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The cigar was placed between his index finger and middle finger as his tired eyes scanned the papers.

He was signing over a few documents, but his mind was on things that had taken place over a week back. Taking a break, he closed his eyes and thought back to things that would often flash in his mind.

His childhood.

He had started working at a young age.

From his early days as a lowly clerk, he was diligently copying figures under the watchful gaze of his predecessor, to the gradual ascent that saw him lauded for his keen organizational skills.

The memory of his initial ambition brought a bittersweet pang.

Back then, the mantle of administrator had felt like a beacon of hope.

He, Francis, a commoner born to constantly travelling merchant parents, had witnessed firsthand the toll of an inept lord on the lives of his people.

So many territories he visited had people suffering simply because the lord didn’t care and when he had gotten a sense of what profession to move towards, Francis had come to Veralt.

It was a peaceful territory back then that could be improved even more. After taking an exam for the then-administrator, he became an apprentice.

He’d dreamed of wielding the authority to carve out a better life for the territory, a haven far removed from the hardships he had seen in his childhood.

For a while, it worked.

Fields yielded bountiful harvests, trade flourished, and a sense of tentative stability settled over the land. But then, the storm clouds arrived.

The Lord’s son, his heir and confidant, was struck down by an arrow while chasing after a barbarian tribe in the army. The son died, leaving an empty shallow space in the estate itself.

Soon after that, the lord’s wife passed away from an unknown illness. Having no other children, her son’s death was too much to take for her.

The Lord himself, aged and grieving, retreated into a shell of his former self, his once-sharp mind clouded by sorrow.

Like dominoes toppling, the problems began stacking up.

A harsh winter decimated the crops, leaving the people with dwindling reserves. Bandit raids grew bolder, preying on weakened villages.

The Lord, lost in his grief, refused to acknowledge the escalating crisis, opting instead for a fatalistic wait for his demise.

Their pleas for assistance were met with a deafening silence. The ongoing Duke’s succession had thrown the entire region into political turmoil.

Urgent messages dispatched to the Duke’s house vanished, each unanswered letter a fresh wound upon their already beleaguered spirits.

The inevitable arrived finally.

The Lord succumbed to a heart attack, leaving a power vacuum in his wake. The territory, once a beacon of hope, now resembled a rudderless ship, tossed about in a sea of uncertainty.

Francis sighed again, recalling the time it all happened. He brought the cigar to his lips and let out a puff of smoke.

Then came the news.

Arzan, the Duke’s son was appointed the new Baron. Relief, laced with a sliver of trepidation, bloomed in Francis’ chest. Surely, a son of the Duke would possess the resources and resolve to pull them from the brink.

But six months had crawled by, each day a monotonous echo of the last.

Arzan, cloaked in an enigmatic aloofness, remained a distant figure. The problems, far from abating, seemed to fester. Disappointment, a bitter pill, lodged itself in Francis’ throat. Was this all they could expect from a Duke’s son?

Despair gnawed at him.

Six months under the new Baron Arzan, the territory’s situation only worsened. The coffers bled dry, a consequence of Arzan’s enigmatic spending sprees. Requests for clarification were met with a steely silence, the quite opposite of the openness Francis had craved.

As things kept moving towards destruction, Francis wondered if things were ever going to change.

And one day, it all changed.

The weaver’s incident still painted a shocking picture in his mind.

To be true to himself, he had given up on a lot of things. But that glimmer of hope— it ignited when Arzan took care of the weaver himself.

A new person— that’s what he would call Arzan after that day, at least in his mind.

Something about him changed and even if it was subtle, Francis instinctively knew he was different now. Someone reliable, someone competent and he proved it with each passing day.

Especially when the Tradeheart Merchant company threatened the farmlands.

In his old ways, Francis’s only focus had been to find a way so that they could pay the debtors back, and hold them on for some more time. But then, Arzan— he brought up one matter Francis didn’t even think was possible.

The laws.

Francis still remembered how he almost slapped his forehead in guilt. Part of him despised him for being careless, but the other part understood the situation.

Soon after, Arzan took it upon himself to collect the money to pay back.

Francis knew Arzan’s plans to collect the debt would work meticulously, especially when he saw Heat stones— an invention of Arzan himself that was going to solve a lot of their problems.

After years, good things were happening in the territory, but it wasn’t enough. That one part that had started looking down on him craved something more.

He needed to prove that he was a good administrator— to a lord who suddenly had a spark to move forward without a glance back.

So, before Arzan left for the forest to deal with what he called mana fiends, Francis had one request, which was to let him handle the Tradeheart Merchant company.

Even if the debt was being handled, he had suspicions about the merchant organisation, but he had never been able to investigate, simply because their hands were tied with the debt.

Now, it was different.

Kai gave a brief nod that day, saying, "I trust you enough to handle it by yourself." The words meant more when he started to get to work.

He focused on going through the kingdom’s law, to find any report that would prove Tradeheart’s wrongdoings. He remembered how his eyes stayed glued to the parchments, analysing every piece of information.

