Chapter 221: The Velvet Horizon

Bab 220: Cakrawala Beludru

Trousdale Estates, Los Angeles. Kamis, 22:45 PST.

Alur logistik Platinum Concierge Services tidak beroperasi dalam batasan fisika standar di bumi. Ketika CEO Tyrant Group LLC mengeluarkan mandat kuliner, mekanisme penyampaiannya dieksekusi dengan presisi yang menakutkan dan sempurna, layaknya transplantasi organ.

Senja ungu kebiruan di langit Los Angeles telah lama menyerah pada malam yang gelap gulita dan diselimuti kabut asap.

Di kaki Loma Vista Drive, pos pemeriksaan Vanguard Security Solutions diselimuti keheningan yang mencekam. Elias Thorne berdiri di dekat Range Rover hitam doff yang mesinnya masih menyala, mata birunya yang tajam mengamati aspal yang kosong dan berkelok-kelok. Blokade paparazzi telah hilang. Para pencari bakat perusahaan telah pergi. Tirai Besi secara efektif telah menghapus lembah itu dari peta Hollywood.

Sebuah mobil van transit hitam ramping tanpa tanda pengenal melaju mulus menaiki tanjakan, lampu depannya redup. Mobil itu berhenti tepat dua kaki dari barikade hidrolik merah-putih.

Pintu sisi pengemudi terbuka. Julian, direktur concierge yang sangat tenang, melangkah keluar. Ia mengenakan setelan musim panas abu-abu muda yang bersih dan sepasang sarung tangan tebal berwarna putih yang mampu menangani panas. Ia tidak berbicara. Ia hanya membuka pintu kargo belakang van, melepaskan awan tebal uap putih bersuhu di bawah nol yang menukik ke udara malam yang hangat.

Thorne melangkah maju.

Julian dengan hati-hati mengeluarkan sebuah silinder kriogenik khusus yang berat.

"Tuan Thorne," gumam Julian, napasnya mengepul di antara uap dingin yang keluar dari tabung. "Muatan yang diminta oleh Tuan Turner. Gelato Stracciatella, Pistachio Bronte, dan Cokelat Hitam. Didapatkan langsung dari Florence. Suhu internal dijaga tepat pada minus dua belas derajat Celcius untuk mencegah pembentukan kristal es mikroskopis."

"Standar termal yang sangat dapat diterima, Julian," Thorne mengangguk tegas, sambil mengambil tabung gas yang berat itu. "Pemulihan metabolisme CEO membutuhkan integritas susu yang sempurna."

"Mohon pastikan minuman ini segera dikonsumsi setelah tekanan diturunkan," Julian sedikit membungkuk. "Semoga malam Anda tenang, Komandan."

Saat mobil van pengangkut barang mundur dengan mulus menuruni bukit, Thorne membawa muatan kriogenik ke halaman parkir. Dia melewati gerbang kaca buram, menyeberangi jalan setapak beton yang melayang di atas kolam ikan koi, dan menekan keypad biometrik di sebelah pintu depan kayu walnut yang berat.

Perumahan Trousdale. 22:55 PST.

Di dalam benteng pertengahan abad itu, suasananya merupakan mahakarya kesempurnaan senja yang terisolasi dan dalam.

The heavy, motorized blackout drapes remained sealed against the eighty feet of sliding glass doors. The climate control hummed a low, hypnotic white noise, locking the ambient atmosphere at a crisp sixty-eight degrees.

In the center of the sprawling white terrazzo floor, the fourteen-by-fourteen-foot espresso-colored linen megalith operated as the absolute, gravitational core of the empire.

Alex Turner lay perfectly horizontal. He was swathed in his unbranded, midnight-blue Loro Piana cashmere t-shirt and sweatpants. His dark, obsidian eyes were closed, his hands laced comfortably over his stomach. The [Biological Endurance: Level 3 - The Immortal Sloth] trait was actively metabolizing the sheer lack of physical exertion, ensuring his heavyweight musculature remained densely coiled and perfectly optimized.

Surrounding him, bathed in the localized biological miracle of [The Sovereign’s Embrace: Level 2], the Harem Council rested in a state of flawless, untethered sovereignty.

Jennifer Aniston, Mariah Carey, Monica Bellucci, and Courteney Cox were curled into the down-filled cushions, draped in their respective cashmere armor, entirely insulated from the burning wreckage of the studio system.

