."
Micah laughed, nudging Charles. "Dangerously is his default."
And Charles?
He simply stood there. Hands folded. Mind sharpening.
Let them eat. Let them cheer. Let them think it's all just business.
The dragon they're feeding wears a suit. And he's already inside their walls.