While some people were quietly working toward a better world, another group was busy racking up karma—of the worst kind.
Somewhere far from the joy and fluff of milk cows and aquaponic farms, the blood-curdling sound of something ceramic shattering filled the air.
*Thwack!*
*Crash!*
Another ornate vase slammed into a poor vassal's head. The man crumpled to the floor, dazed but conscious—unfortunately for him.
No one flinched—not anymore, especially after the fifth vase had flown. After all, they expected this outcome.
They'd told him. Warned him. Begged him, even.
But their Lord refused to listen.
And now, here they were, taking the brunt of his fury as he continued hurling antiques across the room like a toddler denied his favorite toy.
Baron Ray Firth was livid.
"You absolute pieces of shit!"
This time, it was a bottle that flew.
His face was red, veins pulsing at his temple, and his typically meticulously waxed mustache now drooped in his rabid frothing.
