Chapter 47: The Trap is Set

The royal council ended in chaos, its final moments colored by the unexpected intervention of Saint Liliana.

Zenon von Arkwright’s revolutionary proposals in economics and military reform — and the Saint’s passionate reinterpretation of his cold logic as an “ultimate expression of love” — had sparked a strange kind of alchemy in the minds of the nobles of the royal capital.

“That man, Zenon… he’s no ordinary person.”

“For the Saint herself to be so devoted to him… he must have depths we cannot fathom.”

“But his methods are far too radical — even dangerous.”

Public opinion among the court had shifted.
Zenon was no longer seen as a “presumptuous country noble” — but as an unfathomable, dangerous genius.

Even King Edward IV himself hesitated to reach a verdict.
He could not deny the correctness of Zenon’s theories, yet he also understood that Zenon’s very existence was a volatile substance — one that could shake the foundations of the kingdom.

Thus, the king withheld judgment and ordered Zenon to remain in the capital for the time being.

No one took this outcome worse than Prince Alphonse and his faction of conservative nobles.

“Damn that meddling Saint!”

In a private chamber of his estate, where a soirée was taking place, Alphonse slammed his wine glass onto the table, crimson liquid spilling across the cloth.

“Father’s interest has been completely drawn to that man. If this continues, his insane reform plans could actually reach the royal government!”

“Your Highness, please, calm yourself,” 

Said Count Lionel, captain of the royal knights and one of Alphonse’s most loyal followers.

“But it’s true,” 

He continued gravely. 

“That man’s ideas deny the very essence of our existence — both knights and nobles alike. We must act before it’s too late.”

“I know that!” 

Alphonse roared. 

“But how?! We cannot defeat him in debate! Everything that comes out of his mouth is cold, but undeniably factual!”

A heavy silence fell.
Zenon’s logic was ironclad — impregnable.
To attack him head-on was pointless.

So… what alternative remained?

“…If logic cannot win.” 

Murmured a voice.

It came from Viscount Mardoc, the most cunning schemer among them.
A sly smile crept across his lips as he leaned toward Alphonse.

“Then we simply fight him on a battlefield other than logic.”

“What do you mean?”

“Zenon-sama is too pure — too clean. His only weapons are reason and data. So we must use the kind of weapon he never would…”

Mardoc’s voice dropped to a serpentine whisper.

“…a trap.”

The air in the room changed instantly.

“A trap?” 

Alphonse asked quietly. 

“Explain.”

Mardoc smiled, relishing the moment.

“Fortunately, the Minister of Finance, Marquis Barclay, happens to share our views. We will enlist his cooperation.”

“Barclay…?”

“Yes. We’ll have him create a false expenditure within the royal budget — something plausible, such as ‘emergency fortress repairs in the borderlands.’”

He paused, letting the idea sink in.

“Then we’ll fabricate evidence showing that Zenon was secretly involved in the transaction. We’ll prepare testimonies claiming that he met with treasury officials in secret during his stay in the capital.”

Count Lionel’s eyes widened.

“You mean…”

“Exactly.”

Mardoc’s grin turned venomous.

“We’ll accuse him of embezzling public funds.”

“No matter how logically he defends himself, once his reputation is tainted by suspicion, he’s finished. Even the Saint’s protection won’t save him — no one will believe the words of a man accused of stealing the royal treasury’s gold.”

“And when that happens,” 

Mardoc concluded smoothly.

“His Majesty will have no choice but to condemn him. That will be our victory.”

It was a plan both vile and devastatingly effective.
If reason could not bring Zenon down, they would drag him into the mud with lies.

Count Lionel grimaced.

“…Mardoc, that goes against every principle of knighthood.”

Mardoc chuckled softly.

“These are not times for idealism, my dear count. To protect our kingdom — to preserve the traditions we hold dear — a little dirt on our hands is a necessary evil.”

All eyes turned to Alphonse.
The final decision was his.

For a long moment, he said nothing.
He closed his eyes, torn between his pride as a knight and the gnawing hatred festering in his chest.

His sense of justice rebelled against the idea of deceit.
But then, in his mind’s eye, he saw again Zenon’s icy, disdainful gaze during the royal council.

“What’s twisted is not me — it’s this kingdom itself.”

Those words burned through him once more.

That man is dangerous.
His ideas are poison — poison that will destroy the noble soul of this country.

If that is true, then—

“…Do it,” 

Alphonse said at last, forcing the words out.

The light of honor as a knight dimmed ever so slightly in his eyes.

“But the plan must be perfect. Not a single trace of our involvement must ever surface.”

“At once, Your Highness!” 

Mardoc bowed deeply, a predatory smile curling his lips.

And so, that very night, beneath the calm surface of the royal capital,
a dark and insidious conspiracy began to move — one aimed at destroying Zenon von Arkwright not by battle or debate, but by falsehood.

The conspirators believed their trap to be flawless.

What they did not yet know—

Was that the man they sought to ensnare possessed information networks and analytical instincts far beyond their comprehension.

While they wove their fragile web in the shadows, far above them, a cold and silent hawk already watched their every move.