Chương 289: 60. Karma 3

Thornhold. House Rosa. The main reception hall was exactly as spacious as I remembered. Spacious enough to be perfectly suited for performing dignity. High windows, heavy curtains, dark wood paneling, a long table polished bright enough to reflect firelight, high-backed chairs and display cabinets lining both sides.

In front of the fireplace lay that same dark red carpet I'd always found faintly offensive—not a festive red, not a regal one, but the specific shade old noble houses favored to remind visitors: our history here runs thick. And the most conspicuous thing in the room, without question, was the massive, almost oppressive portrait hanging above the fireplace. Akros Rosa, Marquis of the Border. My father.

In the painting he wore the formal attire and cloak of a border marquis, one hand resting on his sword's pommel, posture ramrod-straight, eyes fixed forward on some future that hadn't yet been shattered. I knew that face far too well—not from affection, not from nostalgia, but because as a child, the moment I looked up and saw that particular expression, I knew I was either about to be lectured, or already in the middle of it.

Looking back now, the old man probably never imagined, even on his deathbed, that his children would one day stand beneath his portrait and reduce the entire house to this. Truly filial. Filial enough that the ancestral tablets ought to pack up and relocate overnight, before they cracked from sheer outrage. I stood in the center of the hall, glanced once at the portrait, then lowered my eyes. The Yinglong Guard had already begun bringing people in, in batches.

I hadn't let them all crowd in at once—too much chaos, too much room for someone to muddy the waters. So the first to arrive were the ones who needed to arrive first: the head steward, the quartermaster, and the captain who'd led the retreat. Albert Grayson. Marcus Fiedler. Jurgen Hart. The three stood in a row before the long table, without a shred of shared composure between them.

Albert was still managing to hold himself together—back straight, hands folded in front, as though he believed that as long as he maintained the perfect bearing of a head steward, he could talk his way through this on etiquette and careful phrasing alone. I knew this type well. The calmer they looked, the more they usually had to hide. Marcus was faring far worse.

His forehead was slick with sweat, his fingers bone-white, his eyes darting sideways as if hoping the ledgers might sprout legs and run off to take the blame for him. This type was always the most entertaining—ruthless with a pen in peacetime, and the first to have his knees buckle the moment someone actually started asking questions. As for Jurgen—he stood like a post that had taken a lightning strike and refused to fall.

Dried blood still marked his armor, his color an alarming gray, everything about him screaming that he'd been dragged off the front line not long ago. This type was the most troublesome, not because he was a good liar, but because he was a terrible one—every honest word out of his mouth would only bury him deeper. Ignicia stood at my right rear, not seated. She had no need to sit today. As long as she remained standing, whatever residual human warmth still clung to the room would retreat obediently to the corners.

Arms crossed, crimson hair falling over her shoulders, face carrying no expression at all—that stillness alone was enough to dry every throat in the room. A little further back on the left, several more figures had taken their places. Olivia had arrived. I'd sent word ahead, and she'd come quickly—quickly enough that I strongly suspected she'd handed off whatever she was working on to someone else the moment the message arrived, just to be here for this.

She wasn't dressed elaborately today, just a neat coat and gloves, standing with the composed air of someone preparing to document a clinical family autopsy. Jessi and Alvira had also come, which surprised me not at all. Jessi leaned against a side cabinet, arms folded, wearing the expression of someone deeply gratified to have been included in a spectacle this large. Alvira stood quietly beside her, expression steady, though those eyes had clearly already catalogued every reaction in the room. Wonderful.

Today's reckoning was starting to look more and more like a family gathering. All that was missing was someone bringing in tea and asking if anyone wanted a pastry. The thought struck me as faintly absurd. When a man's luck runs bad enough, even settling scores with his own household turns into a performance with a live audience. Fate had always been remarkably creative where I was concerned. I walked to the long table and tapped my fingers lightly against the surface once.

"Let's begin." The hall fell as quiet as the bottom of a well. I looked first at Albert.

"Head Steward." Albert bowed his head immediately.

"My lord." The words came so smoothly it was as though the past several years of treating me as a dead man had simply never happened. Impressive. His control over his own face was clearly tighter than his control over the treasury.

"I won't waste time on preamble," I said evenly.