The heavy walnut door clicked open with a soft, hydraulic hiss.

Thorne stepped into the living room, moving with the silent, agonizingly careful grace of a bomb disposal technician. He walked to the reclaimed teakwood coffee table, set the frost-covered cylinder down, offered a sharp, silent bow to the sleeping titan, and vanished back out the front door.

As the door sealed shut, the faint, metallic click of the cylinder’s pressurized latches settling into the ambient temperature echoed in the quiet room.

In the center of the cushions, a low, resonant rumble vibrated from Alex’s chest.

"The arrival of sub-zero carbohydrates," Alex drawled lazily, not opening his eyes, "is the only acceptable reason to interrupt my delta-wave cycle."

Jennifer stirred, her bright blue eyes fluttering open. She didn’t stretch. She simply pushed herself up on her elbows, looking over the edge of the sofa at the teakwood table. A breathtaking, completely unburdened smile broke across her face.

"Alex," Jennifer whispered, her voice husky with sleep. "Julian actually brought the cryogenic cylinder again. It’s literally smoking."

Mariah Carey sat up, pushing her golden-brown hair over her shoulder. She looked at the heavy canister, her industry-conditioned dietary restrictions completely, permanently eradicated by the Slacker King’s philosophy.

"It is aggressively decadent," Mariah murmured, slipping gracefully out of the linen pit to pad barefoot toward the kitchen. She retrieved four ceramic bowls and a heavy silver scoop.

Alex slowly opened his dark, obsidian eyes. The transition from sleep to apex-predator clarity was instantaneous. He didn’t sit up entirely; he merely shifted his weight, propping himself up on one elbow with fluid, heavyweight grace.

"Decadence is simply the mathematical elimination of compromise, Mary," Alex reasoned effortlessly.

Mariah returned, popping the heavy latches on the cylinder. A thick wave of dry-ice vapor spilled over the teakwood table, cascading onto the plush Moroccan rug. She expertly scooped massive, dense spheres of the gelato into the bowls, handing them out to the women, before passing the final, overflowing bowl of dark chocolate to Alex.

He took a bite.

His optimized metabolism instantly torched the dense sugars and heavy cream, converting the caloric load directly into raw kinetic energy. The gelato melted flawlessly on his tongue, requiring absolute zero mastication.

"Julian’s supply chain," Alex mumbled in absolute, unadulterated bliss, "remains the single greatest asset in the Tyrant Group portfolio."

Monica Bellucci uncurled her long legs, shifting across the cashmere cushions until she was sitting beside him. She took a delicate bite of the Bronte pistachio, her dark eyes closing in pure culinary reverence.

"It is perfect," Monica purred, her rich Italian accent thick in the cool air. "And the most terrifying part is... the world is currently tearing itself apart to figure out who we are, and we are sitting in the dark eating ice cream."

"The world’s panic is not our liability, Monica," Alex lectured softly, taking another slow bite. "We starved the media. We bankrupted the auteurs. We neutered the executives. They are currently locked in a desperate, frantic scramble to monetize our silence. Let them scramble."

Courteney Cox leaned back against a silk pillow, shaking her head. "I didn’t even get a single page from Warner Bros. today. Gregory Hale literally mandated that nobody from the network is allowed to contact me after five o’clock. It feels like I stepped into a parallel universe."

"You stepped into the sanctuary, Court," Alex corrected smoothly, setting his empty ceramic bowl on the table. "The rules of physics here are heavily dictated by my absolute refusal to care."

He collapsed backward into the exact geometric center of the down-filled pillows, crossing his hands lazily over his stomach.

"Now," the Slacker King announced softly, his deep baritone carrying the absolute, uncompromising weight of an emperor who had already won the world. "The carbohydrates have been successfully metabolized. The corporate sector is permanently pacified. I am officially initiating the weekend stasis protocol."

He closed his obsidian eyes, sinking deeper into the frictionless luxury of the Loro Piana cashmere.

"Do not wake me up," Alex whispered, the [Sanctuary Regeneration] trait pulling him seamlessly back into his biological perfection, "until the sun returns."

Grizzly’s Old School Boxing Gym, East Hollywood. Friday, 11:30 AM PST.

