Chapter 48: Counterplan Against the Trap
Several days had passed since Zenon began his stay in the royal capital.
As always, he remained secluded in his mansion, spending his days issuing remote orders to the Arkwright domain and gathering information about the capital.
There had been no new summons from the king.
But Zenon could sense it clearly—this strange calm was nothing more than the calm before the storm.
(…The air has changed.)
While reviewing daily intelligence reports from his network of informants about the nobility’s activities, Zenon pondered quietly.
After the royal conference, there had been open hostility and curiosity directed toward him—whispers, provocations, attempts to corner him.
Yet suddenly, over the past few days, all of that had stopped completely.
Prince Alphonse and his faction were also uncharacteristically quiet, as if nothing had happened.
It was unnatural.
Far too unnatural.
When a raging storm abruptly turns still, it doesn’t mean the enemy has given up.
It means they’re preparing a much bigger strike beneath the surface.
“Gray.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you noticed anything suspicious in the recent financial movements of the Ministry of Finance?”
“The Ministry of Finance, my lord?”
Gray blinked, caught off guard by the question.
“Yes. I’ve received reports that Viscount Mardoc of Alphonse’s faction has been meeting secretly with Marquis Barclay, the Minister of Finance, several times over the past few days.”
Zenon traced a line across the intelligence document with his finger.
“Mardoc is a schemer—a man who thrives on plots. Barclay is a coward who sides with the powerful. If those two are plotting together, it almost certainly involves money…and some kind of trap.”
The analysis was so precise that Gray felt a chill down his spine.
It was as if Zenon could see the entire capital resting in the palm of his hand.
“Understood. We have our own ‘eyes’ inside the Ministry of Finance. I’ll have them investigate the money trail immediately.”
Gray no longer questioned Zenon’s intelligence tactics.
He was, by now, completely devoted to the man’s terrifying foresight.
A few hours later, Gray burst into Zenon’s office, pale and breathless.
He clutched a document in his trembling hands.
“Zenon-sama! Please look at this!”
It was a copy of an internal approval form from the Ministry of Finance—an emergency allocation of 5,000 gold coins under the name ‘Fortress Repair at the Borderlands’, authorized without the king’s approval.
The signature at the bottom belonged to none other than Marquis Barclay.
“Five thousand gold coins… and an emergency allocation, no less?”
Zenon glanced over the document sharply.
“The border fortresses were repaired only six months ago. There’s no reason for emergency repairs now. This is a fabricated expense.”
“Yes. And the problem goes deeper…”
Gray handed over another report, his hand shaking.
“Right after this expense was processed, rumors began spreading in the taverns—‘Zenon Arkwright bribed officials in the Ministry of Finance to steal royal funds.’”
“…I see.”
Zenon nodded slowly.
All the pieces fell neatly into place.
A fake expenditure, an orchestrated rumor, and the perfect stage to accuse him of embezzling public funds.
It was a classic—and utterly vile—setup.
“Unforgivable!”
Gray’s voice trembled with fury.
“How despicable! My lord, we must bring this before His Majesty immediately—expose the plot before it’s too late!”
“Don’t be foolish.”
Zenon’s cold glance silenced him.
“What proof do we have? If we move now, they’ll simply sacrifice some low-ranking official as a scapegoat, and the real culprits—Alphonse and his men—will slip away untouched.”
“Then what should we do? If we stay silent, they’ll frame us completely!”
Gray’s voice was strained with desperation.
But Zenon, far from panicking, smiled faintly—a hunter’s smile upon spotting his prey’s weakness.
“Gray… you misunderstand what a trap truly is.”
He stood and turned toward the window, gazing out over the royal capital.
“A trap isn’t something you merely avoid. Sometimes, stepping into it willingly is the surest way to sink your fangs into the throat of the one who set it.”
“…What?”
“They think I don’t know. They believe they’re luring me to a public trial for a crime I didn’t commit.”
A cold gleam lit Zenon’s blue eyes.
“Very well, then. I’ll play along. I’ll let them drag me onto their stage—and then I’ll turn that stage into my counterplan.”
He turned back to Gray, issuing orders with calm, lethal precision.
“First, send word to our informants. Track every last coin from that forged 5,000-gold allocation. Find out exactly where Barclay hid the money. That will be our trump card.”
“Next, investigate every financial transaction tied to Alphonse’s faction. Dig up their old corruption, even the small ones. Gather all the ammunition you can—no bullet is wasted.”
“And lastly…”
Zenon paused briefly.
“Arrange a private audience with Saint Liliana. Tell her I have a matter of great importance concerning the kingdom’s future. She must witness the coming trial—our most important ‘audience.’”
It was a flawless and mercilessly calculated plan of counterattack.
Gray couldn’t yet grasp the entire strategy—but one thing was certain:
His master intended to turn this deadly trap into a stage for total annihilation, with the king, the saint, and the nobles all watching.
“…As you command.”
Gray’s voice trembled—not from fear, but from anticipation.
While Prince Alphonse and his conspirators celebrated their “victory,”
Zenon von Arkwright’s cold, calculated revenge was already setting its stage behind the curtain.