Chapter 111: Anatomy of Fraud

By noon, the damp pine needles of Sector Seven had dried into a brittle, rust-colored carpet.

The morning sun broke through the jagged canopy of the Iron-Ridge Ravines, casting long spears of pale yellow light across the clearing, where the severed limbs of the flesh constructs lay neatly arranged in four distinct rows.

Near the edge of the campsite, Senior Scout Gareth Vance stood with his heavy broadsword sheathed at his hip, staring down at the black, oily preservative fluid leaking from the stitched joints of the bear-kin hybrid.

Beside him stood two third-year Citadel enforcers clad in full plate armor, their broad shields resting against the damp earth.

Gareth knelt, poking the base of the construct’s severed skull with the tip of a leather-gloved finger.

He found the neat, circular puncture mark at the occipital ridge—a puncture no wider than an iron quill.

"A single strike to the spinal mana node," Gareth muttered, his rough voice carrying a sharp edge of disbelief.

He stood, turning his stern, scarred face toward Cell One.

"No mana residue. No elemental burn. Just a clean mechanical disruption of the control array."

His gray eyes narrowed.

"Princess Solene, care to explain how a first-year cell neutralized a rogue alchemical handler and four flesh constructs without firing a single flare?"

Solene stepped forward, her white mantle spotless despite the mud.

She executed a flawless noble bow.

"Senior Scout, the handler was sloppy. He brought his constructs through our trip-wire perimeter without scouting the high ground. Cell One merely executed standard defensive formation B-4. Casper drew the vanguard, I severed the handler’s spell arm, and Lyra maintained kinetic coverage."

Gareth’s gray eyes flicked past Solene, landing squarely on the blindfolded clerk sitting on a flat stone ten paces away.

Valerian was methodically dipping a small brass brush into a bowl of clear water, scrubbing dark preservative fluid from his wooden counting board.

"And the scribe?" Gareth asked.

He took three heavy steps toward Valerian.

"My far-glass caught the end of it, Princess. I saw a three-hundred-pound flesh construct drop on top of your scribe, and I saw him tap it once behind the ear with a piece of metal."

Gareth stopped in front of Valerian.

"You’re telling me a clerk happened to know the exact structural weakness of a black-market flesh-weaving spell?"

Valerian did not pause his scrubbing.

"Section Nine of the Citadel Alchemical Safety Codex, Senior Scout," he said, his voice flat and perfectly level. "All alchemical constructs utilizing secondary nervous stitching require a central control node to process movement commands. It is required reading for third-class archivists responsible for logging illegal laboratory seizures."

Gareth let out a harsh, dry snort.

He leaned down until his scarred face was inches from Valerian’s dark linen blindfold.

"You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you, kid?" Gareth whispered softly. "Weak lungs. Damp sleeves. Archive manuals."

His eyes narrowed.

"But I know a soldier’s posture when I see one. You don’t flinch when steel hits steel. Your heart rate didn’t even spike when that thing jumped out of the shadows."

"A high heart rate leads to errors in calligraphy, Senior Scout," Valerian replied smoothly. "In accuracy, there is calm."

Gareth stared at him for five long seconds.

Then he straightened his spine with a heavy grunt.

"Rogue flesh constructs ten leagues inside the academy perimeter..."

His expression hardened.

"This isn’t just black-market harvesting. Someone in Sector Three is leaking security patrol routes."

He turned toward the two third-year enforcers.

"Seal these remains in lead-lined crates. Transport them directly to the High Marshal’s office in Sector Zero. No one talks about this to the other cells. Am I clear?"

"Understood, Senior Scout!"

The enforcers barked the response as they stepped forward with spatial containment sacks.

Gareth looked back at Cell One, his jaw set hard.

"Your practicum score for the day is maxed out due to target neutralization. Pack your gear. The council is pulling all cells back to the inner perimeter until the lower wards are swept."

The return to the main campus was marked by a sudden spike in security.

Extra platoons of silver-armored Citadel guards lined the iron gates of Sector A, their anti-magic detection banners fluttering in the autumn wind.

Yet, for all the military posturing on the surface, the true battle remained firmly entrenched in the administrative halls of Sector B.

