Episode-223

Words : 1539 Updated : Sep 29th, 2025

Chapter : 445 He felt a surge of profound gratitude for the man standing so silently before him. Ken Park was not just a bodyguard. He was a weapon of unparalleled precision, an intelligence agency of one. His loyalty was a shield, and his competence, a sword. “This is... flawless, Ken,” Lloyd said, finally looking up from the ledger, his voice filled with a genuine, undisguised admiration. “Absolutely flawless. You have given me everything I need, and more.” Ken inclined his head, a single, fractional nod. It was the only acknowledgment he needed. Praise was irrelevant. The successful completion of the mission was the only reward that mattered. “Continue your surveillance,” Lloyd commanded, his mind already shifting from intelligence gathering to operational planning. “I want to know every move Jacob Croft makes. Every meeting he takes. Every coin he spends. But do not engage. Do not interfere. Not yet. The time for action is coming, but we will choose the moment. We will strike on our own terms.” “Understood, Young Lord,” Ken replied. He waited for a moment, and when it was clear Lloyd had no further immediate orders, he simply turned, and with that same disconcerting, liquid silence, he was gone, melting back into the shadows of the room, leaving Lloyd alone with his newly acquired weapon. Lloyd leaned back in his chair, the cheap leather of the traitor’s ledger cool beneath his fingertips. He felt the familiar, cold thrill of the hunt, the clean, sharp joy of a general preparing for a battle he knew, with absolute certainty, he was going to win. He had his enemy’s playbook. He had the map to their fortress. All that was left was to plan the assault. He turned to the first page of the ledger again, preparing to read it a second time, to memorize every detail, to commit the entire pathetic, criminal enterprise to memory before he consigned it to flames. His eyes scanned the first section, the one on the counterfeit product’s composition, a faint, contemptuous smile on his lips. Rancid fish oil. Slaked lime. Froth-tongue moss. It was a recipe for a skin rash, not a soap. A crude, almost laughable, imitation. He read through the list of ingredients, and then the notes on their process. And then, he froze. His smile vanished. The triumphant thrill in his veins turned to a sudden, sickening slush of ice. His hand, resting on the page, began to tremble almost imperceptibly. He reread the line. Then he read it again. And again. But the words did not change. A note from Ken’s operative, a detail so small, so seemingly insignificant, it had been buried in the technical analysis of their methods: “...subjects were observed attempting to create a liquid variant using a softer lye derived from potash, a technique they seemed to understand in principle but lacked the skill to execute effectively. Scent infusion was attempted late in the process, after the primary heating, a specific, repeated methodology. And finally, their attempts to replicate the dispenser mechanism, while crude, showed a fundamental understanding of a one-way valve and piston system...” The blood drained from Lloyd’s face. The room, which had felt like a commander’s war room, suddenly felt like a tomb. His victory, his confidence, his entire world, shattered in an instant. The lye. The infusion process. The dispenser mechanics. These weren't public knowledge. They weren't things a crude counterfeiter could have reverse-engineered from a stolen bar of soap. They were foundational secrets. Secrets known only to a handful of people. Secrets known only to the trusted, inner circle of his own team. The team he had just, so foolishly, begun to think of as his family. The ledger lay open on the desk, its cheap leather cover seeming to mock him, the neat, angular script of Ken’s report blurring into a meaningless scrawl. The words swam before Lloyd’s eyes, each one a separate, poisoned dart. Softer lye derived from potash. Scent infusion attempted late in the process. Fundamental understanding of a one-way valve and piston system. The cold dread that had begun as a prickle in his gut now spread through his veins like a cryogenic poison, freezing him from the inside out. He sat utterly still in the silent, opulent study, the world narrowed to the damning words on the page. His mind, the brilliant, analytical instrument of the Major General, which had so coolly dissected siege engine mechanics and political conspiracies, was now turned inward, performing a brutal, agonizing autopsy on his own naivety. Chapter : 446 He had been so focused