"I have one question. Over the past month, who has actually been giving the orders at Thornhold?" Albert paused—briefly, briefly enough that most people wouldn't have caught it. I did.

"In answer to my lord: military and civil affairs within the fortress have always been directed by the eldest young master and the second young master, with the second young lady assisting in household matters and the accounts. This old servant merely followed orders." Excellent. His very first sentence, and he'd already scrubbed himself into a rag. Classic. Predictable. Thoroughly punchable. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Merely followed orders?" I looked at him.

"So how the rations were allocated, how messages were dispatched, who was let into the inner residence and who was barred from the military offices, and exactly when you personally turned people away at the door—none of that was your decision?" The muscle at Albert's temple tightened.

"This servant would never presume to act unilaterally, only—""Only you had a particular talent for deciding which orders deserved your most enthusiastic compliance. Is that it?" My tone wasn't sharp. If anything, it was almost gentle. Which was precisely why no one could comfortably answer it. Albert finally stopped trying to smooth it over and simply lowered his head.

"This servant wouldn't dare."

"There are quite a lot of things you claim you wouldn't dare," I said, watching him.

"Unfortunately, not one of the things you actually shouldn't have dared to do got skipped." I didn't press further. I turned to Marcus.

"Quartermaster." Marcus flinched so hard his shoulders jumped.

"P-Present!"... That "present" sounded like a man stepping onto the gallows.

"The eastern wall's supply line was late three times. Arrow stock came up short twice. Fire-oil counts didn't match once. Was that the weather, or does your pen have a habit of taking walks on its own?" Marcus's color dropped instantly.

"M-my lord, the northern roads have been under constant attack, the transport—""I didn't ask for excuses," I cut in cleanly.

"I asked whether it was the weather, or your books." The hall was quiet enough to hear the fire crackle. Marcus's mouth opened and closed, his throat working twice before he finally forced it out.

"The… the figures were adjusted, on paper. But that was only to steady morale. If the real numbers had gone up the chain, the fortress would have already—""Already what?" I held his gaze.

"Already realized you people were using the front line as a wedge to keep your own table from wobbling. Is that it?" Marcus's knees gave. He nearly went down right there.

"Mercy, my lord! Mercy! This one only followed orders—the books weren't mine alone to decide, the second young lady said—" He stopped himself. Because he'd just realized, mid-panic, that he'd handed over the exact name he should have guarded longest. I didn't smile. But Jessi let out a soft, expressive tsk from the side, as if observing a moment of silence for the man's brain. I nodded.

"Good. Note that down." Olivia, who had somehow drifted closer without anyone noticing, already had pen and paper in hand. She didn't look up.

"Noted." In that instant, Marcus's color went a shade worse than before. He'd finally understood: today was not the kind of room where shouting for mercy would get you through. Every word out of his mouth was becoming another nail in his own coffin. I turned last to Jurgen.

"Captain." Jurgen was silent for two full breaths before answering, quietly: "... Present." Of the three, his voice was the only one that still sounded like a living person's. Because he wasn't trying to perform. Or rather, he no longer had the energy left to.

"The day you led the retreat back—did the three outer towers north of Thornhold fall first, or did the eastern supply line break first?" Jurgen raised his head and looked at me. There wasn't much defense left in his eyes, only exhaustion and a kind of flattened, crushing numbness.

"The eastern supply line broke first," he said.

"Who ordered it cut?"

"... No one said it outright."

"Then someone implied it." He said nothing. I took half a step forward.

"Who." This time the silence lasted longer—long enough that I could almost hear his jaw clenching. Finally, his voice came out raw.

"The second young master said we should preserve the main force inside the fortress. Not throw everyone who could still be pulled back into the outer sections."

"The eldest young master raised no objection."

"The second young lady's side told the quartermaster to hold back a batch of arrows and oil—said to wait until the inner lines were stabilized before releasing them." With every sentence, the air in the hall grew heavier. I didn't answer immediately. Some things, the faster you respond, the easier it is for people to treat as ordinary back-and-forth. Let them sit—let the words land on their own—and they start carrying the weight they were always supposed to have.

