Episode-205

Words : 1560 Updated : Sep 27th, 2025

Chapter: 409 He took a series of long, slow, deliberate breaths, the calming technique from his yoga days on Earth now a desperate tool for mental reconstruction. Inhale control. Exhale weakness. Inhale strategy. Exhale grief. By the time he finally rose from the bench, the sun was casting long afternoon shadows. His face was pale, his eyes red-rimmed and shadowed with a fatigue that was soul-deep, but the raw, weeping emotion was gone. The mask was back in place. The cold, calculating focus had returned. He was Lord Ferrum once more. He walked back to his temporary quarters at the palace, his stride steady, purposeful. The incident in the market was a disaster, yes. But a disaster, to a strategist, was just another data point. It had revealed a weakness. A vulnerability he had not known he still possessed. Now, he knew. And he would guard against it. But it had also created a problem. A loose end. Airin. The girl with Anastasia’s face. The whispers would center on her now. She would be an object of curiosity, of speculation. And potentially... a target. If his enemies learned of his strange, profound reaction to this simple vegetable seller... they could use her. As bait. As leverage. As a weapon against him. He had, in his moment of weakness, not just endangered himself; he had endangered her. The thought settled in his gut, a cold, hard knot of responsibility. He had to protect her. Not because she was Anastasia, but because he had made her a target. But as he entered his quiet, luxurious rooms, another, more immediate, and more pragmatic problem slammed into his consciousness, pushing aside the emotional turmoil. It was a memory from the market, something he had seen just before the world had dissolved into a vision of his dead wife. A flash of something familiar, something... wrong. He had been passing a stall in one of the less reputable side-arcades, a dingy little shop selling cheap tinctures and questionable folk remedies. And on a dusty shelf, nestled between a jar of what looked suspiciously like pickled newts and a bottle of ‘Guaranteed Impotence Cure’, he had seen it. A bottle. A crude, clumsily made glass bottle. But it had a pump. A cheap, tinny-looking, badly designed pump. And inside was a thin, watery, bluish liquid. And scrawled on a piece of cheap parchment stuck to the front was a single, damning word: ‘AURA’. --- The knock-off. The cheap, watery, bluish liquid in the clumsy glass bottle. The stolen name. AURA. The emotional storm in his mind—the grief, the shame, the fear—was instantly, violently, eclipsed by a new, colder, and far more focused, emotion. Fury. The clean, righteous, all-consuming fury of a creator whose work has been plagiarized, of a general whose banner has been stolen and befouled by the enemy. This was not a ghost from his past. This was a tangible, immediate threat to his present. To his future. The AURA brand was more than just a business; it was the engine of his power, the source of the gold and System Coins he needed to survive. An attack on AURA was an attack on his very ability to fight the war that was coming for him. The emotional turmoil vanished, locked away once more in its lead-lined box. The soldier, the strategist, took command. The mission parameters were clear. Identify the threat. Analyze its capabilities. Dismantle its operation. Annihilate it. He stood in the center of his room, the earlier vulnerability gone, replaced by a chilling, absolute stillness. His posture straightened, his gaze hardened, his mind becoming a fortress of cold, clear, tactical purpose. He took a deep, centering breath, his voice, when he spoke to the empty air, level, quiet, and resonating with an authority that was absolute. “Ken.” The shadow in the corner of the room detached itself from the wall, resolving into the solid, impassive form of Ken Park. He had been there all along, a silent witness, his presence a constant, comforting certainty. His face, as always, betrayed nothing. No judgment for Lloyd’s earlier breakdown. No surprise at the sudden summons. Only a quiet, unwavering readiness. “Young Lord,” Ken acknowledged, his voice a flat, steady baritone. Lloyd did not waste time with pleasantries or explanations of his earlier emotional state. That was irrelevant now. There was a new mission. A new enemy. “There is a breach, Ken,” Lloyd began, his voice a low, dangerous hum. “An act of commercial espionage. Someone is manufacturing and distributing a counterfeit version of the AURA elixir.” Chapter: 410 He saw a flicker of something—a fractional tightening of the