Chapter : 306
Roy studied his son for a long, silent moment. He saw not the panicked, cornered youth he had half-expected, but a young man of strange, focused composure. There was a quiet confidence in Lloyd’s eyes, an analytical stillness that was utterly at odds with the chaos of the situation. It was the same unsettling confidence he had displayed during the Summit, during the tournament. Against his better judgment, against every instinct screaming at him to take control, to end this humiliating spectacle, Roy found himself… intrigued. He wanted to see what Lloyd would do.
“Very well,” Roy conceded, his voice a low, grudging rumble. “Proceed, Lloyd. But be quick about it. This… farce… has gone on long enough.”
Lloyd inclined his head in thanks, then rose from his chair. He didn't approach the woman directly. Instead, he moved to the side, kneeling down on the expensive rug so that he was at eye-level with the small, whimpering boy in her lap. The movement was slow, deliberate, non-threatening. He was no longer the imposing Arch Duke’s heir, but a quiet, concerned figure.
“Hello there, little one,” Lloyd said softly, his voice gentle, devoid of any hint of accusation or anger. He offered the boy a small, reassuring smile. “That looks very sore. I am sorry you are in pain.”
The boy, who had been hiding his face in his mother’s dress, peeked out, his own tear-filled eyes, red and puffy, meeting Lloyd’s. He saw not a monster, not a threat, but a calm, kind face. His whimpering subsided slightly.
The mother watched, her posture rigid, her expression a mixture of suspicion and a growing, palpable unease. What was he doing? Why wasn't he defending himself? Why was he talking to the child?
Lloyd didn’t look at the angry red welts that covered the boy’s cheeks and arms. He knew, with an instinct born of a lifetime of scientific observation and a deep understanding of cause and effect, that the most obvious symptom was often not the most revealing one. He was looking for something else. Something… inconsistent.
His gaze, sharp and analytical, swept over the child. And he found it.
“May I see your hands, little one?” Lloyd asked gently. The boy, hesitant at first, slowly, reluctantly, held out his small, chubby hands. The welts were there, yes, angry and red across the backs of his hands. But his palms… his palms were relatively clear. Interesting.
Then, Lloyd did something that made everyone in the room frown in confusion. He leaned closer to the boy, not to look at his skin, but to… smell. He gently took the boy’s small hand and brought it close to his face, inhaling softly. There was the faint, clean scent of rosemary, yes, the signature of his soap. But it was weak, almost an afterthought, overlaid with the smells of childhood—of sweat, of dirt, of something faintly sweet, like honey-cake. And beneath it all… nothing. No hint of a chemical reactant, no smell of a corrosive agent, none of the sharp, medicinal odors one might associate with a severe chemical burn or a magical poison.
His gaze then moved from the boy’s hands to his face. The welts were angry, yes. But his eyes… Lloyd looked closely. The whites of the boy’s eyes were bloodshot, irritated. And as the child sniffled, rubbing his nose with the back of his clearer palm, Lloyd saw it. The inside of his nostrils was red, inflamed.
The pieces clicked into place with the cold, satisfying certainty of a mathematical proof.
Topical skin reaction? Unlikely. A true corrosive agent, a poison in the soap, would have affected every part of the skin it touched equally. The palms, where the soap would have been most concentrated during washing, would have been the most severely affected, not the least. The weak scent suggested minimal exposure, not a full, lathered bath.
But the eyes… the nasal passages… they were the gateways for airborne particles. Pollen. Dust. Allergens. This wasn’t a contact reaction. This was an inhaled reaction. The welts on the skin were a secondary, systemic response to a primary irritant that had entered the body through the respiratory system.
He knew what this was. He’d seen it before, on Earth. A severe, acute allergic reaction. Not to his soap. To something else entirely. Something the boy had been deliberately, heavily, exposed to just before being brought here.
He let go of the boy’s hand gently. He had all the information he needed. He straightened up, rising from his kneeling position, his face a mask of calm, quiet certainty.