Sure enough, a moment later, even Albert had gone pale. He understood now: this wasn't "a series of mistakes" anymore. This was a deliberate severing of the outer line. Hoarding of the interior. Falsified books. Every order buried under "nothing was said outright," the whole rotten package dressed up as bad luck. Stripped down to the bone, it meant one thing: they had spent the lives of the men outside the wall to buy the people inside a little more time to look respectable.

I raised my eyes to the portrait of Akros Rosa, Marquis of the Border, above the fireplace. How fitting. The one thing the old man had hated most in life was treating border soldiers as numbers on a page. And after his death, his children had learned that exact skill with terrifying speed—fast enough that you'd think they'd been born knowing how to convert other people's lives into breathing room on a ledger. I looked back at the three men, my tone still level.

"So the situation is clear now."

"Someone cut the outer line. Someone held back the supplies. Someone falsified the accounts. Someone buried their orders in 'nothing was said outright,' and then all of you agreed to pretend this fortress had simply been unlucky." I smiled—faintly enough that I wasn't sure it even counted as one.

"Truly, a proud family tradition." No one dared answer. At that moment, a second set of footsteps sounded from beyond the door. The Yinglong Guard brought in the next group. Two dispatch clerks, a storeroom key-holder, two inner household managers. One look at the faces of the three men already standing there, one glance at where I stood, and they knew this wasn't a matter of cross-checking testimony. Their heads dropped faster than the ones before them. I didn't let them speak yet—just had them stand aside.

The more corroborating witnesses, the harder it becomes for the core figures to hide. Not because I needed convincing. Because I needed everyone still to come to understand one thing: Today, volume doesn't win. Every escape route you think you have has already been sealed by someone else's mouth. Jessi drifted closer and lowered her voice.

"You're actually pulling this off, you know."

"Meaning?"

"You know—the kind of guy who usually looks completely unreliable, but the moment he actually has to cut someone, he wipes the blade first." I gave her a flat look.

"Thank you. That sounded like the opposite of a compliment."

"It wasn't meant to be one." Alvira added, evenly, from the side: "But it's accurate."... Wonderful. Not a single normal source of comfort anywhere near me. Ignicia didn't join in. She simply said, from behind me: "Continue." Two words. But the moment they landed, whatever hope anyone in the hall had of stalling completely evaporated. I nodded, looking toward the door.

"Bring in the next group." This time the footsteps outside were heavier, less orderly. Someone was clearly reluctant to move quickly; someone else had apparently been arguing in low, urgent tones the entire way, before the Yinglong Guard's unmistakable this is not a request settled the matter. Then they entered. Rosalind Rosa came first.

Still immaculately dressed—not a hair out of place, collar, cuffs, and waistline all perfectly arranged, as if she'd arrived for a morning social call rather than been marched into a tribunal. Her face hadn't changed much from memory, only sharper at the edges, her eyes better practiced at concealment. When she saw me, there was no panic in her expression—only a fast, precise calculation of the situation. Good. That was exactly the face of someone who'd ordered the books cooked. Chris came in behind her.

My eldest brother walked in, looked up at the portrait first, then at me. That same familiar expression sat on his face—the one that seemed to believe that no matter how badly things had gone, as long as he wore the bearing of the firstborn, everyone else owed him deference. It was the expression I'd hated most about him, even as a child. Because it wasn't authority. It was an empty shell that had decided it was a bell. Boris came in last.

Exactly as I'd expected—the moment he entered, his eyes went left, then right, counting heads, checking the doors, checking the Yinglong Guard's positions, and only then landing on me. His type had a fast mind, fast enough that his first instinct was never admission of guilt, but a rapid calculation of how many exits remained. A pity. Today, there were none. Once the three of them had taken their places, the reception hall was finally complete. Everyone who needed to be here, was here.

Everyone who needed to face this, was finally facing it. I raised my eyes one last time to the portrait of Akros Rosa, Marquis of the Border. Then I lowered them to the brothers and sister in front of me—people who shared my blood, and had dragged the family name through something far worse than mud. Then, very calmly, I spoke.

"Good."

"Everyone's here." I paused, tapping one finger lightly against the edge of the long table. The sound was small. But it felt like a blade being formally drawn from its sheath.

"Then I suppose it's time we balanced the ledger."