Chapter 173: Chapter-173

These refined young nobles and distinguished old aristocrats—the ones who looked so elegant and composed in public, who spoke with careful politeness at state dinners, who prided themselves on their cultured manners—were screaming at each other like vendors at a fish market.

“YOU INCOMPETENT FOOL!” Duke Ashford bellowed, his face red with rage, pointing an accusatory finger at Count Morrison. “YOUR FAMILY HAS BEEN EMBEZZLING FUNDS FOR THREE GENERATIONS!”

“AT LEAST MY FAMILY ’HAS’ FUNDS TO EMBEZZLE!” Count Morrison shouted back, standing up so fast his chair toppled over. “YOUR ESTATE IS SO BROKE YOU HAD TO SELL YOUR GRANDMOTHER’S JEWELRY!”

“HOW DARE YOU—”

“BOTH OF YOU ARE MISSING THE POINT!” Marquis Thorne interrupted, slamming his fist on the table. “THE REAL ISSUE IS THAT SOMEONE—” he glared meaningfully at Baron Wessex, “—HAS BEEN BRIBING TRADE OFFICIALS!”

“I RESENT THAT ACCUSATION!” Baron Wessex shrieked, his voice going up several octaves. “MY FAMILY’S BUSINESS PRACTICES ARE COMPLETELY LEGITIMATE!”

“LEGITIMATE?!” Duke Remington laughed—actually ’cackled’—like a villain in a children’s story. “YOUR ’LEGITIMATE’ BUSINESS IMPORTED THREE THOUSAND BARRELS OF FAKE WINE LAST MONTH!”

“IT WASN’T ’FAKE’!” Baron Wessex protested. “IT WAS JUST… CREATIVELY LABELED!”

“CREATIVELY LABELED?!”

The argument escalated.

Voices rose higher. More nobles joined in, taking sides, forming alliances, breaking alliances, shouting over each other.

And then—

Old Lord Pemberton, a 73-year-old retired military commander with a legendary temper, stood up with the fury of a man who’d fought in seven wars and wasn’t about to tolerate ’this nonsense’.

He removed his slipper.

’His actual slipper.’

And with the accuracy of a trained marksman, he ’threw it’ directly at Count Morrison’s head.

’THWACK!’

The slipper hit its target with a satisfying sound.

“YOU DISRESPECTFUL LITTLE WEASEL!” Lord Pemberton roared. “IN MY DAY, WE SETTLED DISPUTES LIKE MEN, NOT LIKE GOSSIPING WASHERWOMEN!”

Count Morrison, now with a slipper-shaped mark on his forehead, looked absolutely ’scandalized’.

“DID YOU JUST—DID YOU JUST THROW YOUR ’SHOE’ AT ME?!”

“IT’S A SLIPPER, YOU UNCULTURED SWINE!”

“THAT’S ASSAULT!”

“ASSAULT?! I’LL SHOW YOU ASSAULT—”

Lord Pemberton started removing his ’other’ slipper.

The chamber descended into absolute chaos.

Nobles were shouting. Some were standing on chairs. Duke Ashford was waving documents around like weapons. Marquis Thorne had apparently given up on words entirely and was just yelling incoherent syllables of rage.

Baron Wessex was crying. Actually crying. Tears streaming down his face while he shouted about the injustice of fake wine accusations.

Through all of this—through the screaming and the thrown footwear and the general descent into madness—

Heena sat at the head of the table.

Completely still.

Completely silent.

Her expression was blank. Neutral. Giving away absolutely nothing.

Her chin rested on one hand, her elbow propped on the armrest of her ornate throne-like chair. She looked like a bored monarch watching a particularly uninteresting play.

Beside her, Secretary Chen stood with his ever-present stack of documents and his permanent look of exhausted resignation.

Except—

He wasn’t looking resigned right now.

He was looking ’delighted’.

His eyes were bright with barely suppressed glee. His lips were twitching, trying desperately not to smile. He was leaning forward slightly, completely absorbed in the chaos unfolding before him.