Chapter : 307
He looked first at the woman, whose unease had now morphed into a barely concealed panic. She saw the look in his eyes, the look of a man who has just solved a puzzle, and she knew, with a sudden, chilling certainty, that her carefully constructed lie was unraveling.
Then, he turned to his father. He met the Arch Duke’s questioning, still-furious gaze without flinching. He didn't offer a complex explanation. He didn't present his evidence. He didn't even bother to accuse the woman directly. He simply made a statement, his voice calm, level, and imbued with an authority that was absolute.
“Tell her,” Lloyd said, his gaze flicking contemptuously towards the now-trembling woman, “to return tomorrow. At noon. To the main hall. She will receive her… ‘compensation’… then. In full. And in public.”
The room fell silent. Roy stared at him, bewildered. What was this? Was he admitting guilt? Agreeing to this outrageous demand? Grimaldi frowned, stroking his beard, clearly confused. Elmsworth looked as if he might faint.
But Lloyd just stood there, his expression unreadable, radiating a quiet, chilling confidence. He had seen the truth. And he had just set a trap. A public, inescapable, beautifully simple trap. And tomorrow, at noon, he would spring it.
The moment the study doors closed behind the woman and her whimpering child—the woman practically fleeing, dragging the boy behind her, her earlier righteous indignation replaced by a stark, almost feral, panic—the fragile dam of Arch Duke Roy Ferrum’s control broke.
“Are you mad, Lloyd?!” Roy’s voice was a low, dangerous roar, the sound of a gathering thunderstorm. He slammed his fist on the desk again, the impact making the inkwell jump and the very foundations of the study seem to tremble. “Compensation?! Publicly?! You have as good as admitted guilt! You have handed that… that grifter… and whoever is behind her, a victory on a silver platter! You have legitimized her claim in front of Kyle, in front of Grimaldi, in front of Elmsworth! You have poisoned our own brand with your own words! Have you taken complete leave of your senses?!”
Master Elmsworth wrung his hands, his face a mask of pure economic despair. “A thousand Gold, Young Lord! The potential damage to investor confidence… the implications for our projected five-year growth model… it’s catastrophic!”
Even Lord Kyle Ferrum, usually so stoic, looked profoundly, deeply, disappointed. “Lloyd,” he said, his voice grave, “if the product is flawed, it must be recalled. But to admit fault so publicly, to capitulate to such an outrageous demand… it shows a weakness that our enemies will not fail to exploit.”
Lloyd stood calmly amidst the storm of his father’s fury and his advisors’ panic. He waited, letting the initial wave of outrage wash over him, his expression unwavering. He had expected this reaction. It was logical. It was predictable. And it was wrong.
Finally, when his father paused to draw a breath, his chest heaving with barely suppressed rage, Lloyd spoke. His voice was quiet, a stark contrast to the thunderous atmosphere in the room, but it cut through the chaos with the clean, sharp precision of a surgeon’s scalpel.
“The soap is not poisoned, Father,” he stated simply.
Roy stared at him, momentarily speechless. “Not… what did you say?”
“The soap is not the cause of the boy’s affliction,” Lloyd repeated, his voice gaining a quiet, firm confidence. He began to lay out his observations, not as a panicked defense, but as a calm, logical diagnosis. The engineer, the scientist, the analyst, took over. “I examined the boy. Closely. The welts, the primary symptom, are inconsistent with a topical corrosive or allergen. If our soap were the cause, the reaction would be most severe on the hands, where it was most concentrated during washing. Yet his palms were relatively clear. The worst inflammation was on his face, his neck, his arms—areas of thinner, more sensitive skin, yes, but not the areas of primary contact.”
He looked at Grand Master Grimaldi, whose sharp, intelligent eyes were now fixed on him with a new, intense curiosity. “Furthermore, Master Grimaldi,” Lloyd continued, addressing the alchemist directly, “I detected no unusual scent on the child. No chemical reactant, no magical residue. The faint aroma of rosemary was present, yes, but it was weak, almost an afterthought. It did not smell like a child who had just been bathed in a potent, concentrated elixir. It smelled like a child who had perhaps had his hands briefly rinsed with it, as a final, plausible touch to the deception.”
