The torrential rain washed away the filth and fury on the square, and also swept across every shocked face.
Irene’s voice, cold as the hammer of judgment, struck the deathly silent air.
She tilted her head slightly: “Ansel.”
A commotion rose at the back of the crowd.
Ansel, dressed in a gray hunter’s coat like a shadow in the rainy night, parted the crowd and strode forward.
Behind him, several stern-faced guards in waterproof cloaks were escorting a few people, drenched and bedraggled by the rain, their bodies marked with obvious signs of interrogation.
They were none other than Scarface, the Female Mercenary, and the Bald Strongman who had been boasting in the tavern last night! Their faces were ashen, their eyes vacant, the arrogance of last night long gone. When they saw Vincent on the terrace, they trembled as if they had seen a ghost.
“A few rats caught in a tavern in the neighboring town last night,” Ansel’s voice carried the weariness of an interrogation, yet pierced the rain clearly, “after a little ‘questioning’, they were very ‘eager’ to confess. Order of Black Hunt, hired by Acting Lord Vincent, and their mission…”
He paused, his gaze sharp as a hawk’s, fixing on Vincent’s pale face, “Pretend to be villagers from Despair Village, clash with Lady Irene, spread rumors of ‘Divine Punishment’, and stir up the people’s emotions. The payment was generous—the deposit has been paid in full, with the other half promised upon completion.”
A wave of suppressed gasps and shocked murmurs rippled through the square. The crowd’s eyes darted in suspicion between Ansel, the trembling mercenaries, and the stiff figure of Vincent on the terrace.
“Slander! This is blatant slander!” Vincent snapped back to his senses, hissing sharply like a viper whose tail had been stepped on.
The muscles in his face contorted, forcing out a flush of wronged fury, his trembling finger pointing at Irene, “Irene Raven! How vicious your heart is! To seize the territory, you would stoop to orchestrating such a plot, bribing these despicable mercenaries to frame me! Framing! This is the most shameless framing!”
He turned to the bewildered townsfolk below, his voice filled with “grief and indignation,” “My fellow villagers! Open your eyes and see! You must believe me! Have I, Vincent, ever treated you unfairly all these years?!”
His “love for the people” performance was highly provocative.
Once again, hesitation and doubt appeared on some faces in the crowd.
Indeed, Lord Vincent had often opened the granaries to help the poor over the years…
How could he do such a thing? Could it be… he really was being framed?
Besides, Irene was a notorious woman—rumor had it she was capable of anything. To reclaim her power, framing someone was the least of her crimes—she’d do it without hesitation!
“Believe you?”
Irene’s voice was calm and unruffled, as if stating the simplest fact.
Her gaze swept over the mercenaries under guard, then slowly passed over the rain-soaked, confused faces below, “Framing? Very well.”
Irene signaled to Helga to produce the evidence collected yesterday. In her palm, she held the ‘cooked’ seeds, raising her voice to the villagers, “These seeds were distributed to you by your beloved Acting Lord. Why has not a single one sprouted? Divine Punishment? The Goddess—tell me, does she really have time to bother with such trivialities?”
“These seeds were all boiled! How could they possibly sprout?”
The crowd immediately broke into a buzz of discussion, questioning eyes turning to Vincent, who hurriedly roared in explanation, “I—I don’t know either! I bought these seeds from the Four-Leaf Chamber of Commerce, I’m a victim too! The real culprit is the Four-Leaf Chamber, not me!”
“And what about these ores? Iron ore?”
At Irene’s signal, Ansel stepped forward, drew his sword, and split open the iron ore with one stroke. When the dazzling silver gleam inside was revealed to all, Irene heard the collective gasp from the crowd.
“…This is precious ore containing thirty percent mithril. If you sold these ores, it would be enough to pave your way to a lifetime of luxury, wouldn’t it, Cousin Vincent?”
“What, it’s mithril inside? I—I didn’t know that either!”
Vincent kept feigning ignorance, knowing that only by playing dumb could he escape disaster!
Irene’s evidence was still not conclusive enough—there was room to argue! As long as the Empire didn’t produce irrefutable proof, there would be no problem!
Irene had no authority to judge him!
The atmosphere dropped to freezing point.
Irene wanted nothing more than to order Ansel to cut down this man, but it wasn’t the time yet—the evidence was still not ironclad.
The rain poured down, washing away the lies and the stalemated judgment.
The people’s doubts, cold as the rain, drenched Vincent, but his desperate denials continued to resist. Irene’s accusations were powerful, but still lacked the final blow—enough to nail him to the pillar of treason with irrefutable proof!
At that suffocating, tense moment—
“Miss! We’re back!”
Two swift figures, like swallows tearing through the rain, darted through the crowd and raced to Irene’s side.
It was Leila and Clarette! The two maids were soaked to the bone, hair plastered to their foreheads, their faces showing the exhaustion of a long journey, but their eyes shone with excitement at having completed their mission.
Clarette’s golden hair swung as she ran. Ignoring her breathlessness, she quickly pulled out several thick ledgers, tightly wrapped in oilcloth, and a sealed metal cylinder from her waterproof pouch.
She raised the ledgers high, rain splattering against the dark brown leather covers.
Her voice rang out, clear and powerful, instantly silencing all noise:
“My lady! Mission accomplished! We caught up with that imperial merchant! These were found on him—complete records of Acting Lord Vincent’s smuggling of ‘mithril ore’ from the territory disguised as ordinary ‘inferior iron ore’, sold in large quantities to the Empire’s Blackstone Chamber of Commerce at less than thirty percent of the market price over the past six months!”
She pointed sharply at Vincent, whose face had turned utterly ashen and was on the verge of collapse, “Every transaction’s date, quantity, handler, and the imperial recipient’s signed acknowledgment—everything is crystal clear!”
Leila stepped forward, forcefully unscrewing the metal cylinder’s seal and pouring out several letters wrapped in waterproof oil paper.
She unfolded one and read aloud:
“To Chancellor Rosetta: This month’s thirty standard crates of raw mithril ore have been shipped via the ‘scrap iron’ channel as usual. Payment has been deposited to the ‘Night Owl’ account. Regarding the imperial investiture, I ask that Your Excellency lobby in the Senate on my behalf. As a token of loyalty from your devoted ally… Signed—Your loyal servant, Vincent Raven.”
“No—!!!”
Vincent let out a desperate, inhuman wail, collapsing bonelessly to his knees on the cold, rain-soaked terrace stones.
His imperial dreams, everything he had painstakingly built, collapsed completely under the eyes of the young lady he had always looked down on, under the relentless downpour, and before this irrefutable evidence—shattering into filthy mud.
He could not comprehend why the Empire would betray him at this moment—it made no sense! What methods had those two maids used!?
The rain poured down, washing over the square. In the cold downpour, Irene stood tall and straight as a fresh bamboo shoot.
She calmly raised her hand, pointed at the limp figure, and her voice pierced the rain, clearly proclaiming:
“Take him.”