Episode-215

Words : 1699 Updated : Sep 29th, 2025

Chapter: 429 She took another step closer, the air between them crackling with a silent, hostile energy. “I am sure I do not need to remind you of the Academy’s strict code of conduct regarding interactions between faculty and students. I am sure I do not need to explain the immense power imbalance that exists, particularly when a student is a commoner, a scholarship recipient, utterly dependent on the goodwill of their patrons and teachers for their very presence here.” It was a masterfully constructed, veiled threat. She was not just accusing him of the incident in the market; she was framing it as a potential abuse of his new professorial power, a violation of the sacred trust between teacher and student. She was laying the groundwork for his potential dismissal, for the public, final, and absolute ruin of his reputation. “I will be watching you, Professor Ferrum,” she concluded, her voice a promise of relentless, unforgiving scrutiny. “I will be watching your every interaction with Scholar Airin. And if I perceive any further instances of... undue distress... any hint of impropriety, any action that I deem detrimental to the well-being and academic progress of my sponsored student...” She let the sentence hang, the unspoken consequences more terrifying than any overt threat. She smiled then, a cold, sharp, and utterly merciless, smile. “I trust we have an understanding.” It was a declaration of war. A war to be fought not on a battlefield with swords and spirits, but in the corridors and classrooms of this Academy, a war of perception, of propriety, of power. She had drawn a line in the sand, placing Airin, the ghost of his past, firmly on her side, under her protection, and turning her into a potential weapon against him. Any interaction he had with Airin, however innocent, however necessary, could now be twisted, framed, used as ammunition to destroy him. Lloyd looked at her, at the fierce, righteous, and utterly misinformed, fury in her icy-blue eyes. He saw the warrior, the protector, the loyal friend to his sister, Jothi. He understood her motive. He even, on some level, respected it. She believed she was protecting a vulnerable girl from a man of poor character. She was wrong, catastrophically so, but her intentions, from her own flawed perspective, were honorable. But understanding did not mean acceptance. He met her cold, challenging gaze with a sudden, quiet intensity of his own. The polite, professional mask of the professor dropped for a fraction of a second, replaced by the hard, unyielding steel of the Major General. “Your concern for your student’s welfare is... admirable, Your Highness,” he said, his voice quiet, but with an underlying hardness, a hint of the immense, coiled power she could not possibly comprehend. “But allow me to be equally clear.” He took a half-step forward himself, subtly, almost unconsciously, reclaiming the space, refusing to be the one who backed down. “I will perform my duties as a professor with the utmost integrity and professionalism. I will treat all my students, including Scholar Airin, with the fairness and respect they are due. And I will not,” his voice dropped, becoming a low, dangerous rumble that made the confident Princess’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly, “be intimidated by veiled threats or baseless accusations, regardless of their source.” He held her gaze for a long, silent, and deeply confrontational, moment. A silent battle of wills, fought in the quiet, sun-dappled hallway of an ancient academy. “I believe,” he concluded, his voice returning to a cool, polite neutrality, “we have a perfect understanding, Your Highness.” He then offered her a shallow, almost dismissive, bow, turned, and walked away, leaving Princess Isabella standing in the hallway, her face a mask of stunned, furious disbelief. She had come to deliver a declaration of war. And the drab duckling, the disgraced failure, the weeping man from the market, had just, in his own, quiet, and deeply, profoundly, infuriating way, accepted it. And fired back. The battle for Bathelham Academy had officially begun. The confrontation with Princess Isabella had left a bitter, metallic taste in Lloyd’s mouth. He had won the brief, verbal sparring match, yes, had refused to be cowed by her aristocratic disdain and veiled threats. But the victory felt hollow. He was now embroiled in a cold war with a powerful, determined, and deeply misinformed, adversary, a war to be fought on the treacherous ground of his own past failures, with the ghost of his dead wife as the unwitting battlefield. It was a messy, complicated, and emotionally exhausting situation, and he loathed it. Chapter: 430 He retreated from the Academy that evening, needing the familiar, practical, and blessedly uncomplicated, scent of his manufactory. He needed to focus on problems he could solve with logic, with chemistry, with a clear, strategic application of resources. He needed to get back to the war he understood. The war against the counterfeiters. He found Ken Park waiting for him in his study, a silent, imposing shadow against the warm glow