Fortunately, there were a lot.

The more he looked, the stranger things seemed

It had been over three years since Tradeheart had gotten a branch in Veralt and since then, the bandits’ attacks increased. The thing that stood out was the fact that the attacks were mostly on merchants who were in direct competition with Tradeheart.

Especially, timber merchants who kept going out of business because of bandits targeting their carriages.

At the same time, Tradeheart grew its business, effectively gaining a monopoly.

For an entire month, Francis talked to merchants whose businesses had been flagged by bandits. Some cried, saying no matter how many guards and mercenaries they hired, the bandits would know their every move and steal their goods.

Others have already fled the city, wanting to not do any more business with Tradeheart having the bigger hand.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t able to catch any bandits, but whatever he heard was enough for him to take his next move.

The door to his office creaked open as a short man walked in, looking fearful as Francis gestured for him to sit down. His shoulders slumped as the man looked at him.

"Hemlock," Francis had called. "You have been working for Tradeheart for two years now, right?"

The man looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and weary. "Yes, sir. It’s been a while. Can I know why you called me here? You even took my wife and mother with you. Is that necessary?"

"It is. And don’t worry, they are safe. I won’t touch you until you answer my questions."

Hemlock’s eyes widened. Francis knew the man was smart and could get the undertone in his voice. By the way, he grabbed his knees, he was too nervous to not play along with the situation.

"What type of questions?"

"The one about the entity you work for," Francis said, leaning forward. "You do know the lord particularly doesn’t like Tradeheart right?"

"I-I do, but I thought it was just a debt…"

"It’s more than that. Do you think I would call you here simply because of an insignificant debt?"

"Then?"

"We’re conducting an investigation," Francis stated, his voice firm. "Discrepancies in your company’s activities have been flagged. Moreover, there’s a lot of evidence that your bosses had a hand in destroying a lot of businesses in the city for a monopoly. If you are not well versed in the laws, let me tell you. That’s a serious crime."

Hemlock’s face paled. "Discrepancies? I-I don’t know what you mean," he stammered.

"Don’t play coy," Francis leaned forward, his voice hardening. "You are a high-level employee who should have access to their documents. You very well know what’s going on and there’s enough merchants who would speak against Tradeheart if the lord is in their favour."

Hemlock swallowed hard, his gaze darting around the room. "I… I can’t say anything. It’s my job."

"Your job?" Francis scoffed. "Or your family’s safety? Think about it. Are the Tradeheart scraps worth risking everything for? We can offer you protection, a chance to wipe the slate clean."

A flicker of desperation flickered in the man’s eyes. He glanced at the door, then back at Francis. His lips trembled for a moment before forming a shaky whisper.

"What kind of protection?"

Francis smiled. "The kind that comes with the truth. Now, tell me everything and I will make sure you don’t have to rot in a cell as your wife is sold to a brothel."

The deal was secured with Hemlock providing evidence along with many others. It seemed like a peek into Francis’ ruthless side was enough for the meek man to help them out.

Weeks led into months.

The days were a relentless tide of paperwork, interviews, and late-night strategy sessions.

Along the way, Arzan’s expenditure to find the necromancer was brutal. They lost a few guards but managed to cease the threat. The next few weeks went by with Killian training what they called the Enforcers.

Although Francis had yet to see their prowess, he knew Killian seemed much stronger after turning into one.

According to Arzan, he would see their powers against Erasmus Thorne, the head of Tradeheart in Veralt.

The conversation a day before the raid on the Tradeheart office was still fresh in Francis’ mind.

Arzan’s eyes scanned the pages of evidence Francis collected. Along with the parchments, there were written testimonies of merchants and Hemlock, alongside a few more people.

"I didn’t get everything, my Lord," Francis concluded, "but it’s enough to raise eyebrows. Enough to get Erasmus scrambling," Francis said in a whisper with papers thrown on top of the table.

Arzan gave a genuine smile.

"This is more than what I could ask to bring those bastards down. Good job, Francis," he said while his eyes went back to the papers.

A hint of pride beamed in his heart as he felt like he finally did something for the estate after so long.

The very next day, Erasmus was out of his high fort, beaten into a pulp by Arzan.

The attack was swift and decisive. City guards, bolstered by Arzan’s newly acquired Enforcers, descended upon the Tradeheart Merchant company building.

Not one person in the Tradeheart office was able to stand against them and before they knew it, they were arresting Erasmus and all the employees who had been a part of his illegal activities.

News of the raid spread like wildfire in a couple of hours.

Francis felt a surge of vindication.

It hadn’t been easy, but they did it. He had done it. With the debt finally disappearing from the looming state, he could finally focus on what he did best— rebuilding the territory, one sound decision at a time.

Opening his eyes away from the memories, he took a puff of cigar, smiling and finally felt like he had things to look forward to.

With renewed vigour, he got back to his work, the dull ache in his back disappearing.