on the external threat, on the shadowy organizations and the ghosts of his past, that he had never once considered the possibility of the enemy already being inside the walls. He had built a fortress of innovation and commerce, surrounding himself with a hand-picked team of brilliant, dedicated individuals. He had trusted them. He had celebrated with them, laughed with them, shared his vision with them. He had, in a moment of profound, uncharacteristic vulnerability, even begun to think of them as a kind of family. And one of them, one of his trusted few, was a traitor. The realization was not a sudden, explosive shock. It was a slow, sickening implosion, a collapsing of the very foundations of his new life. Every memory of the past few weeks, every shared success, was instantly, retroactively, tainted. He saw Alaric, his face alight with academic passion, meticulously explaining the saponification index of almond oil. Was that passion genuine, or a mask for a man carefully logging every secret of the formula to be sold to the highest bidder? He saw Borin, his boisterous enthusiasm a constant, chaotic force, designing the water wheel, the stirring mechanism. Was his innovative genius truly so innocent, or had he been ‘improving’ the designs in ways that made them easier to replicate, easier to steal? Was his loyalty to Lloyd, or to the highest bidder who could fund his next, more spectacular, explosion? He saw Lyra, the sharp-eyed pragmatist, her mind a fortress of logistical efficiency, the one who had first identified the weakness in his dispenser’s valve design and proposed the alchemical sealant. Had she proposed that solution to strengthen his product, or to better understand its mechanics so she could sell that knowledge to his rivals? He saw Jasmin, his first recruit, his loyal forewoman, her shy gratitude so raw, so genuine. But desperation was a powerful motivator. Her mother’s illness, the crushing weight of poverty... could the Gilded Hand, or someone behind them, have offered her more? A cure, perhaps, in exchange for a few whispered secrets about production schedules and ingredient suppliers? The thought was a physical, twisting pain. He saw Tisha, the charismatic heart of their public relations, the woman who could charm a dragon and manage a mob. Her network of contacts in the city was vast, her knowledge of the merchant class unparalleled. Had she used that knowledge to help them, or to identify the perfect, disgruntled guild to act as a proxy for this attack? Even Mei Jing, his brilliant, ruthless general of commerce, the architect of their marketing triumphs. Her ambition was as vast as his own. Was her loyalty truly to him, to the AURA brand? Or was it to profit, pure and simple? Had a rival offered her a better deal, a larger stake in a different empire? No. He tried to shut down the train of thought. Not Mei Jing. Not Tisha. Not Jasmin. The trust he had placed in them felt too real, their loyalty too hard-won. But the cold, hard logic of the situation was inescapable. The leak had to have come from someone with intimate knowledge of their entire operation, from the precise chemical formulations to the mechanical engineering of the dispenser. It had to be someone from the core team. Someone who had sat in his study, who had shared his food, who had celebrated their success. The feeling of betrayal was a physical, corrosive thing, eating away at the foundations of his carefully reconstructed world. The loneliness he had felt before, the isolation of his secret existence, returned with a vengeance, now sharpened by the bitter edge of paranoia. He was surrounded by allies, by friends, by a family of his own making. And he couldn't trust a single one of them. He leaned back in his chair, the opulent velvet feeling like sackcloth, the silence of the room a suffocating weight. Who? Why? Greed? It was the simplest motive. Jacob Croft’s Gilded Hand was a low-level operation. They wouldn't have the resources to offer a bribe significant enough to turn someone like Mei Jing or the alchemists. But perhaps they weren't the true paymasters. Perhaps they were just the front, the disposable pawns, for a much more powerful, more shadowy, entity. Rubel? No. This felt... different. Too commercial. Too focused on destroying his business, not just his reputation. The Altamiras? Possible. Destabilizing the Ferrum economy would be a powerful strategic move. But again, the method felt too direct, too... grubby. It lacked the subtle, political poison they were known for.

Episode-223

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