The garden remained unnervingly quiet.
Silas Blackwell studied PK for a long moment, the smile on his face no longer casual, no longer amused. It was the look of a man reassessing everything he thought he understood.
"You're interesting," Silas said at last.
"Far more than I expected."
The other old men, who moments ago had dismissed PK as an ignorant brat, suddenly leaned forward. Their eyes—once filled with disdain—now burned with naked interest.
"One bottle like that…" one of them said slowly, "what would it take to obtain more?"
Another followed immediately, unable to restrain himself.
"My joints have been failing for years. If that medicine truly works—"
"And my sleep," a third added hurriedly. "I haven't slept properly in a decade."
They all turned toward PK, anticipation clear on their faces.
PK didn't respond immediately.
He simply looked at them—calm, detached, as though listening to the wind instead of some of the most powerful figures in the region.
Silas observed him closely.
This boy wasn't overwhelmed.
He wasn't flattered.
And he certainly wasn't desperate.
Finally, PK spoke.
"These weren't made for sale," he said evenly.
The old men stiffened.
"I don't mass-produce things," PK continued.
"And I don't trade favors just because someone is excited."
One of the elders frowned.
"Name your price."
PK shook his head.
"It's not about money."
That single sentence unsettled them more than any number ever could.
Silas's smile widened—not with amusement, but approval.
"You're cautious," Silas said. "Good. That means you know your own worth."
PK met his gaze.
"I know the value of what I hold," PK replied.
"And I know what happens when it's given too easily."
The old men exchanged uneasy glances.
They were used to commanding resources, buying loyalty, bending rules.
Yet here stood someone who treated their wealth and influence as irrelevant.
One elder tried again, softer this time.
"Then what do you want?"
PK looked away briefly, toward the chessboard still standing between him and Silas.
"For now?" he said calmly.
"Nothing."
That answer landed heavier than any demand.
Silas laughed quietly, tapping his cane against the stone floor.
"Good," he said.
"Very good."
He leaned forward slightly.
"People who want nothing are the most dangerous kind," Silas added.
"And the most valuable allies."
PK smiled faintly, neither confirming nor denying anything.
The old men watched him with mixed emotions—curiosity, greed, caution, and a growing trace of respect.
As for Riya Blackwell—
She stood silently behind her grandfather, eyes fixed on PK.
For the first time, the thought crossed her mind:
This man isn't beneath us.
We might be standing beneath him.
And PK, calm as ever, remained exactly what he intended to be—
Unmoved.
Unrushed.
And impossible to read.