Season 2 Chapter 14
The Entrance Fee
Malesh stared at the royal guard's white-gloved hand blocking his chest. His exhausted brain rapidly processed the logistical outcomes of this interaction. Arguing would take approximately five minutes. Physical removal would take one second.
Malesh chose efficiency.
Without changing his deadpan, sleep-deprived expression, Malesh pulled his arm back and drove a sharp, perfectly calculated punch directly into the guard's jaw.
Crack.
The highly decorated guard instantly folded, collapsing onto the pristine marble steps like a dropped bag of flour.
Malesh casually stepped over the unconscious man, adjusting his loosened tie. "My minimum wage has been met. Let's go."
Kniya stared at the unconscious guard, then at Malesh's retreating back, and completely lost his mind. He howled with laughter, clutching his stomach as he jogged after his business partner into the grand ballroom.
"Bro, you just assaulted the Crown's security!" Kniya cackled. "I am officially making you the Head of Public Relations for Kavilson Steel! Because absolutely nothing says 'friendly corporate image' like breaking a guy's fucking jaw on the front porch!"
The Mechanics of Treason
The grand ballroom of the Royal Palace was a staggering display of absolute, glittering wealth. Hundreds of aristocrats wearing silk gowns and tailored tuxedos milled about under massive crystal chandeliers, sipping drinks that probably cost more than a standard house.
Malesh and Kniya immediately retreated to a marble pillar in the far corner, creating a safe distance between themselves and the socialites.
"Look at this parasitic ecosystem," Kniya muttered, chewing his mint gum as he scanned the room. "There are literally thousands of royal families in this country, all organized in a massive, outdated rank-based system. They make up twelve percent of the entire population, and they do absolutely nothing but stand around and judge people."
Malesh analytically scanned the crowd, doing a rapid headcount in his mind. "There are absolutely not thousands of families in this room. Your data is visually incorrect."
"Obviously, you idiot, they didn't invite everyone," Kniya rolled his eyes. "There are only the top two hundred families invited to this specific party. It's a strict hierarchy. Out of the thousands of royal bloodlines, you have the Top Eight Families—my family, the Andersons, is one of them. Above the Eight, there is the singular Top Family. And above them is the Patriarch, the one guy who controls the entire royal bloodline from the shadows."
Malesh took a sip of his drink, processing the political infrastructure. "I fucking hate monarchy. The idea of inheriting power just because you share DNA with a dead guy is a biological flaw."
"Agreed," Kniya nodded.
"But," Malesh continued, his deadpan voice taking on a tone of deep philosophical appreciation, "sometimes it is great. Mathematically, you have to respect the sheer efficiency of monarchial corruption."
Kniya raised an eyebrow. "Efficiency?"
"Yes. In a monarchy, bribery is perfectly centralized," Malesh explained. "If I want to build a toxic oil refinery, I only have to bribe one king. One transaction. Boom. Done. Highly efficient."
"And in a democracy?" Kniya smirked.
"In a democracy, corruption is completely decentralized and highly annoying," Malesh complained, looking genuinely irritated. "To build that same refinery, I have to bribe three hundred government clerks, a local magistrate, the minister of defense, and fund a fake environmental study. The overhead costs for democratic bribery are astronomical."
"Yeah, but the Democrats let us build monopolies," Kniya countered in a hushed tone. "The monarchs would have just taxed our profits to death to fund their weird golden chairs. Overthrowing them centuries ago was the best business move this country ever made."
The Disgrace
They quietly clinked their glasses to the centuries-old violent revolution.
Just as their highly treasonous conversation naturally died down, an elderly aristocratic man leaning on an ornate cane approached their pillar. He hadn't heard a single word of their anti-royal banter, which was incredibly lucky for his blood pressure.
It was Kniya's grandfather, the Patriarch of the Anderson family.
The old man offered a tight, highly diplomatic smile.
"I wanted to personally thank both of you," the old man said, his voice smooth and calculating. "Your participation in the 'limitless potion' project was... noted. It is incredibly unfortunate that we lost several bottles during the transit phase, but we are very thankful to you for that."
Malesh knew exactly what he meant. They hadn't lost 'several' bottles; they had lost twenty. The old man was just saving face in public.
"Yeah, whatever," Kniya dismissed.
The old man's smile vanished. His eyes locked onto Kniya's casual white T-shirt and sweatpants. His aristocratic face curled in absolute disgust.
"Why are you wearing that fucking weird clothing to a formal event?" his grandfather hissed. "You are embarrassing the Anderson name in front of the Ninth Family! You should dress more like your friend here—" he gestured to Malesh's untucked shirt and messy tie "—though preferably with a jacket!"
Kniya rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. "Go back, you fucking pervy old man."
The patriarch's face flushed a violent red. "What? You have so much disgrace! You are a total disgrace to this family!"
"Yeah, yeah, go on your fucking speech," Kniya yawned, waving his hand dismissively right in the old man's face. "I'm not going to listen to that. Just fucking move. You are blocking the dessert table."
The Saved Disgrace
Kniya's grandfather gripped his ornate cane so tightly his knuckles turned white. His face was a terrifying shade of purple. You didn't just call the Patriarch of the Anderson family a "pervy old man" to his face without losing teeth, even if you were his grandson. The old man took a step forward, raising his cane to strike.
Kniya didn't even flinch. He just chewed his mint gum.
"Lord Anderson!" a voice called out from the crowd.
An overweight Duke from one of the Minor Factions rushed over, bowing nervously. "My apologies for the interruption, Patriarch, but the representative of the Ninth Family has requested your presence in the drawing-room immediately."
