Chapter 7: Cold-Blooded Purge

Gray’s investigation advanced even faster than Zenon had anticipated.
Empowered by a newfound sense of loyalty, he moved with tireless energy, and within a few short days, he delivered a thick report to Zenon’s desk.

“…Impressive.”

Zenon spoke his honest assessment after finishing the report.
Within it, the financial trails of Chief Accountant Bartolo and his faction were laid out in disturbing, painstaking detail.

The embezzled funds had gone to gambling dens in the royal capital, to lavish gifts for high-class courtesans, and to the purchase of jewels and mansions far beyond their means.
Following the trail of money revealed the names of accomplices as well — minor clerks in the accounting office, warehouse keepers, even gate guards.
Corruption had infected every corner of the household’s structure.

“The way they spend their stolen wealth is remarkably inefficient. No thought for future investment — just momentary indulgence. It’s no wonder they were headed for collapse.”

Zenon murmured to no one in particular.
Gray realized with a strained look that his master’s admiration was not for their investigative prowess — but for how badly the thieves had managed their finances.

“Gray. The preparations are complete. It’s time to set the stage.”

“Yes, sir. And where shall this stage be, if I may ask?”

“In the grand hall. Gather all senior retainers. The agenda will be… ‘A general meeting on future domain management and budget restructuring.’”

Gray caught his breath.
This was on a different scale than the family meeting — a gamble that could pit them against the entire retainer corps.

But he no longer wavered.
If his lord had chosen to act, there must be a plan — and a chance of victory.

“Understood. I’ll issue the summons immediately.”

“And be sure my father attends. As head of the house, he must witness the corruption among his vassals with his own eyes.”

Two days later, over fifty retainers gathered in the grand hall of House Arkwright.

The knights’ commander, the chief steward, and the heads of every department took their seats, all wearing wary, uncertain expressions.
What could the third son, Lord Zenon, possibly intend to do?
That question filled the air like static.

At the head of the hall sat Duke Darius himself, his face stiff with unease.
And at the center of the retainers lounged Bartolo Zimmel, the chief accountant — relaxed, smug, and chatting with those around him.
He clearly thought Zenon’s moves were nothing more than a child’s game.

Right on time, Zenon entered the hall accompanied only by Gray.
He surveyed the murmuring crowd, said nothing, and calmly took a seat beside his father.
That quiet composure silenced the room at once.

“I thank you all for coming.”

Zenon began in an even tone.

“Today’s purpose is to hear everyone’s opinions regarding the future administration of House Arclight. As you all know, our finances are in crisis. A thorough reduction of costs is now essential.”

As Zenon began to outline his cost-cutting measures, the retainers erupted with protest — just as expected.

“Cut the military budget? Are you mad?”

“Cancel our traditional festivals? The people will lose faith in us!”

Among them, Bartolo’s voice rose the loudest.

“Zenon-sama, enough of these armchair theories. Idealism is all well and good in youth, but real management isn’t so simple. I, Bartolo, have overseen this house’s finances for over thirty years — and I assure you, such reckless reforms will bring nothing but chaos!”

He looked down on Zenon with a haughty smile, while the other retainers nodded and murmured in agreement.
It was a coordinated effort to isolate him.

Zenon’s eyes swept over them, cold and emotionless.

Exactly as predicted.
All the actors were now on stage.

“I see. You’re right — the reality of management does seem rather complicated.”

Zenon nodded as if in agreement.

“For instance, the fact that payments have been made for years to a merchant company that doesn’t exist. That, too, must be one of those ‘complex realities,’ mustn’t it… Chief Accountant?”

The moment those words left his mouth, the hall froze.

The confident grin vanished from Bartolo’s face.

“…I-I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Gordon Trading Company. Does that name ring a bell?”

Zenon drew a parchment from his coat and slid it across the table.
It was a certificate from the Royal Capital Merchants’ Guild — an official statement proving that no such company had ever existed.

Sweat began to bead on Bartolo’s forehead.

“T-this must be a mistake! There must be another company with the same name—”

“Then how do you explain this?”

At Zenon’s signal, Gray stepped forward and spread a mountain of documents across the table — copies of falsified ledgers, inflated invoices, and a detailed report tracing every stolen coin.

“Bartolo Zimmel.” 

Zenon’s voice cut like a blade.

“For more than ten years, you have embezzled no less than ten thousand gold coins from this house. That money was squandered in gambling, on mistresses, and on a life of indulgence far beyond your station. Do you deny it?”

Zenon rose to his feet and slowly walked toward Bartolo.
Only his footsteps echoed through the silent hall.

The other retainers stared in disbelief, their faces pale as they glanced between the documents and Bartolo.

“Th-this is… a conspiracy! A fabrication by Zenon-sama to frame me!”

Bartolo made one last desperate attempt.

“Yes, surely you all see it! This young upstart seeks to seize control of the house by purging loyal veterans like me!”

But no one spoke in his defense.
The evidence was far too complete—too undeniable.

“A conspiracy, is it?” 

Zenon’s voice carried the chill of absolute zero.

“Very well. Then answer me this—three days ago, you paid twenty gold coins at the royal capital’s high-class brothel The Golden Peacock. That amount far exceeds your official salary. Explain, rationally, where that money came from.”

The precise date, location, and amount struck like a dagger.
Bartolo’s lips trembled. His face turned as pale as parchment.
The outcome was decided.

“Bartolo Zimmel—and the eleven individuals who conspired with him.”

Zenon read each name aloud, one by one, like pronouncing a death sentence.
Those called collapsed where they stood.

“All are hereby expelled from House Arclight, effective immediately.

All personal assets shall be confiscated and used to compensate the embezzled funds. No objections will be heard.”

“P-please! Lord Xenon! Have mercy—I beg you!”

Bartolo fell from his chair and crawled to Xenon’s feet, pleading pitifully.

“I’ve served this house for thirty years! Please, overlook this one mistake—!”

zenon gazed down at the groveling man without a flicker of emotion.

“Your thirty years have been thirty years of rot, eroding this house from within. You are nothing but a cost And mercy is not something I allocate to costs. Take them away.”

At his cold command, the waiting guards seized Bartolo and the others.
Their wails and pleas echoed through the great hall, but Xenon did not so much as twitch an eyebrow.

The remaining retainers could only watch in frozen terror.
It was as if they had just witnessed a demon’s judgment.

When silence finally returned, Zenon calmly returned to his seat, as though nothing had happened.

He looked across the table—at his stunned father, Duke Darius, and the pale faces of his subordinates—and said:

“Well, with unnecessary costs eliminated, we can proceed to discuss the main topic—our new budget plan.”

Those words seared themselves into the hearts of everyone present, alongside a deep, unshakable fear.

From this moment onward, House Arkwright would be ruled completely by this cold, merciless third son.