Before Ryan could even properly process the inked columns of grain allocations, an imperial tax collector—a severe, sharp-eyed official in stiff dark robes holding a polished wooden abacus—stepped smoothly out from the shadows of the tribunal's cedar perimeter. With the absolute, unyielding authority of an aggressive compliance officer cornering an employee in the breakroom, the collector slapped a heavy register down onto the polished floorboards. He formally summoned Ryan to account for a string of severely missing provincial tribute ledgers, setting an unyielding deadline before sunset under the explicit threat of a complete administrative freeze.
Ryan let out a quiet, bone-weary exhale through his nose, his shoulders slumping under the all-too-familiar weight of corporate dread. To his exhausted mind, the feudal tax collector's severe ultimatum carried the exact, crushing anxiety of an unannounced HR audit or a sudden red-flagged expense report from finance. Shifting the worn canvas strap of his messenger bag higher on his shoulder, he maintained his placid, mild-mannered salaryman composure, treating the ancient shakedown with the weary patience of a marketing coordinator trying to untangle an impossible billing discrepancy before a midday deadline.
Checking his internal clock—barely past ten in the morning—Ryan offered a polite, deferential nod, reaching into his coat pocket as if preparing to pull out a corporate ID badge or a crumpled vendor invoice. "I'll cross-reference the allocations with the regional distribution logs," Ryan murmured smoothly, treating the imperial demand with the same deadpan professionalism he usually reserved for a botched product launch, fully intent on negotiating the missing ledger entries before his next scheduled transit connection.