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The issue of the holy maidens was one of the most awkward topics in Nagalier, a subject the entire society avoided like the plague. At the lower rungs of Nagalier's social ladder, there existed a warped set of values. On one hand, they placed an extreme emphasis on chastity; on the other, they displayed surprising openness at certain moments—a contradiction that defined their culture.

The holy maidens, having served the gods for years, had long lost their virginity. They spent their days attending to various gods, and as a result, ordinary families were reluctant to marry off their sons to such women. Yet, even those who might have been willing lacked the means to support them. These women had grown accustomed to lives of idleness. During their time in the temples, they consumed all manner of drugs and immersed themselves in sacred texts, rendering them incapable of even the simplest forms of labor.

Nagalier was not a wealthy or developed nation. In most developed countries, if one member of a household held a job, it was often enough to support the entire family—a situation that did not hold true in Nagalier. Here, every member of a household had to pull their weight just to maintain a basic standard of living. The men who expressed interest in marrying these holy maidens were typically poor laborers—willing, but financially unable to bear the burden.

Ultimately, these women often ended up as shared wives among several men or resorted to working in brothels. Some patrons found allure in the idea of bedding women who had once served the divine, and this became the fate of many former holy maidens. In such places, they could continue their accustomed lifestyles without worrying about survival—until the day they were cast aside entirely.

As the flower-adorned carriage gradually disappeared into the distance, the cars parked along the roadside roared back to life. The mixture of awe and curiosity in the eyes of the onlookers lent the scene an unsettling, distorted air.

When Lynch finally arrived at the hotel, he rested briefly before dinner, during which Arthur delivered the "invoice." It was clear that Arthur's mental state had improved significantly since his conversation with Lynch earlier in the car. He was beginning to refocus on work.

"Mr. Hassanah demands one hundred thousand galiars for each leopard-lion pelt," Arthur explained, "and one million galiars for each live animal."

At the official exchange rate, one hundred thousand galiars equated to roughly twenty-five hundred federal thors. However, based on the actual rates available, only twelve hundred federal thors would suffice. One million galiars translated to twelve thousand federal thors—a tenfold difference. No wonder Hassanah had flown into a rage. Those hunters had indeed cost him dearly.

Lynch glanced over the invoice, then tossed it back onto the table. "Tell him it's impossible. Each demand must lose a zero—that's our bottom line. Of course, if he's open to accepting bonds, we can offer a slight increase, but no more than twenty percent of his original quote."

These raw pelts, unprocessed, unlabeled, and absent from any high-profile auctions, weren't worth much. Their value didn't lie in the material itself but rather in the added societal worth they carried within a consumer-driven economy. Hassanah and his ilk couldn't imbue them with that kind of prestige, so their true market value remained depressingly low.

Arthur scribbled notes furiously—it was part of his job. Once the matter was settled, he picked up his notebook and began discussing the next steps. Invitations poured in from across Magura Province, requesting Lynch's presence for inspections. Mayor Mishahaya had inquired about when Lynch might be free to sit down for a proper discussion. Meanwhile, merchants sent samples, hoping Lynch would spare some time to review them—or better yet, meet face-to-face.

After reviewing the materials, Lynch decided to prioritize a meeting with Mayor Mishahaya.

---

The following morning, under the enthusiastic and meticulous service of the police chief, Lynch experienced firsthand the intoxicating sensation of privilege. The roads were eerily empty save for his convoy. People stood on either side of the street, heads bowed regardless of whether their expressions betrayed fear, curiosity, or resentment. Among the crowd, a child gazed up at Lynch seated in his luxurious car. Lynch noticed him too—one pair of eyes filled with innocence and wonder, the other calm and devoid of emotion. For less than three seconds, their gazes locked across the short distance.

Then, a woman, her face etched with terror, hastily pushed the child's head down. Her pleading expression seemed to beg Lynch not to punish them for the boy's naivety. Watching her on the verge of tears, Lynch averted his gaze, pretending nothing had happened. The convoy sped away, leaving the crowd to shuffle back together, their complex emotions fading quickly. This was simply their reality.

