Chapter : 653

Workers, their faces shielded from the sun by wide-brimmed hats, moved along the edges of the final ponds, using long wooden rakes to gently harvest the delicate, flaky crystals. Piles of this ‘Ferrum Crystal’ already stood in massive, shimmering white mountains, awaiting transport. It was a scene of quiet, productive industry, a world away from the courtly politics and shadowy battles Lloyd had become accustomed to. Here, the rules were clear, the results tangible. He had taken useless land and a free resource and transformed them into a fountain of wealth. The deep, visceral satisfaction of it was a balm to his often-troubled soul.

His core team buzzed around him with an infectious energy. Borin, the explosive alchemist, was arguing passionately with a grizzled foreman about the optimal gear ratio for a new pump design. Lyra, the ever-pragmatic logistician, was coordinating with a line of wagon drivers, her clipboard a scepter of absolute authority. Alaric, the meticulous purist, was testing a sample of the harvested salt with a series of alchemical reagents, his face a mask of intense concentration. Even Tisha and Mei Jing had made the journey south, observing the operation with the sharp eyes of women calculating future profits and market domination.

It was a perfect moment. A rare, unblemished victory. And like all perfect moments in Lloyd’s life, it was destined to be shattered.

He saw Ken Park approaching along the gangway, his movements as silent and purposeful as ever. His bodyguard’s face, usually an unreadable mask of stoic professionalism, was set in lines of grim seriousness. Lloyd’s stomach tightened. Ken was the bearer of truths, and his truths were rarely gentle.

“My lord,” Ken said, his voice a low murmur that would not carry on the breeze. He handed Lloyd a thin, tightly rolled scroll sealed with plain black wax. “An urgent report from my network in the capital. It requires your immediate attention.”

Lloyd’s hand was steady as he took the scroll, but a cold premonition washed over him, chilling the sweat on his skin. He broke the seal and unrolled the fine parchment. The message was written in Ken’s precise, economical script, a coded language of intelligence reporting they had developed together. There were no wasted words, no emotional flourishes, only cold, hard facts.

And the facts were devastating.

His eyes scanned the lines, his mind translating the coded phrases with sickening speed. ‘Rival interest, Altamiran backing, operational asset in place… duplicating ‘Project Brine’ methodology… construction commenced, west of Port Thoria… estimated operational timeline, three weeks… methodology identical, including impurity precipitation sequence…’

The world seemed to narrow to the small piece of parchment in his hand. The cheerful sounds of the work site—the creak of the windmills, the shouts of the workers, Borin’s booming laughter—faded into a distant, muffled roar.

Identical methodology. Not just the broad concept of solar evaporation, which a rival might eventually deduce, but the specific, multi-stage process he had designed to precipitate out different mineral impurities at different points in the system. The use of crushed seashells mixed into the clay lining to create a slow-curing natural cement. The precise depth-to-surface-area ratio he had calculated for optimal evaporation. These were not details one could guess. These were details that had come directly from his own plans, from the secret meetings held in his own study.

The brilliant sun felt cold. The shimmering piles of salt, moments ago a symbol of his triumph, now felt like a monument to his own naivety. The salt on his lips, carried by the breeze, tasted of ashes.

The leak was not a possibility; it was a certainty. And it had not come from an external spy. The security around the project’s core concepts had been absolute, known only to a handful of people. His people.

A traitor.

The word was a physical blow, a shard of ice in his gut. He looked out at his team, at the faces of the people he had hand-picked, trusted, and come to regard as a strange, dysfunctional family. Mei Jing, his brilliant minister of war. Tisha, his cheerful diplomat. Lyra, the unshakeable bedrock of his logistics. Alaric and Borin, his mad scientists. Jasmin, his first and most loyal recruit. All of them, working under the sun, their faces alight with pride in what they were building together.

One of them had sold him to his enemies. One of them had taken his vision, his trust, and driven a knife into his back for a handful of foreign gold. The speed, the accuracy, the sheer, brazen theft of his intellectual property was an act of profound betrayal.

Chapter : 654

His satisfaction curdled into a cold, quiet fury. This was a deeper wound than any assassin’s blade or political machination. This was personal. This was an attack on the very foundation of what he was trying to build. He had faced down assassins, monsters, and gods, but the thought of a serpent coiled within his own inner circle filled him with a unique and terrible kind of dread.

He slowly, deliberately, rolled the scroll back up. He handed it back to Ken, his eyes meeting his bodyguard’s. He didn't need to speak. Ken saw the shift in him—the innovator replaced by the inquisitor, the lord replaced by the general.

“Understood, my lord,” Ken said softly. “What are your orders?”

Lloyd turned his gaze back to the bustling work site, his expression now as impassive and cold as his father’s. His mind was already moving, the shock giving way to the ruthless, analytical process of a counter-intelligence operation. The hunt for the external enemy was over. A new, more painful hunt was about to begin.

“We return to the capital at once,” Lloyd said, his voice devoid of all warmth. “The harvest is over. It’s time to find the rot in the roots.”

The journey back to the capital was a long, silent affair. The ducal carriage, usually a space where Lloyd would review reports or brainstorm new ideas with Mei Jing and Tisha, was now a tomb of simmering tension. He sat alone, staring out at the passing landscape, his mind a fortress of cold calculation. The vibrant greens and golds of the countryside were a meaningless blur. His inner world had been reduced to a single, corrosive question: Who?

He replayed every meeting, every conversation, every shared moment of triumph related to Project Brine. He visualized the faces of his inner circle, searching for a flicker of deceit, a hint of falsehood he might have missed. But his memory yielded nothing. They had all been enthusiastic, loyal, dedicated. Their belief in him, and in the project, had seemed absolute. Which, he realized with a fresh wave of chilling clarity, only made the traitor’s performance all the more masterful.

This was not a simple act of greed. This was a professional operation. To have identified a vulnerable asset within his team, cultivated them, and extracted such precise information in such a short time spoke of a sophisticated intelligence network. The Altamiran backing Ken’s report mentioned was no surprise. They were his inherited enemies, a rival kingdom whose entire philosophy was antithetical to the meritocratic, innovation-driven future he and his team envisioned for Bethelham. Destroying his economic ventures before they could become pillars of the state was a logical, strategic move on their part.

But knowing the grand strategy did nothing to soothe the personal sting of the betrayal. He had offered these people more than just a salary. He had offered them a purpose, a chance to be part of something revolutionary. He had trusted them with his vision. In return, one of them had taken that trust and sold it to the highest bidder.

Upon arriving at the Ferrum estate, he bypassed the main house and went directly to his sanctuary, the manufactory study. It was a space that had once been a symbol of his creative freedom, filled with schematics for soap dispensers and the lingering, pleasant scent of rosemary. Now, it felt like the scene of a crime. He dismissed everyone, sealing the room and sinking into his chair, the silence pressing in on him.

He needed to think. To compartmentalize. To be the Major General, not the wounded lord. The fury and the sense of personal violation were luxuries he could not afford. They were emotional noise that would cloud his judgment. He had to approach this problem as he would any other military threat: analyze the intelligence, identify the enemy’s capabilities, and devise a strategy to neutralize them.

He mentally re-enacted the moment he had first unveiled the full scope of Project Brine to his team. It had been in this very room. He had stood before the large map of the southern coastline, his excitement palpable as he explained the concept of solar evaporation. Who was there?