The clouds were thick.
Like a layer of soft cotton.
Ola rubbed his throbbing temples.
'Twelfth one.'
Stuka's voice echoed in his mind, carrying a punchable smugness, as if he wasn't yet satisfied.
'These nobles build their houses like a woman's jewelry box. They shatter with a single touch.'
Below, a delicate, small castle was smoking.
But this wasn't a scorched-earth disaster like before. It was a more insidious strategy—the castle's main tower, which typically housed its owner's private treasury and bedroom, had now half-collapsed.
In the artisan and commoner districts, not even a single roof tile had fallen.
Perhaps because of this, the firefighting scene below the castle had an air of bizarre "composure."
"Quickly! Put out the fire! That's the master's collection room!" a butler in a silk suit shouted from a safe distance, his face slick with oily sweat and his voice raw, yet he didn't move an inch.