Grimaldi stroked his long silver beard, nodding slowly. “Your observations are… astute, Young Lord. Indeed, a true alchemical poison or a poorly balanced caustic agent would leave a distinct residual signature, an olfactory marker. The absence of one is… significant.”
Chapter : 308
“But the key,” Lloyd continued, his voice dropping, drawing them all in, “was not on his skin. It was in his eyes. And his nose.” He looked back at his father. “His sclera were bloodshot. His nasal passages, visibly inflamed and swollen. These are not symptoms of a contact dermatitis, Father. They are the classic signs of a severe, acute, airborne allergic reaction. The boy did not absorb a poison through his skin. He inhaled one.”
The room fell silent as they processed the implications.
“An airborne agent?” Roy rumbled, his fury slowly being replaced by a dawning, sharp suspicion. “What are you suggesting, Lloyd?”
“I am suggesting,” Lloyd stated, “that the boy was deliberately, and heavily, exposed to a potent natural allergen—most likely the pollen from a specific, highly irritant flower—just prior to being brought here. The welts, the rash… they are a secondary, systemic histamine reaction to that primary irritant. The soap was merely the scapegoat. The entire performance,” his gaze hardened, a cold, dangerous light entering his eyes, “was a fabrication. A frame-up. A very clever, very vicious, and very public, act of commercial sabotage.”
A profound, stunned silence descended upon the study. The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying, undeniable logic. It made sense. The timing. The public nature of the accusation. The outrageous demand for compensation. It wasn’t a tragic accident; it was a calculated attack.
“By the ancestors…” Lord Kyle breathed, his face paling as he grasped the full, insidious nature of the plot. “To use a child in such a way…”
Master Elmsworth looked positively green. “Sabotage… but who would dare? Who would risk the wrath of House Ferrum to such a degree?”
“Someone,” Roy Ferrum growled, his earlier fury now coalescing into a cold, black, terrifying rage directed not at Lloyd, but at the unseen enemies who had dared to orchestrate this, “who has a great deal to lose from AURA’s success. Someone whose own livelihood is being threatened by our innovation.”
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His mind, and Lloyd’s, instantly went to the same place. The traditionalists. The ones whose businesses were being rendered obsolete by the new standard of cleanliness.
“The Washerman’s Guild,” Roy snarled. “And the Bathhouse owners. They have complained for weeks, sent petitions protesting our ‘unfair market advantage’. I dismissed them as the usual grumblings of men unable to adapt. I did not think them capable of such… viciousness.”
“We must act, Your Grace!” Elmsworth urged, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and righteous indignation. “We must bring this woman back, force a confession! We must summon the Royal Healer to verify Lord Lloyd’s diagnosis!”
“No,” Lloyd said, his voice sharp, decisive, cutting through the rising tide of anger. All eyes snapped back to him.
“No?” his father questioned, his brow furrowed. “Explain yourself, Lloyd. Why not act immediately?”
“Because, Father,” Lloyd explained, the strategist now fully in command, “they are expecting us to do just that. They are expecting us to panic, to react, to drag the woman back and beat a confession out of her. A confession she would then publicly recant, claiming she was coerced by the great and powerful House Ferrum, further painting us as villains. They are expecting us to call in a Royal Healer, a move that would take time, that would allow them to muddy the waters, to spread more rumors, to make it our word against a poor, terrified, ‘abused’ commoner.”
He shook his head. “We will not play their game by their rules. We will play it by mine.” He looked at his father, his expression grim, determined. “The trap is already set. Tomorrow, at noon, in the Grand Hall, she will come expecting her gold. And we will be ready. But we do not need a Royal Healer. We need our own healer. Someone loyal, discreet, and whose authority within this household is absolute.”