The grandfather froze. He slowly lowered his cane, his chest heaving with contained fury. He glared at Kniya with a look that promised absolute murder later.
"This conversation is paused, you little shit," the Patriarch hissed, smoothing his jacket before turning on his heel and marching away with the Duke.
"Yeah, whatever. Have fun kissing the ring!" Kniya called out after him, leaning back against the marble pillar. He looked at Malesh. "Old people have zero chill."
The Freedom Equation
With the Patriarch gone, Malesh took a sip of his expensive water and immediately went back to their highly treasonous political theories.
"As I was saying before the biological fossil interrupted," Malesh continued, his voice deadpan. "Democracy is infinitely superior to a monarchy. It allows us to deliver pure, unadulterated freedom to the masses."
"Exactly," Kniya grinned, popping a fresh piece of mint gum. "And by 'freedom,' we mean securing their naturally occurring minerals with private security forces. It is a beautiful system."
"I have noticed a highly consistent geological pattern lately," Malesh analyzed, staring at the glittering chandeliers. "Whenever a neighboring, un-democratic province sits on top of massive unrefined petroleum reserves, I suddenly feel a deep, overwhelming urge to liberate them."
Kniya laughed out loud. "Ah yes. The classic 'Oil equals Democracy' doctrine. A province could be perfectly happy, but the moment you find a crude oil seep in their dirt, they suddenly look like they are suffering under tyranny and need an urgent dose of the free market."
"I do not invade countries, Kniya," Malesh corrected him, his face a mask of absolute robotic innocence. "I just lay down a pipeline and export the tyranny right out of their soil. We provide them with democracy, and in exchange, they provide me with billions of credits in crude oil. It is a humanitarian effort."
The Vinten Disturbance
"Are you two physically incapable of showing respect for one single evening?!"
Malesh and Kniya stopped talking. A young woman was storming toward their pillar. She was dressed in an incredibly expensive, dark velvet gown, dripping in diamonds. Her face was sharp, aristocratic, and currently twisted into a scowl of pure hatred.
This was the daughter of the Vinten family—another one of the Eight Main Families, and historically, the absolute worst snobs in the entire royal hierarchy.
"Look at you, Kniya!" the Vinten heiress shouted, pointing a manicured finger at his sweatpants. "You look like a diseased beggar! You have completely forgotten the true motto of the royal bloodline! We are the chosen elite, and you are treating this gala like a public tavern!"
Malesh didn't even look at her. He just looked at Kniya.
"Anyway," Malesh continued, completely ignoring the furious aristocrat standing two feet away. "Regarding the humanitarian effort. If I send SulliBulli drills into the Krovania to 'liberate' their oil, I will need Kavilson Steel to build armored transport vehicles for my workers. Freedom requires heavy steel plating."
"I'll give you a fifteen percent discount on the tank treads if you let me build the military bases," Kniya replied casually, keeping his eyes entirely on Malesh. "Spreading democracy is highly profitable, but I need my cut."
The Vinten heiress gasped. Her face flushed bright red. "Are you ignoring me?! I am a Vinten! You listen to me when I am speaking to you, you degenerate trash!"
"A fifteen percent discount is mathematically insulting," Malesh noted to Kniya, treating the screaming woman like background noise. "I will give you eight percent."
"Twelve, take it or leave it," Kniya countered. "Freedom isn't free, bro."
"I WILL KILL YOU!" the Vinten woman screamed.
Completely blinded by aristocratic rage at being ignored, she lunged forward, winding up her arm, and threw a vicious, closed-fist punch directly at Kniya's face.
The Tomato Sauce Fatality
Kniya saw the punch coming from a mile away. Her form was terrible.
Instead of dodging it normally, Kniya decided to turn the situation into a complete circus. He let her fist pass exactly half an inch from his nose.
"Oh my god! The sheer force!" Kniya yelled at the top of his lungs.
He aggressively threw himself backward, doing a dramatic, spinning dive onto the pristine marble floor. He knocked over a passing waiter's tray on the way down, grabbing a small crystal bowl of rich, red dessert sauce before hitting the ground.
Kniya sprawled out on his back, violently thrashing his legs. He quickly took a gulp of the red sauce and let it dribble dramatically out of the corner of his mouth like thick blood.
"I am dying!" Kniya wailed, doing a ridiculous, breakdance-style spasm on the floor. "The Vinten family has assassinated me! My democratic soul is leaving my body! Malesh, tell my massive bank account I love it!"
Malesh looked down at Kniya flopping around on the marble, completely unimpressed.
"Your acting is highly inefficient," Malesh critiqued deadpan. "And that is raspberry coulis. It does not look like arterial blood."
The Vinten heiress stood over him, shaking with absolute, unhinged fury. The entire ballroom was starting to stare at them. Kniya was making a complete mockery of her family name in front of the top two hundred factions.
"Stop making a scene, you fucking clown!" she shrieked.
Driven completely mad by his fake dying spasms, she pulled her leg back, aiming the sharp, stiletto heel of her designer shoe directly at Kniya's head for a lethal kick.
She swung her leg with all her might.
Kniya didn't even flinch. While still lying on his back, he casually raised his left hand and caught her ankle mid-air, stopping her high-speed kick instantly with a grip like a steel vice.
He stopped thrashing. He wiped the red sauce off his chin with his free hand, his arrogant, mocking grin returning.
"Careful, princess," Kniya smirked from the floor, his grip tightening just enough to make her wince. "You're going to scuff your shoes."