The concept of a Friday morning in East Los Angeles is generally defined by the aggressive, chaotic hum of street traffic, the blaring of radios from passing cars, and the relentless, grinding hustle of the underground economy.

But inside the rusted, corrugated steel walls of Grizzly’s Old School Boxing Gym, the atmosphere was locked in a state of perfectly engineered, analog serenity.

The heavy iron doors at the end of the alleyway were secured by three separate, heavy-duty deadbolts. The high, frosted windows filtered the blistering California morning sun into soft, dusty shafts of amber light that illuminated the floating motes dancing above the historic boxing ring.

In the VIP corner, the sprawling, espresso-colored Italian leather sectional sat fully occupied.

Mike Tyson, the Heavyweight Champion of the World, was sitting on the right wing of the sofa, wearing his standard grey cutoff sweatshirt. His massive, tattooed shoulders were entirely relaxed. He was meticulously, almost reverently, reading a glossy ornithology magazine regarding the breeding habits of European rock doves.

Sitting on the opposite wing, his long legs stretched out, was Keanu Reeves. The A-list action star was casually flipping through a heavily annotated copy of The Brothers Karamazov, completely insulated from the frantic, multi-million-dollar panic currently consuming the 20th Century Fox executive board.

In the exact center of the elevated boxing ring, resting perfectly flat on the custom-engineered, six-inch orthopedic memory foam concealed beneath the canvas, was Tupac Shakur.

The legendary rapper was staring up at the rusted steel rafters. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. The suffocating, violent paranoia that had defined his existence under Death Row Records was entirely, miraculously gone. The [Champion’s Sanctuary] passive trait had chemically purged his trauma, leaving his mind terrifyingly clear.

The heavy, rusted metal staircase in the back of the gym clattered.

Paul Heyman descended into the warehouse. The underground wrestling promoter and street-level executor for Tyrant Group LLC looked like he had run a marathon in a sauna. He was sweating through a cheap, oversized black suit, but his eyes burned with the manic, apostolic fervor of a man who had just conquered the mud.

He dragged a heavy, reinforced Pelican case behind him, the rubber wheels squeaking slightly on the linoleum.

"Mike! Keanu!" Heyman wheezed, dropping the case near the VIP corner with a dull, incredibly dense thud.

Tyson slowly lowered his magazine. He didn’t look panicked. He radiated the subtle, grounding wave of calm that he had absorbed from the Slacker King.

"Morning, Paulie," Tyson rumbled smoothly, his signature lisp echoing in the quiet space. "You’re breathing heavy. The boss hates heavy breathing."

"I don’t care about my respiratory rate, Mike! I have achieved total, unilateral market saturation!" Heyman gasped, shoving his way past the stainless-steel espresso cart and collapsing onto a folding metal chair.

Snoop Dogg glided out of the shadows near the tracking alcove, a lit blunt pinched between his fingers. "What’s in the box, Paul? Did the syndicates step out of line?"

"No! The ’Ghost Ceasefire’ is an impenetrable social contract!" Heyman shouted, his New York staccato firing at maximum velocity. "The syndicates are practically holding hands, Snoop! The problem isn’t the distribution. The problem is the sheer, apocalyptic volume of the tribute!"

Heyman stopped pacing, pointing a trembling finger at the heavy Pelican case.

"The official retail CDs for Sanctuary Vol. II dropped. Warner Bros. is bleeding out trying to keep the shelves stocked," Heyman explained rapidly. "But the streets... the streets consider the original white-label vinyls to be holy relics. They aren’t selling them for twenty bucks anymore. They are auctioning them to independent record store owners for thousands of dollars a copy."

Heyman took a shuddering breath, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

"Gentlemen. I just did the morning sweep of the regional managers in Compton, Inglewood, and Brooklyn," Heyman whispered, the reality of the situation crushing his vocal cords. "They didn’t just pay their franchise fees. They sent a tribute. A localized, untaxed dividend."

Tupac slowly sat up on the memory-foam canvas, looking over the ropes. "Tribute? Like mafia protection money?"

"No, Pac! Like religious tithing!" Heyman practically wept. "They consider Alex Turner to be a god who liberated them from the major labels! I am currently in possession of one point two million dollars in pure, sequential hundred-dollar bills. It was handed to me in a duffel bag by a guy named ’Icepick’ who literally thanked me for the privilege of paying it!"

The silence in the warehouse was absolute.