He paused, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips. “Summon the Head Healer of the Ferrum household, Father. Summon Mistress Dorathi. Let her be the one to deliver the verdict. In public. And let us see how our accuser reacts when confronted not by a furious Duke, but by the quiet, undeniable, and utterly irrefutable, truth.”
---
Chapter : 309
The Grand Hall of the Ferrum Estate, the very stage of Lloyd’s recent tournament triumph and his father’s political masterstroke, had been repurposed. It was no longer a hall of celebration or judgment, but a court of public opinion, the air thick with a nervous, almost voyeuristic, tension. An audience had been assembled—not the entire Ferrum clan, but a carefully selected group of influential witnesses. Lord Kyle Ferrum was there, his expression grim and resolute. Master Elmsworth and Grand Master Grimaldi stood together, their academic curiosity now replaced by a shared, tense anticipation. Mei Jing and Tisha were present, standing quietly to one side, their faces masks of calm professionalism that belied the frantic beating of their hearts. The reputation of the empire they were building hung in the balance.
At the center of the hall, before the raised dais where Arch Duke Roy Ferrum sat like a stone idol, a single chair had been placed. It was currently occupied by the accusing woman, who was once again clutching her whimpering, red-welted son. Her expression, however, was different today. The raw, hysterical grief had been replaced by a kind of defiant, almost greedy, anticipation. She had been told she was here to collect her compensation, her thousand Gold Coins. She believed she had won. Her eyes darted towards a heavy, clinking purse that rested on a small table beside the Arch Duke’s chair, a tangible symbol of her expected victory.
Lloyd stood a few paces away, his face a mask of calm, patient observation. He had given his instructions. He had set the stage. Now, all he could do was watch the play unfold.
“You have come, madam,” Roy Ferrum’s voice boomed, echoing slightly in the vast, silent hall, “to claim the compensation you demanded for the… alleged… harm done to your son by a product of my house.” His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, giving nothing away.
The woman nodded eagerly, a fresh, crocodile tear tracing a path through the grime on her cheek. “Yes, Your Grace. For justice. For my poor, suffering babe.”
“Indeed,” Roy murmured, his gaze unreadable. “Justice is paramount. However, before any compensation is rendered, it is the standard protocol of House Ferrum, in all matters of physical affliction, to have our own head healer offer a final assessment. A mere formality, you understand. To ensure the record is complete.”
The woman’s triumphant expression faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of unease, of alarm, crossed her face before she could suppress it. A healer? This was not part of the plan.
“But… but the harm is plain to see, Your Grace!” she protested, her voice gaining a slight, shrill edge. “He needs no assessment! He needs balms! He needs rest! Not to be poked and prodded by another stranger!”
“As I said,” Roy’s voice became a degree colder, an edge of steel entering his tone, “it is a formality. One you will submit to. If you wish to receive your… compensation.” The unspoken threat was absolute.
Before the woman could protest further, a side door opened, and Mistress Dorathi entered.
She was not what one might expect of the Head Healer of a great Ducal house. She was an elderly woman, small and stooped, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, her grey hair pulled back in a severe, no-nonsense bun. She walked with the aid of a simple, gnarled wooden staff, and her eyes, sharp and clear as winter ice, missed nothing. She radiated an aura not of gentle, bedside sympathy, but of brisk, irrefutable, almost terrifying, competence. She had served House Ferrum for over sixty years, had tended to three generations of scraped knees, battle wounds, and political poisonings. Her authority in matters of health and healing within the estate was absolute, her diagnostic skills legendary, and her tolerance for fools, malingerers, and liars, famously non-existent.
She walked directly to the woman and the child, her sharp eyes sweeping over the boy’s afflicted skin without a flicker of surprise or pity. “Hold out your arm, child,” she commanded, her voice a dry, reedy rasp that held the unshakeable authority of decades of service.
The boy, intimidated by this new, stern old woman, whimpered and tried to hide his face. The mother clutched him tighter. “He is frightened! You will harm him further!”