Inside the grand chamber of the Student Council, the afternoon sun streamed through tall stained-glass windows, painting the long mahogany table in shades of sapphire and gold.

Representative Mirain Sec Sanguis sat at the center of the dais, reviewing a stack of parchment reports.

Beside her stood Alexis, holding a tray of silver inkwells and official wax seals.

On the opposite side of the room, seated behind a smaller oak desk, was Valerian.

His scuffed coat was clean, his dark linen blindfold straight, and the dark-mithril suppressor guard rested cold and heavy against his left forearm beneath his sleeve.

TAP. TAP. TAP.

The heavy double doors of the council chamber burst open.

Lord Julian of the Imperial Faction strode into the room, his gilded cape billowing behind him.

He was accompanied by two senior advisors from the Artifact Scholar Faction, both wearing elaborate velvet robes embroidered with silver rune circles.

"Representative Mirain!" Julian declared, his voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceiling.

"This administrative farce has gone on long enough! The First-Year Faction Trials are less than ten days away, and the Artifact Scholars have just informed me that twenty percent of the high-grade mana salts allocated for our tactical arrays have gone missing from the central reserve!"

Mirain did not raise her head from her parchment immediately.

She took a slow sip of tea from a porcelain cup before setting it down with a delicate clink.

"Missing, Lord Julian?" Mirain asked, her cold violet eyes drifting toward him.

"Or simply unverified?"

"Stolen!" one of the Artifact Scholar advisors interjected, stepping forward and waving a scroll of parchment.

"The Alchemist Syndicate claims they delivered forty crates of refined salt to Vault 304 on Sunday night. But when our scholars went to draw the supply for the ward calibration, there were only thirty-two crates present!"

He slapped the parchment against his palm.

"Eight crates of high-grade mana salt—worth over three hundred gold pieces—have vanished! We demand an immediate imperial search of the Commoner and Merchant dormitories!"

Julian smiled thinly, crossing his arms over his silver-crested pauldron.

"The Lower Factions have clearly embezzled the salt to fund their market stalls during the Lantern Festival. Unless House Sanguis intends to shield common criminals, I demand the Imperial Enforcers be granted full search authority over Sector C."

Mirain’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Granting the Imperial Faction search authority over Sector C would shatter her coalition.

It would allow Julian’s enforcers to raid commoner dorms, confiscate merchant inventories, and dismantle the political balance she had spent months building.

She turned her head slightly toward the side desk.

"Clerk Valen."

"Yes, Representative."

Valerian stood smoothly from his desk.

He picked up his leather-bound ledger and walked toward the main dais, his leather shoes clicking quietly against the polished stone floor.

"You audited Vault 304 on Sunday night during the festival," Mirain said, her tone icy and calm.

"Did you record forty crates?"

"No, Representative."

Valerian opened his ledger to a page filled with neat, precise columns of numbers.

"Vault 304 never contained forty crates of high-grade mana salts."

Julian let out a triumphant scoff.

"Ha! You see? The scribe confirms the deficit! Eight crates were stolen before the audit!"

"Lord Julian misinterprets the manifest," Valerian continued, his voice entirely flat, devoid of stress or hesitation.

"The Alchemist Syndicate’s delivery record was not forged by thieves. It was inflated by the Artifact Scholar Faction’s own procurement officer."

The chamber grew instantly quiet.

The Artifact Scholar advisor blinked, his face flushing red.

"What nonsense are you spouting, clerk?! Are you accusing the Scholars of falsifying records?!"

"I am stating arithmetic," Valerian said calmly.

He pulled a small brass counting key from his pocket and laid three sheets of paper across the mahogany table.

"On Friday morning, Master Eldrin of the Artifact Scholars submitted a requisition form for forty crates of mana salt, citing a density ratio of ninety-four percent purity. However, the raw salt harvested from the Sector Three siphons only yields a maximum purity of seventy-eight percent prior to secondary distillation."

Valerian pointed his iron stylus at the second sheet.

"To achieve forty crates at ninety-four percent purity, the Alchemists would have required six hundred gallons of spirit ether. The Citadel spirit ether supply manifest—signed by Master Eldrin himself—shows only four hundred gallons were issued this month."

