Chapter 51: Chapter-51

Heena’s smile only widened as she walked, her steps light despite the heavy stack of documents. In her mind, she was composing a thank‑you speech—not for anyone alive, but for whichever ancestor had designed this palace all those centuries ago. Some long-dead emperor or empress who’d had the foresight, the wisdom, the sheer ’brilliance’ to invest in proper construction.

’Soundproofing,’ she thought fondly, her smile growing warmer. ’Truly a world‑level contribution. They deserve a monument. A holiday in their honor. Maybe I should commission a statue.’

The palace walls were thick stone, layered with special materials that absorbed sound. Rooms were designed with buffer spaces between them. Important chambers had additional silk padding built into the walls. It was magnificent engineering, originally intended to keep state secrets from spies and to give the imperial family privacy.

But it served other purposes beautifully.

Behind her, floating at shoulder height and looking increasingly distressed, System 427 trembled visibly, his golden fur puffed out like a startled cat. He’d made the mistake of peeking back into the room through his system interface, had heard Raphael’s howl when the wax came off—a sound that seemed to contain all the betrayal and agony of a man who’d never experienced such treatment in his pampered life—and had nearly dropped out of the air in sympathetic horror.

“Heena— I mean, God— no, Lord— no, I mean, ’Master’—” he stammered, cycling through titles in his panic, his little paws gesturing wildly.

She lifted a hand without looking at him, still walking with that same serene grace. “Enough. Say whatever you’re trying to say.” Her tone was patient but firm, like someone dealing with an overly dramatic child.

The system swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. Even his whiskers were trembling. “Dear host… don’t you think this is… maybe a ’little’ extreme?” He tried to make his voice casual, reasonable, but it came out slightly squeaky with concern.

Heena shrugged, entirely unbothered, her crimson robes rippling with the movement. “Oh, come on. It’s just waxing. We women do this all the time.” She said it as if she were discussing something as mundane as washing one’s face or combing one’s hair.

System 427’s mouth fell open. “But—but—”

“Beauty requires sacrifice,” Heena continued, her tone taking on a philosophical quality. “He wanted to seduce an nobel lady, didn’t he? Well, then he should look the part. Those guards are doing him a favor, really. When I’m done with him, he’ll be the most well-groomed captive in the entire empire.”

“That’s not— I don’t think—” The system floundered, trying to find words.

Heena finally glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “What? Would you prefer I actually tortured him? This is practical. Hygienic. And educational.” She ticked off each point on her fingers.

Another muffled scream echoed from somewhere far behind them, barely audible through the magnificent soundproofing.

Heena’s smile returned, sharp and satisfied.

“Besides,” she added, her voice dropping to a more thoughtful tone, “he’ll thank me later. Probably. Eventually. In several years, perhaps, when he’s recovered from the trauma.”

System 427 stared at her, then at the corridor behind them, then back at her. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and finally just shook his head in defeat.

“You’re terrifying, host.”

“Thank you,” Heena replied pleasantly, turning a corner toward her study. “I try.”

Heena slipped back into her study as if the world outside didn’t exist, dropped into her chair, and the moment her eyes hit the parchment, everything else blurred out. When she worked, she ’worked’—even the system had to admit that much.

Right now, the unfortunate soul facing her was Marquis Damon of Kayis.

One of the most notorious bastards in the empire.

Not because he was uniquely evil—nobles were rotten by default—but because this idiot simply did not know when to shut up. Once he started an argument, he would go on and on, never admitting defeat, no matter how thoroughly skewered he was.

Today, he had chosen the worst possible opponent for his habits.

Heena flipped through the stack of ledgers in front of her, eyes scanning columns of numbers with frightening speed. Then she stopped, tapped one page with the feathered end of her quill, and looked up at him with a pleasant, razor-edged smile.

“Marquis Damon,” she began mildly, “may I ask why the ’rations’ for this month”—she tapped the figure again—”exceed the empire’s fixed price by forty-three percent in ’your’ domain alone?”

The marquis, dressed in rich navy brocade that screamed “old money,” didn’t even blink. He bowed with careful politeness, lips curling into the oily smile he probably practiced in front of a mirror.

“Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, “it would be my pleasure to explain—with all due respect, of course.” He lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming with fake sincerity. “The simple truth is that goods have become quite difficult to procure. Naturally, prices rise. We must increase taxes and related fees to compensate.”

“Oh?” Heena mirrored his smile perfectly. “Is that so?”

She leaned back slightly, the image of imperial leisure, though her eyes were cold and sharp.

“Because I,” she continued sweetly, “am the Empress. And I ’do’ read these documents. Do you perhaps think I sit here taking royal naps?”

A few of the clerks in the corner almost choked on their ink.

Marquis Damon let out a low chuckle, hands spread in mock helplessness. “Of course not, Your Majesty. When did I ever suggest you were… sleeping on the job? I only wished to convey that circumstances in my domain are rather unique. Supply is tight, so prices—”

“—so prices ’must’ rise. Yes, yes, I heard you the first time.” Heena cut him off politely. “But that is fascinating, Marquis, truly. Because according to these same reports, the other counts, dukes, ’and’ marquises somehow manage to feed their people without exceeding the empire’s fixed prices.” She tilted her head. “Do they not have territories? Do they not have people to feed? Do ’they’ not need to pay taxes?”

Her smile brightened. “How strange that only ’you’ are suffering in this tragic, unique economy of yours.”

The marquis’s eye twitched. Just a little.

“Your Majesty,” he said, expression wounded, “I am deeply saddened that you think so poorly of me. Naturally, the other lords have treasuries and responsibilities. But in ’my’ lands, I love my people dearly. For their sake, I work hard and hard, sometimes to the extreme. That is why,” he concluded solemnly, “my expenditures occasionally exceed the set price.”

“Oh my. Really?” Heena’s voice dripped sympathy, her eyes absolutely not matching. “You love your people so much.” She tapped the parchment again, then flipped to another report. “Then perhaps, dear Marquis, you can explain something to me.”

Her tone turned light, almost playful.

“If you’re working yourself ’so’ hard for your beloved people, why are the roads in your territory described as—” she squinted theatrically at the paper “—’comparable to a neglected servant village, or worse’? According to the inspector, there are more potholes than usable road.”

Color drained from his face, then flooded back in blotchy red.

“And,” Heena continued mercilessly, “if you are truly so devoted to your citizens’ welfare, why do these same reports mention that your ’daughter’ recently purchased seven new carriages?” She looked up, tone bright. “Seven, Marquis. How large is your family again? Let me recall… ah, yes. You, your wife, your daughter, and your son. Four people.”

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