The double, almost-transparent doors gave way to a flood of warm light.
Gorath stepped into the heart of Lockewright Industries, his boots crossing from rough tile to a glistening floor of pale composite glass. No footsteps could be heard—not in a space this large, with this many people.
The chamber was wide and circular, with no wasted architecture. Every corner had purpose. With such tight spacing on the main floor, a network of walkways allowed people to move efficiently across every section.
Bright.
That was his first impression.
Not merely clean, but illuminated, as if the walls themselves pulsed with some hidden energy source. He had mana lights installed back at Maddach Manor—but they were nothing like this. Those glowed from obvious fixtures. This was light that seemed to emerge from the walls, as if the structure itself had been lit from within.
Slabs of transparent quartz stretched upward, forming curved support arches that caught the sun from high slats above and scattered it across the floor in sharp, dancing patterns.
He half expected a greeting chorus—peasants bowing before noble majesty, perhaps salutes for their baron. The usual fanfare: the polished drone of titles exchanged, names repeated in full, one layered over the other like ceremonial garlands.
Instead—
"—we need to move the brace armature back four degrees, otherwise the mana seam splits when you rotate—"
"—no, no, that version's the field variant. The interior specs aren't thick enough for localized burst pressure—"
"Just slot it and solder. If it breaks, it breaks—we'll fix it on-site. And it's cheaper than arguing."
Men and women in tailored but practical coats passed by without ceremony. No one paused. A few gave respectful nods to Ser Edric, who returned them without slowing. The most they offered Gorath and the others was a cursory glance—a nod, perhaps—but not the reaction of awe nobles were used to.
And everyone was doing something.
No idle talk. No performance. Even those seated on the low, soft couches scattered near the lobby walls were busy—blueprints unrolled across their knees, styluses scratching, lips moving in muttered dictation or sharp, fast-paced debate.
At one table, a young woman tapped repeatedly at a piece of blue parchment covered in angular diagrams. "This corner joint collapses under torque. We need a fifth anchor. Or change the material—"
"Or," the older man beside her replied, "we channel the flex into the bracer. Steelwood instead of tempered resin. Costs more. Easier to reinforce."
No greetings. No gatekeepers.
No waiting chambers full of pleasantries meant to disarm or disorient a guest.
Just—work.
Gorath's jaw tightened slightly.
He didn't speak. Not yet. But his eyes moved from station to station, ear to ear. It was the same everywhere. Project talk. Process. Application. Not a single word about allegiance or politics or noble favor.
He was used to seeing intelligence dressed in velvet and lacquered with subtext. Clever men speaking in riddles—because when power was involved, nothing was ever said plainly. Behind every idea lay a hook: support me, reward me, remember me when you're richer than me.
But this?
This was function. Refined. Focused. Real.
His eyes narrowed slightly. A thought stirred, smoky and coiled, behind his forehead.
This… might actually work better for us.
He hadn't realized how much time the Houses wasted. All of them—not just his own. The maneuvering, the double-meaning, the passive waiting. He'd thought it necessary. A tax of nobility. A fee for control.
But this was something else. Something leaner.
He glanced at Malik, expecting a smirk or raised brow—some shared amusement at the contrast.
There was nothing. Just Malik, walking calmly, nodding once at the creation of his former comrade-in-arms.
Of course. To a man like Malik—career soldier, front-line officer—this was normal. There was no time for flattery in the trenches. No room for polite games. You worked together or you died.
This wasn't just the peasant way.
This was survival logic.
The natural order that emerged when comfort and privilege were stripped away.
And then there was Cheng.
Gorath caught a faint smile on his face as he walked, his gaze drifting over the busy floor like a man returning to a long-forgotten academy. Calm. Familiar. Proud.
It struck Gorath all at once: this was the Empire.
The true Empire. Not the parades or palace guards. But the quiet, ruthless efficiency behind it all. The black-robed officials in their stone offices. Brass pens. Endless ledgers. Tireless machines. This was how the Empire stayed three steps ahead while nobles danced in marble courtyards.
Even Volker's brow twitched slightly as he scanned the crowd—same reaction.
This wasn't just a Maddach problem.
This was a House problem.
A rot. Quiet. Comfortable. Shared by major and minor alike.
A hum rose from the center of the room.
Ser Edric turned, instinctively. The others followed.
The elevator—more a glass column than a proper lift—descended with a mechanical whisper. Inside stood a single man. Lean. Perfect posture. Even at a distance, his silhouette seemed carved from intent.
The moment the platform clicked into place, he stepped forward.
Brown suit. Dark patterned tie. Shoulders relaxed. Arms at ease.
A pencil-thin mustache ran above his lips, so exact it looked inked by compass and ruler.
He moved with the certainty of someone who had never been told he didn't belong. His elbows swung just slightly as he walked—not enough to draw attention, but just enough to signal confidence. The practiced sort. Quiet. Lethal.
A few heads turned. Two women by a desk near the far wall watched him openly—one nudging the other before glancing away with a too-late smile.
The men turned too, but not with lust or envy.
It was respect. The kind even Gorath found rare among his peers.
The man's eyes locked onto him.
And then came the smile. Wide. Dimples sharp. Rehearsed, but somehow sincere.
He closed the distance in three long, smooth strides and extended his hand.
"Baron Gorath Maddach," he said with perfect clarity. "An honor, sir. I am Locke Wright. Welcome to my tower."
Gorath stared at the offered hand for half a second too long.
No bow.
No elaborate greeting.
Just a hand. Level. Equal.
He reached out and shook it firmly.
The corner of his mouth twitched—not with offense, but with quiet, unmistakable amusement.
"So…" he said, tightening his grip just slightly.
"You're Locke Wright."