Chapter : 310
Dorathi’s icy gaze settled on the woman. “Madam,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet, “I have successfully set the broken bones of the Arch Duke himself after a rather unfortunate incident involving a wild boar and questionable judgment. I have diagnosed and cured a strain of Red Rot that baffled the Alchemist’s Guild for a month. I assure you, I am perfectly capable of examining a simple skin rash without causing a four-year-old to expire from terror. Now, present the child. Or this assessment is concluded, and you may take your leave. Empty-handed.”
The woman paled, her defiant act crumbling in the face of Dorathi’s unyielding authority. She knew she had no choice. With a trembling hand, she pushed her son’s small arm forward.
But just as the woman greedily reached for the purse of gold that Dorathi held out as a deliberate, tantalizing lure, Dorathi’s other hand, surprisingly fast and strong for a woman of her age, darted out. She did not take the boy’s arm gently. She grabbed it. Her gnarled fingers, strong as old roots, closed around the child’s small wrist in an inescapable grip.
The boy yelped in surprise. The mother cried out, trying to pull him back. “What are you doing?!”
Dorathi ignored her completely. Her full attention was on the child. Her other hand, which had been holding the purse, was now free, and a soft, gentle, golden-green light, the unmistakable glow of potent, life-affirming healing magic, began to emanate from her palm. She didn't press her hand to the boy’s welts. She simply held it close, her eyes closed in concentration, her will extending, probing, reading the boy’s vital signs, his energy flows, the very story his body was telling. The diagnostic spell was swift, silent, and absolute.
The green glow faded. Dorathi opened her eyes. She looked at the boy’s arm, then at his red-rimmed eyes, then at his inflamed nostrils. She released his wrist gently.
She turned to face the Arch Duke, her expression grim, certain. “As I suspected, Your Grace,” she declared, her dry, reedy voice ringing with the finality of a judge’s gavel. “There is no trace of alchemical poison. There is no sign of a topical curse. The boy’s dermal layers show no evidence of caustic agent exposure.” She paused, then delivered the damning verdict. “This is a severe, acute, allergic inflammation. The primary vectors of entry were respiratory. The cause is botanical. Specifically,” her icy gaze settled on the now-terrified mother, “a recent, massive exposure to Chrysanthemum pollen. A variety known for its highly allergenic properties, and one that, conveniently, is in full, glorious bloom in the public gardens just outside the city walls at this very moment.”
The woman’s face, which had been pale, now went a stark, chalky white. She had been so careful to scrub the boy’s skin, to remove any trace of the pollen itself. She had never imagined that a healer could diagnose the cause not by what was on the skin, but by what was in the blood, in the very air of the lungs.
She was trapped. Exposed. The lie was shattered.
With a strangled cry of pure panic, she shoved her son into the arms of a nearby, startled guard, turned, and tried to flee.
She didn't get two steps.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom near the main doors. A silent, imposing figure in dark livery, moving with a speed that was utterly, terrifyingly, inhuman.
Ken Park materialized in her path, a solid, immovable wall of stoic, implacable authority. His face was an unreadable mask, but his eyes, when they settled on the panicking woman, held a coldness that promised a very thorough, very unpleasant, and very, very truthful, debriefing.
The trap had been sprung. The verdict delivered. And the hunt for the true culprits, the ones who had paid this desperate woman to poison her own child with flowers, had just begun.
The confession did not take long. Faced with the quiet, chilling finality of Ken Park blocking her only escape route, and the stern, unyielding gazes of the Arch Duke, Mistress Dorathi, and the assembled nobles, the woman’s desperate, theatrical defiance had crumbled into a pathetic, sobbing heap on the Grand Hall’s stone floor.
Ken had not laid a hand on her. He had not uttered a single threat. He had simply… stood there. An immovable object of quiet, overwhelming authority. And in the face of that silent, absolute power, the woman’s will, already frayed by the public exposure of her lie, had simply… shattered.
