Chapter 50: The Magnificent Counterstrike

The golden coins shimmered mercilessly against the marble floor.

The audience chamber was utterly silent—so quiet one could hear a pin drop.
Everyone stood frozen, unable to believe the dramatic reversal that had just unfolded before their eyes.

Prince Alphonse and the nobles of his faction were ashen-faced.
The trap they had so carefully set was now a razor held against their own throats.

“…Zenon von Arkwright.”

King Edward IV spoke from his throne—his tone stately, yet faintly trembling.

“…Impressive. Astonishingly so. But tell me—how did you uncover all of this?”

Every ear in the room strained toward Zenon.

He bowed respectfully to the king before replying in a calm, measured voice.

“It was simple, Your Majesty. I merely gathered information and analyzed it.”

From his breast pocket, Zenon drew a thick bundle of parchment.
They contained the evidence of corruption he had compiled through his network of informants since arriving in the capital.

“First, I learned that Marquis Barclay had been meeting secretly with Viscount Mardoc. From there, it became clear they were moving treasury funds illicitly. So I had the money’s trail followed. When you follow the flow of gold, it always leads you to its resting place— that is the law of the world.”

Zenon’s explanation was so composed, so casual, as though it were merely routine.
Alphonse shuddered.

Did this man foresee everything from the very beginning?

“B-but!” 

Viscount Mardoc made a desperate attempt to recover.

“Th-that was all Barclay acting on his own! We had no involvement whatsoever! Isn’t that right, Barclay!?”

He shot a sharp glare at the marquis, who still lay crumpled on the floor— a silent command: Take the blame alone.

But Zenon’s next move crushed even that faint hope.

“Oh? You knew nothing, you say?”

Zenon flipped through the parchments.

“Then tell me, Viscount Mardoc—what about this record of you siphoning army rations two years ago and using the profits to buy a mansion for your mistress?”

“W–what!?”

“And you, Count Lionel—you inflated the knight order’s armament budget and pocketed the difference. Though I hear you lost all of it gambling.”

“Th-that’s impossible…!”

“And finally…”

Zenon’s cold gaze turned upon Prince Alphonse himself.

“Your Highness Alphonse. Five years ago, when you were still a student, you secretly studied abroad in the Galian Empire, did you not?”

“…What are you implying?”

Alphonse’s face twisted with anger and humiliation.

“The expenses for that study abroad were, on paper, drawn from the royal contingency fund.
But the true source was…”

Zenon paused deliberately—then dropped the blade.

“…a personal donation from Duke Gerhardt, Chancellor of the Galian Empire. Am I wrong?”

The chamber erupted as if a bomb had detonated.

The kingdom’s first prince—taking money from a foreign empire.
Not mere misconduct—treason.
A betrayal of the crown itself.

“Y-you…! That’s a lie! A filthy lie!”

Alphonse shouted, his hand flying to his sword hilt.
But his trembling face betrayed him; the accusation had struck true.

It was a youthful mistake—a secret he believed buried forever.
How could Zenon possibly know?

“Lies, you say?”

Zenon drew out a single parchment from the stack—an old letter.

“This is a copy of the thank-you note you sent to Duke Gerhardt. The original, I believe, still rests safely in the imperial archives. Shall I have it delivered, if Your Majesty desires proof?”

Alphonse fell silent.
There was no room left for denial.

The glittering mask of the “righteous prince” shattered completely before the entire court.

Zenon swept his gaze coldly across Alphonse and his ruined supporters, then turned back to the throne.

“Your Majesty. This is the truth.”

His voice was quiet, but it carried the unshakable weight of a victor.

“These men who sought to frame me—this is their true nature. They are no noble guardians of tradition or order, but parasites who twist lies and conspiracies solely to preserve their own privileges.”

Then came the final blow.

“For such people to hold positions at the heart of this nation…is that not, Your Majesty, the very weakness that endangers the kingdom itself?”

The words pierced deep into the king’s heart.

Disappointment in his son.
And awe—no, fear—of the terrifying young man before him.

The two emotions churned violently within King Edward’s chest.

The tables had turned—utterly and irrevocably.

The stage of judgment Zenon had prepared ended with his accusers being the ones condemned.

It was a reversal so dazzling, and so merciless, it left the court breathless.

The audience hall stood divided—victor and vanquished, light and shadow.

Zenon stood alone at the center, calm and composed.

To Saint Liliana’s eyes, he seemed a solitary saint,a man who had smitten evil and restored justice.

But to everyone else— he was a cold, unfeeling demon, one who devoured without mercy all who dared bare their fangs at him.