The sound of his father’s roar echoed through the keep, a wave of pure, unrestrained fury. From the doorway of the dining hall, Ray watched the scene he had so meticulously crafted unfold. He saw Lord Alistair’s face, purple with rage. He saw Corbin’s smug, satisfied smirk at seeing a servant taken down a peg. And then he saw Rina. She practically stumbled down the final steps of the grand staircase, her face ashen, her eyes wide with a terror that was utterly soul-crushing to witness. She stared at the stained tapestry, then at her furious master, and her entire body began to tremble.

“You careless girl!”

Alistair bellowed, his voice cracking with the force of his anger.

“This is the work of generations! It is irreplaceable! Forget your other duties!”

“Do not leave this spot until you have done everything in your power to halt the spread of this stain!”

“Find the source! Fix it! Now!”

“Yes, my lord!”

“Right away, my lord!”

She stammered, dropping to her knees, her hands fluttering uselessly over the dark, spreading stain. She looked lost, terrified, and completely, hopelessly overwhelmed. In that moment, the triumphant chorus of his archetypes in his mind fell silent. The Conman’s smug satisfaction, the Courtier’s clinical approval, it all vanished, replaced by a cold, sickening lurch in Ray’s own stomach. He had seen Rina as a variable, an obstacle to be moved. A pawn. But looking at her now, seeing the genuine terror he had inflicted upon the one person in this entire world who had shown him consistent, unconditional kindness, he felt a profound and searing guilt. This wasn't a performance. Her fear was real. He had thrown her to the wolves to save himself.

This is wrong…

He thought, the voice entirely his own, raw and certain.

I can’t let her take the fall for this. I can’t.

The midday bell began to toll its first chime. Twelve o’clock. His window was open. The path to the study was clear. But the mission had just changed. It was no longer just a heist for information. It was now a rescue mission. He had to get what he came for, and he had to find a way to clear Rina’s name before he was done.

With a new, desperate urgency fueling his movements, he slipped away from the dining hall. He kept to the shadows of the corridor, his small body making barely a sound on the stone floors. The keep was in chaos, servants rushing for cleaning supplies, his father’s angry voice still echoing from the main hall. No one noticed the small boy making his way purposefully towards the west wing. He reached the heavy oak door of his father’s study.

The silence here was absolute, a stark contrast to the drama unfolding downstairs. He pulled the two stiff broom-wires from his sleeve, his hands slick with a nervous sweat. He activated Partial Immersion with two personas. He needed the Eccentric Scholar for its theoretical knowledge of locking mechanisms, and the silent, steady-handed focus of the Stoic Assassin. The familiar, manageable pressure of the Cognitive Aegis settled over his mind.

Assassin: “The hand must not shake. The breath must be steady. Emotion is the enemy of precision.”

Scholar:“It's a simple warded lock! Pre-guild standard! The tumblers are rudimentary. The key is merely to apply consistent tension while manipulating the wards into alignment! Theoretically, quite simple!”

Theoretically simple was practically impossible for a nine-year-old. His fingers were too small, the wires felt clumsy and alien in his grip. He inserted the tension wire, applying pressure as the Scholar directed. Then he slid the second wire in, probing for the wards. He felt nothing but solid iron. His heart hammered. He could hear the frantic sounds of cleaning downstairs. How long did he have? Ten minutes? Fifteen? The wire slipped, scraping loudly against the metal. He froze, his blood running cold, convinced someone would hear. But there was only silence. He took a deep breath, the Assassin’s discipline forcing a fragile calm over his panic. He tried again, his touch more delicate this time. He remembered the Conman’s advice from his practice sessions:

Conman: “Don’t force it, persuade it."

He closed his eyes, visualizing the inner workings of the lock, the simple pins that needed to be lifted. He probed gently with the wire, not scraping, but listening with his fingertips. A faint click. His eyes snapped open. He applied more pressure to the tension wire. Another, softer click. He held his breath and turned the wire. The lock mechanism groaned, turned, and the heavy door swung inward.

This tale has been pilfered from NovelBin. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

[SKILL ATTEMPT: LOCKPICKING (STOIC ASSASIN SUB-SKILL)]

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: ADEPT]

[Despite severe physical limitations, host successfully applied theoretical knowledge and mental discipline to overcome a complex mechanical obstacle under extreme time pressure. Standard Mastery Gain.]

[Mastery Gain: Lockpicking +6%]

He didn't waste a second celebrating. He slipped inside, closing the door to a sliver, and the Scholar persona took complete control of his senses. The room was a landscape of information waiting to be harvested.

“Time is the primary constraint,”

The Scholar’s voice chirped, all business.

“Systematic search required. Desk first.”

“High-value targets: ledgers, correspondence, sealed documents."