jaw, a cold glint in the dark eyes—in his bodyguard’s otherwise impassive face. Ken understood the gravity of this threat instantly. It was not just about lost profits; it was about brand integrity, about reputation, about an attack on a Ducal-sanctioned, and now Royally-endorsed, enterprise. Lloyd described the stall in the market arcade, the crude glass bottle, the watery blue liquid, the stolen name scrawled on the label. He painted a clear picture of the threat. “This is not a simple opportunist, Ken,” Lloyd continued, his mind already dissecting the strategic implications. “To replicate the pump mechanism, even as crudely as they have, requires a degree of mechanical understanding. To produce a liquid soap, however inferior, requires a basic knowledge of the saponification process. And to do so this quickly, to get a product to market while our own brand is still in its infancy... this was not a random act. This was a planned, deliberate, and surprisingly swift, operation.” He paced a slow, deliberate circle, his hands clasped behind his back, the Major General outlining a new campaign. “They are attempting to capitalize on the frenzy we have created, to poison our market with an inferior product before we can fully establish our own standard of quality. It is a classic move of commercial sabotage. And it is... effective.” He stopped, turning to face his bodyguard, his eyes hard as flint. “I need intelligence, Ken. Comprehensive. Absolute. I want to know everything about this counterfeit operation.” He began to issue his directives, his voice crisp, clear, the voice of a commander issuing orders before a battle. “First, the product itself. I need a sample. Discreetly acquire one of the bottles. Get it to Alaric at the manufactory. I want a full chemical analysis. I want to know exactly what is in that bottle. Is it just colored water? Is it a crude, lye-heavy soap that could cause a genuine skin reaction? I need to know the nature of the weapon they are using against us.” “Second, the source. Find out who is making it. Where is their workshop? It will not be a large operation, not yet. A back-room laboratory. A hidden cellar. Somewhere small, secret. Find it. I want its location. I want to know their production capacity, their methods.” “Third, the distribution. This stall in the market is just the tip of the spear. Who is their distributor? How are they getting their product into the hands of the street vendors? Is it a single agent? A network? I want the entire supply chain mapped, from the workshop to the stall.” “And finally,” he paused, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl, “the head of the snake. Who is funding this? Who is behind it? This requires capital, organization, a degree of knowledge. It is not the work of a common street merchant. Is it a rival guild? A noble house with interests in the traditional soap or perfume trade? Is it... one of my other enemies, using commercial sabotage as a new vector of attack?” He looked at Ken, the weight of his command absolute. “This is your highest priority now. The investigation into the assassin continues, but this... this is an active, ongoing attack that threatens the very foundation of my power base. I want their entire operation laid bare. I want the name of every person involved, from the man who mixes the lye to the man who profits from the sale.” He took a deep breath, his earlier grief and shame now completely sublimated into a cold, focused, righteous fury. “They have stolen my creation. They have sullied my name. They have declared war on my enterprise.” A slow, predatory smile touched his lips, a smile that held no warmth, only the promise of cold, hard, commercial annihilation. “And I,” he concluded, his voice a quiet, chilling promise, “am going to introduce them to the true meaning of hostile takeover.” The Royal Market of Bethelham, a vibrant, chaotic tapestry of life and commerce, continued its relentless hum, utterly indifferent to the small, intense drama that had just unfolded amidst its vegetable stalls. The crowd that had gathered to witness the spectacle of the weeping nobleman and the terrified market girl had already begun to disperse, their morbid curiosity sated, their appetites now turned to the more tangible offerings of sizzling sausages and spiced wine. The whispers lingered, of course, a new, juicy piece of gossip to be traded and embellished throughout the day, but the market’s fundamental rhythm—the haggling, the laughter, the endless, energetic pursuit of coin—had reasserted itself.

Episode-205

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