He looked exactly like a neighborhood aunty watching a spectacular fight break out in someone else’s house—the kind of drama you’d gossip about for ’weeks’.

Heena turned her head slightly to look at him.

Secretary Chen noticed and immediately tried to compose himself, straightening up and attempting to look professional.

It didn’t work. His eyes were still gleaming with entertainment.

“You’re enjoying this,” Heena murmured, just loud enough for him to hear over the shouting.

“Your Majesty,” Secretary Chen said in his characteristic flat tone, though his eyes were dancing, “I have no idea what you mean. I am simply observing the council proceedings with appropriate professional detachment.”

“You look like you’re watching your favorite theater performance.”

“I assure you, Your Majesty, I am completely neutral about—”

’CRASH!’

Duke Remington had apparently thrown an ’entire inkwell’ at Baron Wessex, missed, and hit a painting of the previous Emperor instead.

Black ink dripped down the former ruler’s face like tears.

Everyone’s faces turned deathly pale as silence fell across the chamber.

Because hitting each other was one thing—mutual combat between nobles was almost traditional, in a weird way. They could explain that away as “passionate debate” or “heated discussion.”

But in the chaos of their fight, they’d completely forgotten one critical detail:

The ’Empress’ was sitting right there. Watching. The actual ruler of the empire.

And Duke Remington had just thrown an inkwell that had splattered all over the ’previous Emperor’s portrait’.

That was… that was basically treason.

Defacing the image of an imperial ancestor? In the presence of the current ruler?

Oh god. Oh no.

Every noble in the room went from angry-red to corpse-pale in approximately three seconds.

Heena looked at them all, and a slow smile spread across her face.

“Good,” she said pleasantly. “So you guys really like throwing things, huh?”

She stood up abruptly, slapping the armrest of her throne with one hand for emphasis.

“Nice! And here I thought my distinguished colleagues—both the venerable elders and the promising young nobles—were so elegant and refined and ’civilized’.”

Her smile widened, showing teeth.

“But clearly, I was mistaken. You prefer a more… ’physical’ form of debate.”

She looked directly at Secretary Chen. “Secretary Chen.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!”

The secretary’s voice practically ’vibrated’ with barely suppressed excitement. He sounded like a child who’d just been told they were going to a carnival.

Heena glared at him, recognizing that tone. Of everyone in this room, the ’only’ person who’d genuinely enjoyed the chaotic shitshow was this absolute bastard standing beside her.

But she needed him for this, so she continued: “Write a decree. Order 100 pots of ink. The expensive kind. The kind that ’stains’.”

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Secretary Chen was already pulling out his writing materials, his hands moving with suspicious speed.

“And also,” Heena added, “order 100 slippers. Right now. To be delivered to this room immediately.”

Secretary Chen nodded enthusiastically, bowed, and practically ’ran’ to the door.

He stepped into the corridor and ’shouted’—actually shouted, this man who normally spoke in monotone—

“GET ME 100 INK POTS AND 100 SLIPPERS! AS FAST AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE! THE EMPRESS COMMANDS IT!”

Heena watched him from inside the room and genuinely wanted to strangle him.

’He’s enjoying this way too much’, she thought darkly. ’I’m going to make him process paperwork for a month straight after this.’

But then she remembered: no, wait, she actually needed him functional.

Fine. He could have his fun.

Secretary Chen returned, walking with exaggerated calm now, and stood beside Heena with his hands folded professionally.

“Your Majesty,” he said in his most serious voice, though his eyes were gleaming, “the items will arrive within ten minutes.”

“Good,” Heena said.

And exactly ten minutes later, like clockwork, the doors opened.

Knights marched in carrying wooden boxes filled with ink pots—the heavy ceramic kind that made a satisfying ’thunk’ when they hit things.

Maids followed with enormous baskets overflowing with slippers of every size and color.

“Put all the ink pots on the council table,” Heena ordered. “And throw—yes, ’throw’—all the slippers onto the floor.”

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