Keanu closed his book, setting it on his lap. "You brought a million dollars in street cash to the gym, Paul."

"I didn’t know where else to put it!" Heyman pleaded, grabbing his hair. "I can’t put it in the ECW accounts! We already washed two million through the bingo halls last week! If I suddenly deposit another million, the IRS is going to send a SWAT team to my house! I need to call Mr. Turner! I need the CEO to authorize a secondary laundering protocol!"

Tyson took a slow sip of his espresso. He didn’t flinch.

"The boss is in Beverly Hills, Paulie," Tyson rumbled, his dark eyes locking onto the frantic promoter. "And it is Friday. If you call his phone to tell him you have a million dollars in cash, he is going to fire you for waking him up to do math."

"Mike, I am holding a literal mountain of illicit currency! I have to wake him up!"

"No, you don’t," Snoop interrupted, his voice dropping into a smooth, commanding register that carried the absolute, unyielding authority of the Brotherhood.

Snoop walked slowly toward the center of the gym. He looked at the heavy Pelican case on the floor, then at the terrified promoter.

"The boss outsourced the street-level logistics to you, Paul, so he wouldn’t have to look at the dirt," Snoop reasoned flawlessly, channeling Alex’s exact operational philosophy. "If you bring the dirt to his front door, you have failed your primary mandate. We do not disturb the stasis."

"Then what do I do with the cash, Snoop?!" Heyman pleaded. "I can’t just leave it in the trunk of my rental car!"

Tyson stood up, walking over to the elevated boxing ring. He slapped his massive hand against the thick, tightly tensioned canvas.

"The sub-floor vault beneath the memory foam is completely empty," Tyson noted, his dark eyes sparkling with a sudden, brilliant flash of logistical genius. "You washed the last batch through Philly. We have exactly an eight-inch gap of empty, dead space between the bottom of the mattress and the concrete foundation of this building."

Heyman stared at the boxing ring. His jaw slowly dropped as the sheer, unapologetic absurdity of the solution clicked into place.

"You want me... to stuff one point two million dollars in street cash... underneath the boxing ring?" Heyman whispered.

"It’s a highly insulated, temperature-controlled environment, nephew," Snoop grinned, taking another drag of his blunt. "And I guarantee you, nobody on the planet is going to try to rob a safe that requires lifting a boxing ring currently occupied by Mike Tyson and Keanu Reeves."

Heyman looked at the three global icons. They were completely serious. They were actively utilizing an off-the-books, physical vault to ensure the Slacker King’s nap schedule remained entirely uninterrupted.

A manic, deeply relieved laugh tore from Heyman’s throat.

"Pop the latches on the case!" Heyman shouted, grabbing a stack of bills. "Tell Gus to grab the vacuum sealer! We’re building a mattress out of money!"

Trousdale Estates, Los Angeles. 2:00 PM PST.

Thirty miles away, hovering far above the smog layer, the mid-century fortress was a masterpiece of absolute, undisturbed biological perfection.

The eighty-foot sliding glass doors were pulled wide open to the fragrant, eucalyptus-laced canyon breeze. The white robotic pool vacuum hummed silently beneath the surface of the glittering zero-edge pool.

In the center of the living room, the fourteen-by-fourteen-foot espresso-colored linen megalith sat bathed in the soft, diffused light of the early afternoon.

Alex Turner lay perfectly flat on his back.

He was swathed entirely in his unbranded, charcoal Loro Piana cashmere loungewear. His breathing was a slow, hypnotic metronome. The [Biological Endurance: Level 3 - The Immortal Sloth] trait was actively converting his absolute lack of movement into dense, tightly coiled heavyweight kinetic energy.

The newly unlocked [The Smiling Predator: Level 1] trait pulsed softly beneath the surface of the [Aura of Tranquility]. It was an invisible, heavily armed psychological snare, wrapping the living room in an atmosphere of peace that felt terrifyingly, undeniably lethal to anyone who dared to cross it.

Surrounding him in the down-filled arena, the Harem Council was slowly stirring from a state of profound, hyperbaric restoration.

Jennifer Aniston lay on her stomach, her chin resting on her folded arms, staring at the reclaimed teakwood coffee table. Resting on the pristine glass surface of the massive, forty-pound RIAA Diamond Record plaque was a fresh, untouched spread of imported burrata and heirloom tomatoes.

