Lord Greed-Fang clutched his oversized stomach and took two stumbling steps backward. His mechanical abdominal plating rattled like a tin can full of loose bolts. Sweat poured down his fleshy jowls, washing greasy lines through his powdered makeup.
“You can’t touch me!” Greed-Fang shouted, his voice squeaking with panic. “I am an independent sovereign investor! My physical body is protected by diplomatic immunity from the High Council!”
Shen Qiaoqiao did not blink. She held up her golden gavel and tapped it gently against the palm of her white glove. A pleasant chime rang out across the marble stones.
“Article Nine, Section Four of the Interstellar Trade Compact,” Shen Qiaoqiao recited in a cheerful, melodic voice. “Diplomatic immunity is automatically nullified when an officer uses their own digestive tract as an unregistered offshore tax haven.”
Lord Wen stepped forward, adjusting his iron-rimmed spectacles. He carried a heavy brush carved from black spirit-wood. With a single flick of his wrist, he painted a glowing cinnabar rune in the air.
“Subject exhibits abnormal electromagnetic mass,” Lord Wen said dryly. “Density analysis confirms fifty billion coins of refined astral gold bars concealed within a false stomach cavity. Scribe, record the concealment penalty.”
“Right away, Lord Wen,” Shen Qiaoqiao beamed.
