Translator: Nox

Chapter 60

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Duke Camelot would never expand the mining crew just to ease the burdens on workers.

She traced figures through the empty air, gripping an empty quill.

A single expert digger could pull out so much each day.

Quick mental math showed that every extra laborer hired for extraction would have yielded far beyond the shortfall in ore.

The records rang true for the true volume present, rather than any clerical error.

Without a trace of underground sales channels, they had let his justification slide earlier, lacking proof of any dealings.

No foreign buyers had snapped it up, either.

The Blue Falcon team had pushed forward steadily, exhausting every local pathway before turning to overseas leads, all while hunting obscure homegrown traffickers.

She turned the pages of the enclosed dossier with precision. Lucy was right—half her effort went to grasping the facts, the rest chasing any stray lead.

Fresh eyes often cracked enigmas that jaded ones missed entirely.

The grace period for settling in suited her fine, yet building rapport demanded speed, especially with ulterior motives in play. Any opening deserved a grab.

She yearned to deliver value after being handpicked for this role.

Clinging to novice fortune, she pored over the files with intense focus, though breakthroughs eluded her grasp.

Her new teammates showed relentless drive.

Rather than unearthing a path to resolution, she marveled at their thoroughness, covering every angle she might have chased herself. The Blue Falcon had left no stone unturned.

That approach fell flat.

Once she exhausted Lucy’s stack, she shelved her debut performance for later. Nothing fresh emerged beyond their ongoing probes.

Fresh mysteries would arise soon enough.

She pitched in on odd jobs to ease the load on harried staff. Her contributions felt substantial, yet lunch loomed distant still.

Around her, colleagues juggled feats of multitasking, scribbling with one hand while shuffling papers with the other.

Interrupting now to offer aid would shatter their rhythm.

Idle hands puzzled her next move.

Avoiding burnout had always anchored her ambitions, yet downtime gnawed strangely after years of constant motion.

Perched straight in her chair, she scanned the room before circling back to prior files.

Motion beat stagnation every time.

She drew the sidelined stack closer and dove in anew, treating each sheet like uncharted ground.

Her grasp of the affair had deepened since the first pass. Time-filling scrutiny now probed every overlooked corner with care.

Separate vaults held sensitive files, freeing her to summon references freely.

Unclear sections prompted her to retrieve prior finds from the sorting phase, stacking them nearby for cross-checks.

Redirecting her mind to puzzles felt invigorating beyond duty. She immersed herself like a storybook sleuth, musing on Duke Camelot’s tactics for vanishing the ore.

Pages flew under her fingers to test the spark.

It fit perfectly.

Blue Falcon probes rested on the premise of the duke offloading the haul.

Suppose it lingered right there in his domain.

No smuggling trail existed because the load never budged.

Extensive sweeps of Camelot lands turned up empty, leading them to presume destruction or export.

The pilfered quantity matched a full year’s output from the realm’s prime vein—the empire’s biggest—piling into a modest mound.

Such bulk seemed impossible to conceal from elite scrutiny, making disposal the logical verdict.

One spot could swallow that mass unseen.

If stashed locally at all, Camelot Castle harbored the sole viable nook.

The tale’s canon featured the duke fleeing via hidden tunnels, ditching kin as imperial guards closed in. Vivid details of his craven flight etched the hideaway’s position and entry into her memory.

A broad undercroft tunnel linked the fortress to an adjacent rise, spacious for several adults abreast.

That void could bury a mound of ore. Why hoard cumbersome weight begged questions, yet the theory held water.

Blue Falcon welcomed bold theories.

Solid proof remained essential for pitching it.

Relocation in crisis would prove simple from such a vault.

Ransacking the stronghold at random wasted effort without pinpointing the lair.

Revealing her otherworldly origins or novel-reading past life stayed off-limits.

A believable hook would launch the hunt efficiently. One sprang to mind.

She rose soundlessly and tracked down a messenger lad.

“Could you run this message to Constance in Finance?”

The slip requested Camelot Castle’s architectural blueprint.

Ancient fortresses often left imperial archives with layouts.

Forged from merged realms, the realm cataloged key sites meticulously.

Mapping the covert chamber would back her hunch.

She could frame it as suspecting castle concealments worth probing.

“It’ll work, though expect a wait.”

The boy accepted the note, gauging her patience. Inner palace exchanges flowed easy, but outbound items drew red tape.

“No rush—handle it at your pace.”

Pushing speed risked eyes. She offered a warm grin and treats, old habits from Finance days.

“Back before day’s end!”

Sweets clutched tight, he beamed his vow.

Swift delivery beat her loose timeline nicely.

She reclaimed her station and resumed the briefs.

Lunch bells tolled midway through.

Derek sprang alert, noon chime embodied. Staff peeled away in waves from their trance.

She timed her rise to blend seamlessly.

Beth, positioned remotest, hurried close on cue.

“Outer palace meals taste like cardboard, don’t they?”