He scurried to the desk, his small size allowing him to move almost unseen below the level of the windows. He found the main ledger and the dossier on his family, just as before. But this time he knew what to look for. He ignored the main payments and focused on the margins, the footnotes, the annotations written in his father’s spidery hand. He found it on the back page of the debt ledger. It was a list of names under the heading "A.H. Assets - Local." It was a list of merchants, couriers, and even a stable master in the nearby village, each with a small, coded symbol next to their name. These were the Argent Hand’s eyes and ears. Their local network. This was gold. He was about to move on when his eyes caught another document tucked beneath a heavy inkwell. It was a property deed. But it wasn't for land. It was a deed of ownership for a specific warehouse in the capital city of Eldoria, listed under the name of a holding company he recognized from the ledger as another Argent Hand front. The deed was cosigned by his father and Lord Titus Thorne.

“What is this?”

The Scholar hummed, intrigued.

“Why would our house co-own a city warehouse with an agent of the Hand?”

“Unless… it’s not for storage. It’s for transfer. A holding point for assets.”

“A place where debts are paid not in coin, but in kind.”

This was the key. A physical location. A tangible link in the Hand’s chain of operations. He had to memorize the address, the company name, everything. But then he remembered Rina. His gaze darted around the room, his objective shifting. He needed to create an alternate explanation for the ink spill. Something that would clear her name completely. His eyes landed on the stone hearth of the fireplace. It was summer, so it was cold and unused, filled with old ash. And scurrying along the edge of the stone was a large, fat rat. The Conman’s voice surfaced, slick with sudden inspiration.

“Well now, look what we have here, a patsy, a fall guy or in this case, a fall rat, it’s perfect!”

The plan formed instantly, a beautiful, simple, three-act play.

Act I: The Evidence. He needed to connect the rat to the ink. He crept over to the writing desk in the corner. The main ink pot was there, heavy and stable. But next to it was a smaller, travel-sized inkwell, nearly empty. It was the source of the ink he had stolen. He took the stopper out and, using one of his broom-wires, carefully tipped it over, creating a small, fresh puddle of ink on the desk’s surface.

Act II: The Trail. He needed to show the rat’s path. He took a handful of nuts from a bowl on a side table his father’s evening snack and crushed them. He sprinkled a tiny trail of nut dust from the ink puddle on the desk, down the leg of the table, and towards a small, dark hole in the floorboards near the hearth.

Act III: The Culprit. The rat itself was too fast to catch. But he didn’t need the rat. He just needed proof of it. He looked at the cold ashes in the fireplace. With his finger, he carefully drew a set of tiny, rat-like tracks in the ash, leading directly from the hole in the floorboards.

The scene was now set. A rat, attracted by the nuts, had knocked over the small inkwell on the desk. It had then scurried away, leaving tracks in the ash. The ink from its tail and feet had dripped off as it passed over the main hall, creating the "leak" that had stained the tapestry. It was a plausible, domestic accident. An issue of pest control, not servant negligence. He looked at his work. It was a masterpiece of misdirection.

[SKILLED APPLICATION DETECTED]

[OPERATION: 'THE ALIBI']

[PERFORMANCE EVALUATION: INSPIRED]

[Host spontaneously created and executed a complex secondary objective under extreme time pressure. The narrative constructed is plausible, uses environmental assets effectively, and is psychologically tailored to the target (Lord Alistair's pride would rather blame vermin than admit his own house is in disarray). Largest Mastery Gain.]

[Mastery Gain: Performance +10%. Misdirection +8%.]

The midday bell began its final chime. One o’clock. He was out of time. He slipped out of the study, pulling the door gently shut, leaving it unlatched. He scurried back towards the main hall, his heart a triumphant drum. He arrived just in time to see his father inspecting the tapestry, his face a mask of grim fury, while Rina scrubbed futilely at the floor, tears streaming down her face. Ray walked into the room, his face a perfect picture of childish innocence.

"Father…"

He said, his voice small.

"There was a rat in your study. A big one. It knocked over the ink."

Alistair turned to snap at him, but the words died in his throat. He stared at Ray, then his eyes narrowed in thought. With a new, urgent purpose, he strode past Ray and down the hall to his study. The rest of the household watched in silence. A moment later, he returned. His expression was completely different. The rage was gone, replaced by a deep, weary embarrassment. He looked at Rina, still kneeling on the floor.

"Enough,"

He said, his voice gruff.

"It was not your fault... it seems we have a vermin problem, see to it."

He turned and stormed away without another word, his own pride clearly wounded by the state of his keep. Rina stared after him, then at the tapestry, then at Ray. The terror in her eyes was replaced by a profound, dawning confusion. She knew she hadn't spilled any ink. She knew there was no leak. And now, a rat had appeared at the exact moment she was being blamed. She looked at the small, nine-year-old boy who was watching her with an unnervingly calm expression, and a seed of suspicion, awe, and a strange, inexplicable gratitude began to sprout in her heart. Ray met her gaze for a moment before looking away, his mission complete. He had the information he needed, and he had paid his debt. The heist was a success.