"I am officially ruined," Jennifer whispered, her voice husky and entirely devoid of industry-induced cortisol. "If I ever have to eat burrata off a regular ceramic plate again, I am going to feel like a peasant."

Mariah Carey, curled into the northern quadrant of the cushions, let out a soft, musical laugh. She was wearing her midnight-blue cashmere, her honey-colored eyes bright and completely clear.

"It does set an impossibly high standard for dining," Mariah agreed, stretching her arms above her head. "But Alex is right. Glass is non-porous. It is incredibly easy to clean."

In the center of the pit, the Slacker King slowly opened his dark, obsidian eyes. He didn’t stretch. He didn’t yawn. He simply transitioned from deep delta-wave sleep to apex-predator clarity in a fraction of a millisecond.

"The functionality of a trophy is its only redeeming quality, Mary," Alex drawled lazily, his deep baritone vibrating smoothly through the heavy linen cushions. "An award that cannot hold cheese is a useless paperweight."

Monica Bellucci gracefully shifted her weight in the western quadrant, pushing her dark raven hair over her shoulder. The Italian cinematic icon looked at the sleeping titan, her eyes shining with intense, intoxicating affection.

"Good afternoon, Mr. CEO," Monica purred, her rich accent wrapping around the quiet room. "I trust your metabolic optimization was successful?"

"It was flawless, Monica. I feel aggressively capable of continuing to do absolutely nothing," Alex confirmed, slowly pushing himself up into a seated position. He ran a hand through his messy hair. "Gatekeeper. Did the universe attempt to breach the perimeter while I was digesting?"

Jennifer smiled, sliding effortlessly across the soft linen to check the heavy Motorola brick phone resting on the teakwood side table.

"The phone is completely dark, Alex. Not a single flashing light," Jennifer reported, genuine awe lacing her tone. "Richard Vance Jr. actually followed your directive. He didn’t call once."

Alex let out a low, resonant hum of profound approval.

"Richard is learning the value of silence. Or he is simply terrified of the new aura," Alex murmured, his [Business Management: Level Max] trait analyzing the lack of communication.

In truth, the [The Smiling Predator] trait had fundamentally altered the way his proxies interacted with him. The subconscious realization that Alex Turner’s laziness was an active, weaponized trap made his employees incredibly hesitant to disturb the bait. They were solving problems on their own, terrified of what would happen if the trap snapped shut.

"However," Alex sighed, resting his forearms on his knees, "the absence of crisis does not negate the necessity of hydration. I require a glass of imported sparkling water, and I am actively debating whether or not I possess the caloric energy to walk to the kitchen."

Before the Council could offer to retrieve the beverage, the discreet, electronic chime of the Vanguard intercom panel echoed from the front entryway.

"The perimeter speaks," Alex groaned softly, closing his eyes.

Jennifer padded barefoot across the white terrazzo floor, pressing the talk button on the teakwood wall panel.

"Report, Thorne," Jennifer whispered smoothly.

"Ms. Aniston. Good afternoon," Elias Thorne’s crisp, digitized voice filtered through the speaker. "The perimeter is entirely secure. I am contacting you to report a successful, unprompted logistical delivery from the secondary facility."

"A delivery from the boxing gym?" Jennifer asked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Did Gus send something?"

"Negative, ma’am. The delivery was executed by Mr. Tyson and Mr. Heyman," Thorne replied, a distinct note of dry, professional bewilderment bleeding into his ex-Secret Service baritone. "They arrived at the barricade in a heavily modified 1964 Chevrolet Impala. They did not request entry. They simply handed my operatives a locked, steel briefcase, requested it be placed in the subterranean vault, and immediately drove away."

In the living room, Alex opened his eyes. A slow, deeply amused smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth.

"Did they provide a manifest, Thorne?" Alex asked lazily, his voice carrying effortlessly to the intercom.

"They provided a single, handwritten note, Mr. Turner," Thorne reported. "The note reads: ’The mattress is fully stuffed. Here is your deposit slip. Do not wake the boss.’"

Jennifer turned around, looking at Alex with wide, astonished eyes. "Alex... what did they do?"

"They did their jobs, Jen," Alex chuckled softly, pushing himself up from the linen megalith with fluid, heavyweight grace. "They encountered a structural problem in the mud, and they realized that bringing the mud into my living room was a fireable offense. They solved the equation."