Mishahaya's residence lay in the heart of the city. In the Federation, people preferred suburban living, sacrificing downtown real estate for lucrative commercial development. But here, the city center symbolized something else entirely—not wealth, but status. Only those of standing lived in the core, while refugees and the destitute occupied the outskirts.

This made the journey, fraught with its peculiar "pleasures," mercifully brief. Within half an hour, Lynch found himself seated in Mishahaya's backyard garden. Talented gardeners had transformed the space into a riot of blooming flowers, creating a stark contrast with the rest of the city. Surrounded by vibrant blossoms and natural fragrances, a maid served tea and pastries.

Local tea differed greatly from the floral infusions popular in the Federation. It was sweet, heavily laced with honey. After a single sip, Lynch lost interest. Mishahaya, however, drank deeply from his cup, refilled it, and reached for a pastry. As crumbs fell onto his lap, he spoke between bites.

"Everyone's been asking me what industries you plan to invest in, where you'll build factories, when construction will begin… People are eagerly awaiting good news. But after days of silence, they're growing uneasy."

He swallowed the last bite, brushed his hands together, and fixed Lynch with a pointed stare. "We need to do something. You have to show these people that you're here to work, not just hunt."

Mishahaya's demeanor had shifted noticeably. Just days ago, his attitude had been softer, almost deferential. Now, however, there was a newfound edge to his tone. This change stemmed from the Provincial Governor's sons. Whoever proved more capable stood to inherit their father's position. Though the roles of Provincial Governor and mayor might seem similar, the power gap was vast. The sons of the Provincial Governor could easily order Mishahaya to act against his will, and his family would be too fearful to challenge them. In fact, if such situations arose, they would likely replace him with someone more submissive without hesitation. Thus, Mishahaya's attitude had hardened.

For the Governor's sons, turning Lynch's assets into their own became a test of skill. The brothers moved swiftly, assuming Lynch would crumble like the businessmen before him. But Lynch merely stared at Mishahaya, silent and unmoving.

The intensity of his gaze unsettled Mishahaya, who looked away, brushing pastry crumbs from his clothes. His voice softened slightly. "Only when the fire burns hottest does the water boil. Enthusiasm works the same way. Acting now has advantages over waiting. Surely you understand?"

Lynch nodded faintly. "I see your point. What's the capacity of this city's power grid?"

Mishahaya hesitated for a moment before responding. "We... can meet your electricity needs."

"But your answer sounds strained," Lynch observed.

Indeed, Mishahaya's reply carried a fleeting hesitation. Nagalier relied primarily on coal-fired plants and small hydropower stations. While current generation levels sufficed for daily use, scaling up electricity consumption posed a severe challenge to both the grid and generation capabilities.

Unwilling to appear inadequate, Mishahaya shook his head slightly. "No, we can shut off power to certain areas to prioritize your needs. Does this mean you're considering building factories?"

Lynch picked up a pastry, broke off a piece, and popped it into his mouth. It was sickeningly sweet—a testament to the locals' inexplicable obsession with sugar.

"A raw materials processing plant and a smeltery," he said. "But first, I'll need to survey for iron ore deposits."

"I'll place the factories near the mines to cut costs. Additionally, I'll establish another facility to produce tools—we'll need plenty of those soon."

"All of this takes time," Lynch added. "If you expect me to conjure a factory out of thin air and provide jobs overnight, you'd be better off praying at the temple than talking to me."

Lynch's stance wasn't aggressive, but neither was it submissive—a response Mishahaya anticipated. Young men often refused to bend, even in Nagalier, where challenging authority sometimes crossed into foolishness.

"Since you have plans, we should spread the word to reassure the public," Mishahaya suggested. "There's also something else you should know..."

He leaned forward, locking eyes with Lynch. "Are you planning to leave soon?"

Lynch nodded. "I'm heading back to the Federation next week. I purchased some items from Mr. Hassanah and need to ship them back. Plus, I have pending matters to address there. Traveling between both places will become routine."

Mishahaya gave a noncommittal nod. "Mr. Lynch, though I hesitate to bring this up, some individuals have disappointed the people of Nagalier in the past. To avoid negative repercussions, I recommend making a statement before your departure."

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