Before the stern administrator can issue a final, system-locking rejection, a high-ranking imperial magistrate sweeps into the narrow checkpoint corridor. Draped in heavy, formal robes that rustle with the ominous authority of a regional director arriving unannounced to audit an underperforming branch, the official blocks the remaining clearance path entirely. The low, resonant thrum of the district curfew bell begins to echo across the cobblestones, imposing an unyielding deadline that feels less like a historical decree and more like a building security guard announcing that the lobby is closing for the night. The magistrate extends a rigid, demanding hand, insisting on a formal imperial seal before the heavy iron gates are bolted shut.
Ryan lets out another quiet, bone-weary sigh—the exact, hollow exhale he usually reserves for a facility manager demanding an unauthorized badge verification five minutes after locking-up time. Shifting the heavy canvas messenger bag on his aching shoulder, he maintains the placid, deadpan diplomacy of a salaryman simply trying to clear an administrative hurdle so he can catch his transit connection home. With mild patience, he reaches into his coat pocket as though searching for a misplaced parking pass, offering the formidable magistrate a polite, conciliatory nod and suggesting that the required seal is probably just held up in an oversight backlog at the provincial sorting desk.