He walked slowly toward the terrazzo hallway.

"Come along, ladies," the Slacker King instructed gently. "It appears the Brotherhood has successfully processed a secondary street-level dividend. Let us go to the basement and examine the deposit slip."

The Harem Council followed him down the sunlit corridor, passing the charcoal-grey tracking room, and stopped in front of the massive, matte-black steel blast door of the subterranean vault.

Alex pressed his thumb against the glowing green biometric scanner.

With a deep, pressurized hydraulic hiss, the massive steel deadbolts retracted. The foot-thick door swung inward on frictionless hinges, breaking the airtight seal.

They walked down the gently sloping concrete ramp.

The LED floodlights flickered to life, illuminating the cavernous, three-thousand-square-foot concrete cube. In Zone A, the crates of Swiss gold bullion gleamed with a heavy, immutable majesty. In Zone B, the silver Ampex master tapes sat perfectly aligned on the climate-controlled racks.

Resting on a small steel table near the entrance was the locked briefcase Thorne had delivered.

Alex popped the simple latches and opened the lid.

Inside was not stacks of cash. It was a single, meticulously detailed accounting ledger drafted by Paul Heyman, detailing exactly one point two million dollars in untaxed, untraceable street currency that had been systematically vacuum-sealed and wedged beneath the memory foam of the East Hollywood boxing ring.

Resting on top of the ledger was a single, crisp, one-hundred-dollar bill, and a Polaroid photograph.

The photograph showed Mike Tyson, Keanu Reeves, and Snoop Dogg sitting on the boxing ring canvas, smoking a blunt, sitting directly on top of a visible layer of black trash bags stuffed with money.

Mariah Carey covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable laughter. "They literally built a bed out of a million dollars again."

"It is an incredibly dense, insulating material, Mary. It will provide excellent acoustic dampening for the floorboards," Alex reasoned flawlessly, picking up the hundred-dollar bill.

He didn’t celebrate the massive influx of illegal capital. He simply tossed the bill back into the briefcase and snapped the lid shut.

[DING!]

Dentingan halus dan jernih dari Sistem Superstar & Champion bergema di korteks serebralnya, bergetar dengan nada validasi yang mendalam dan mutlak.

Antarmuka biru tembus pandang itu muncul dengan mulus dalam kegelapan penglihatannya.

[Pencapaian Sistem: Sindikat Otonom V2.] [Deskripsi: Jebakan psikologis Host (’Predator yang Tersenyum’) telah berhasil mengkondisikan para agen periferal untuk menyelesaikan krisis logistik bertekanan tinggi sepenuhnya secara mandiri, semata-mata untuk menghindari gangguan terhadap keadaan statis Host. ] [Hadiah: +30 Poin Sistem (SP). SP Saat Ini: 2170. ]

Alex mengabaikan teks biru bercahaya itu dengan gerakan pikiran yang malas.

Sistem itu beroperasi persis seperti yang direncanakan. Dia telah menciptakan sebuah kerajaan yang begitu takut akan ketidaksenangannya, dan begitu setia pada perlindungannya, sehingga kerajaan itu sekarang secara aktif mengelola ekspansinya sendiri hanya untuk memastikan jadwal tidurnya tetap sempurna.

"Situasinya sudah terkendali," Alex mengumumkan dengan lembut, membelakangi kekayaan luar biasa di dalam brankas itu. "Sektor korporasi sudah tenang. Dan saya secara resmi memulai protokol akhir pekan."

Dia memimpin Dewan kembali menaiki tanjakan beton, menekan tombol kunci eksterior. Pintu baja berat itu mendesis menutup, menyegel emas, kaset, dan slip setoran dalam kegelapan total yang tak tembus.

Saat mereka berjalan kembali ke ruang tamu yang bermandikan sinar matahari, Sang Raja Pemalas tidak melihat ke arah piringan hitam Diamond atau cakrawala Los Angeles yang luas.

Dia berjalan langsung ke megalit linen itu, menjatuhkan diri telungkup tepat di tengah bantal-bantal berisi bulu angsa, dan menghela napas panjang yang menggema, penuh kesempurnaan murni dan tanpa cela.

Kekaisaran itu sempurna, dan Raja akhirnya tertidur tanpa syarat.