of the oil lamps. As always, the bodyguard’s face was an impassive mask, but Lloyd saw the question in his eyes. How was the first day? How was the new, hostile environment? Lloyd waved a dismissive hand, not wanting to re-litigate the encounter with the Princess. “The Academy is... as expected,” he said, his tone dry. “Full of youthful enthusiasm and political maneuvering. A different kind of battlefield.” He moved to his desk, the pragmatist, the general, taking over. “Forget the Academy for now, Ken. Report. The counterfeiters. What have you found?” Ken, recognizing the shift in priority, the need for hard, actionable intelligence over emotional debriefing, nodded once. He produced a small, tightly rolled scroll from within his tunic. “The sample was acquired as you instructed, Young Lord,” Ken began, his voice the usual flat, level baritone. “It was delivered to the alchemist Alaric for immediate analysis. His findings are... conclusive.” He handed the scroll to Lloyd. Lloyd unrolled it, his eyes scanning Alaric’s neat, spidery, and deeply, profoundly, alarmed script. The report was a masterpiece of horrified, alchemical indignation. “Subject: Counterfeit ‘AURA’ Liquid. Preliminary Analysis. Composition: Primary base identified as low-grade, highly rancid fish oil, likely sourced from the refuse bins of the dockside fish market. Saponifying agent appears to be a crude, unrefined form of slaked lime (Calcium Hydroxide), a highly caustic alkali utterly unsuitable for dermal application. Thickening and foaming properties achieved through the addition of a rare, but cheap, wetland moss known colloquially as ‘Froth-tongue’, a substance known to cause mild to moderate skin irritation in its own right. Scenting agent is a low-quality, synthetic perfume oil, likely the same kind used in cheap tavern incense. Coloration achieved with a common laundry bluing agent. Conclusion: This is not soap. This is a mildly corrosive, potentially toxic, industrial slurry, packaged in a bottle and cynically branded as a luxury good. It is an abomination. An insult to the noble art of alchemy. It is, my lord, bilge. Bilge in a bottle.” Lloyd finished reading, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face. It was even worse, and therefore, even better, than he had imagined. It wasn’t just a cheap imitation; it was a dangerous one. A product so shoddy, so potentially harmful, that its very existence was a crime not just against his brand, but against the public good. “Fish oil and slaked lime,” Lloyd murmured, a note of almost appreciative disgust in his voice. “Creative. And utterly, suicidally, stupid.” He looked up at Ken. “And the source? The producers of this... ‘bilge’?” “The operation has been traced, my lord,” Ken replied, continuing his report. “It is run by a minor merchant guild known as the ‘Gilded Hand’. They are known primarily for dealing in salvage, second-hand goods, and items of... questionable provenance. They have no official standing, no real power. They are parasites, feeding on the scraps of larger commercial enterprises.” “Their workshop,” Ken continued, “is located, as you predicted, in a series of rented cellars beneath a failing tannery in the slum district. The conditions are unsanitary, the equipment crude. They appear to be producing approximately one hundred bottles of the counterfeit product per day, which are then distributed through a network of street vendors and disreputable market stalls, like the one you observed.” “And the head of this snake?” Lloyd pressed. “Who is the Master of the Gilded Hand?” “A man named Silas Croft,” Ken replied. “A former factor for a larger spice merchant, dismissed five years ago for embezzlement. He is ambitious, greedy, and possessed of a profound lack of scruples. He saw the AURA frenzy, saw an opportunity, and cobbled together this operation to capitalize on it. Our intelligence suggests he is the sole architect and beneficiary. This does not appear to be a proxy operation for a larger, more powerful entity. It is simply... low-level, opportunistic crime.” Lloyd listened, a plan, cold, clear, and beautifully simple, forming in his mind. He could crush them himself. He could send Ken and a squad of guards to raid the workshop, to seize the materials, to drag Silas Croft before his father for judgment. It would be swift. It would be effective. But it would also be... messy. It would tie the name of Ferrum directly to a squabble with a low-life criminal guild. It would require ducal guards to be seen cracking down on common merchants. It would create martyrs, whispers of a great house bullying the little man. It was a solution of brute force. And Lloyd, the Major General, knew that brute force was often the least efficient, least elegant, tool in the arsenal. There was a better way. A way to use the systems of this world, the pride and the power of its own institutions, to solve his problem for him. A way that would not only eliminate the counterfeiters, but do so in a public, spectacular, and utterly undeniable, fashion, while leaving his own hands perfectly, spotlessly, clean.

Episode-215

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