Episode-229

Words : 1482 Updated : Sep 29th, 2025

Chapter : 457 She was no longer just an annoyed observer. She was an investigator, a crusader, fueled by a righteous, aristocratic fury. She was going to uncover the rot at the heart of this counterfeit operation, and she was going to crush it, not for the sake of the Ferrums, but for the sake of the principle. For the sake of honor. She was now on a collision course with Lloyd’s own, secret investigation. Both of them were hunting the same pathetic Gilded Hand, but for entirely different, and dangerously contradictory, reasons. He, to protect his secret empire and find the traitor within his walls. She, to uphold the honor of the nobility and deliver a swift, brutal lesson to the criminals who had dared to mock it. The stage was set for a new kind of war. A war of misdirection, of mistaken identity, and of two powerful, determined, and utterly misinformed, rivals, unknowingly racing to destroy the same pathetic criminal enterprise, each believing it was the key to their own, very different, form of justice. The Royal Market of Bethelham was a living, breathing creature, and Lloyd Ferrum felt like a ghost haunting its vibrant, chaotic heart. The days following his emotional cataclysm at Airin’s vegetable stall had been a blur of self-imposed exile and grim, focused work. He had retreated into the cool, logical world of his counterfeit investigation and the demanding curriculum of his Special Category class, using them as a shield against the turbulent, messy reality of his own heart. He avoided the market. He avoided the specific corner where a quiet girl with his dead wife’s face sold radishes. He avoided the memory. But the guilt was a persistent, low-level thrum beneath the surface of his carefully constructed composure. He had not just made a fool of himself; he had terrified an innocent young woman. He had taken his own private, ancient grief and had, with the thoughtless cruelty of a man lost in his own pain, thrown it at her feet. The Major General condemned the lack of control. The eighty-year-old man was ashamed of the youthful, selfish outburst. And the quiet, lonely soul of Lloyd Ferrum simply knew that he had been wrong. He knew he had to fix it. He couldn't let the fear and confusion he had caused fester. It wasn't just a matter of personal honor; it was a matter of practical necessity. He was her professor now, a bizarre and cruel twist of fate he was still struggling to comprehend. He could not teach a student who was terrified of him. And he could not endure the silent, agonizing weight of her fear in his classroom every day. He had to apologize. Properly. He chose his moment, not with calculation this time, but with a simple, weary resolve. It was late afternoon, the market crowds beginning to thin as the day’s trade wound down. The golden light of the setting sun cast long, soft shadows, painting the cobblestones in hues of honey and amber. He walked through the familiar, chaotic aisles, the scents of spices and leather and baking bread no longer a source of wonder, but a simple, grounding reality. He found her stall easily. She was packing away her remaining vegetables, her movements quick, efficient, her head bowed. He saw the way she kept glancing over her shoulder, the subtle, nervous tension in her posture. She was still afraid. Still watching for the mad, weeping nobleman. The sight was another sharp, painful twist of the knife in his gut. He knew a direct approach would only frighten her more. He needed an intermediary. He needed a neutral ground. And he needed to frame his request in a way that she could not, by the laws of their society, refuse. It was a manipulative tactic, he knew, a use of his own status and power. But it was a necessary one. It was the only way to force the conversation that had to happen. He approached not her stall, but a nearby one, a small, respectable tea merchant’s stall he had noted before. He purchased a small, expensive packet of rare Sunstone Archipelago black tea, paying the merchant with a silver coin and a polite, lordly nod. Then, armed with his prop, he waited. He saw her finish packing her last basket of turnips, saw her begin to wipe down the wooden counter of her stall. Chapter : 458 This was his chance. He walked towards her, his stride deliberately slow, calm, non-threatening. He did not go directly to her, but to the small, fashionable tea shop that stood just across the narrow alleyway from her stall. It was an elegant place, with small, wrought-iron tables set outside, a place where wealthy merchants and minor nobles often stopped for a quiet cup. It was public, yet offered a degree of privacy. It was the perfect stage. He took a seat at one of the empty outdoor tables, placing his small packet of tea beside him. He then caught the eye of the proprietor, a bustling woman in a clean white apron. “A pot of your finest jasmine tea, if you please,” he said, his voice calm, clear. “And two cups.” He then turned his gaze, for the first time, directly towards Airin. She had seen him. Of course, she had. He had felt her tense up the moment he entered her periphery, her movements becoming stiff, jerky. She was trying to ignore him, to finish her work and flee. But now, he was looking at her. Directly. And he was not moving. He did not call out to her. He did not approach her further. He simply sat, his expression one of quiet, patient, and undeniable, expectation. He had created a scene, a silent, public tableau. A nobleman, sitting alone at a tea shop, with two cups, looking directly at a common market girl. The message was as clear, and as inescapable, as a royal summons. Airin froze, her hand, holding a damp cleaning rag, hovering over the counter. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She was trapped. Every eye in the vicinity—the tea shop proprietor, the other patrons, the neighboring stall owners—was now on her. They saw the wealthy young lord. They saw his expectant gaze. They saw the two cups. To ignore him, to turn her back and flee, would be a public, and deeply, profoundly, insulting snub. It would be an act of social suicide for a common girl. It would invite questions, gossip, and the kind of trouble she had spent her entire life trying to avoid. He had her cornered, not with chains or threats, but with the subtle, unbreakable bonds of social propriety. She looked at him, her warm brown eyes wide with a familiar, terrified panic. She saw the calm, quiet, and utterly relentless, resolve on his handsome face. He was not going to leave. He was not going to look away. He was waiting. For her. With a deep, shuddering breath that felt like a surrender, her shoulders slumped in defeat. She slowly, painstakingly, untied her soiled apron, her fingers trembling. She smoothed down her simple cornflower-blue dress, a futile, nervous gesture. Then, with the slow, reluctant steps of a prisoner walking to the gallows, she crossed the narrow, cobblestoned alley. She stopped before his table, her head bowed, her gaze fixed on the intricate wrought-iron pattern of the chair opposite him. She did not speak. She simply stood, a small, terrified figure caught in the powerful, inexplicable orbit of a man she did not understand. “Scholar Airin,” Lloyd said, his voice quiet, gentle, using the formal title from the Academy to remind her of their new, and equally strange, connection. He gestured to the empty chair. “Thank you for joining me. Please. Sit.” Her name was not Anastasia. But the ghost of his dead wife had just, reluctantly, and with a heart pounding with a mixture of terror and confusion, agreed to have tea with him. The apology, he knew, was only the first, and perhaps the easiest, part of the impossible conversation that lay ahead. The tea shop was an island of genteel calm amidst the vibrant, chaotic sea of the Royal Market. The air here was fragrant with the scent of a hundred different kinds of tea leaves—the smoky aroma of black teas from the south, the grassy freshness of green teas from the eastern provinces, the sweet, floral notes of herbal infusions. The soft clink of porcelain on saucer and the low, murmuring conversations of the other patrons provided a soothing, civilized soundtrack. It was a world away from the grimy, desperate alley where he had faced down the assassin, a world away from the blood and fear of the goblin forest. But for Lloyd, it felt no less dangerous.

Episode-229

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