Julian’s thin smile faltered.

He looked over at the Scholar advisor, whose jaw was beginning to twitch.

"What is the scribe talking about, Eldrin?"

"He... he is confusing raw volume with refined density!" Eldrin stammered, sweat breaking out across his forehead.

"A commoner clerk cannot possibly comprehend high-level alchemical distillation mathematics!"

"The mathematics are linear," Valerian noted smoothly, stepping closer to the dais.

"Thirty-two crates is the physical maximum yield possible with four hundred gallons of spirit ether. The remaining eight crates existed only on paper."

He tapped the iron stylus against the ledger.

"By listing forty crates on the delivery manifest, Master Eldrin created a ghost inventory worth three hundred gold pieces, which was subsequently listed as ’lost in transport’ to claim an administrative rebate from the Student Council’s emergency fund."

Mirain leaned back in her high-backed chair, her violet eyes shining with a dangerous, razor-sharp light.

"A ghost inventory," she whispered, her voice like cracking ice.

"You attempted to construct a fake theft to trigger an imperial raid on Sector C... while pocketing three hundred gold pieces from my council fund."

"It’s a lie!" Eldrin shouted, backing away from the table.

"This blind peasant is manipulating the numbers! He’s working for the Commoners!"

"Clerk," Mirain said, ignoring the scholar entirely. "Where are the rebate forms Master Eldrin submitted?"

"In the bottom drawer of Master Eldrin’s desk in the Sector B archive room," Valerian answered without missing a beat.

"Stamped with his personal house seal. Dated Monday morning at eight o’clock."

Julian turned on the Scholar advisor, his face contorting in sudden, furious embarrassment.

"You idiot! You brought me here to demand search rights based on a forged ledger?!" 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

"Lord Julian, wait! The math is—"

"Silence!" Julian spat.

He turned on his heel and glared at Mirain, his knuckles white against his sword hilt.

"The Imperial Faction will investigate this internal clerical error immediately. Master Eldrin will be removed from the council delegation."

"He will also repay the three hundred gold pieces to the council treasury by tomorrow noon," Mirain added coldly.

"Or I will hand his signed rebate forms directly to Principal Elias."

Julian gritted his teeth, gave a stiff, bitter bow, and dragged the sweating Scholar advisor out of the chamber.

The heavy mahogany doors slammed shut behind them.

Silence returned to the grand hall.

Alexis let out a long breath, wiping her brow.

"That... that was incredible. They were completely caught in their own paper trail."

Mirain stood slowly.

Her crimson coat swept around her ankles as she descended from the dais, stopping directly in front of Valerian.

She looked at his blindfolded face, her eyes searching the calm, unreadable contours of his features.

"You audited Vault 304 in ten minutes on Sunday night," Mirain said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

"You didn’t just count the crates, Valen. You cross-referenced the spirit ether logs from three weeks ago."

"An archivist must maintain continuity across all ledgers, Representative," Valerian replied, bowing his head slightly.

"Otherwise, the accounts become disorganized."

Mirain reached out, her gloved fingers pausing just an inch away from his left sleeve—right where the dark-mithril suppressor guard sat hidden beneath the cheap cloth.

"You are far too thorough for a low-born clerk, Valen," Mirain murmured, her violet eyes flickering with deep, unyielding suspicion.

"Sometimes... I wonder if you are reading the parchment with your eyes..."

Her gaze lingered on his blindfold.

"...or if you are reading the hearts of men with something far more dangerous."

"I only read what is written, Representative," Valerian answered smoothly.

Deep within his spiritual realm, Aurelix let out a soft, dark chuckle, her golden tails swaying against his soul core.

"She is getting closer, Master. Every time you fix her ledgers, she sees the monster behind the quill."

Let her look at the ledgers, Valerian commanded silently, adjusting his leather rucksack as he turned back toward his small oak desk.

As long as she looks at the numbers, she is not looking at the floor beneath Sector Three.

Outside the window, far below the pristine stone towers of Sector B, the deep, rhythmic throbbing of the subterranean pumps echoed through the stone—

carrying cold, corrupted mana toward the brass cylinder where the artificial vessel waited for its blood.