The silence of my cottage was no longer peaceful. It was the silence of a command center before a decisive strike. The uneaten loaf of sourdough on my table was no longer just bread; it was a symbol, a reminder of what was at stake. My rage had cooled from a white-hot inferno to a cold, crystalline focus. This was no longer about emotion. It was about logistics.
Viscount Scribehold was a problem. Problems had solutions. My solution involved a three-phase operation, meticulously planned in the limitless databank of my mind.
Phase One: Infiltration.
Time: 02:17 AM.
The world outside my cottage was a study in monochrome, bathed in the pale light of a crescent moon. I stood just beyond the tree line, looking at Scribehold Manor in the distance. It was exactly as my appraisal had described: a pompous, overgrown stone wedding cake of a building, radiating self-importance even in its sleep.
I activated my tools.
'Absolute Stealth.'I became a vacuum, a hole in the world. The night insects stopped chirping as I passed. The dew on the grass didn't bend under my weight.
'Ultimate Appraisal.'The manor lit up in my mind like a schematics diagram. I saw the two guards patrolling the main gate, their boredom a tangible aura. I saw the dog asleep in the kennel. I saw the faint, shimmering weakness in the alarm ward on the eastern garden wall—a sloppy enchantment where the mana flow was interrupted by a creeping ivy vine.
This wasn't a heist. It was a quality inspection. And the product was failing miserably.
I didn't approach the gate. I didn't scale the walls. I simply used 'Instant Transmission.'
The world turned. One moment, I was in the cool night air of the forest. The next, I was standing in the shadowy, rose-scented confines of the manor's eastern garden, directly inside the compromised ward. The transition was so seamless that not a single leaf stirred. I was a ghost who didn't need to pass through walls.
Phase Two: Acquisition.
Time: 02:23 AM.
The interior of the manor was opulent and tasteless, a monument to wealth without wisdom. Gilded portraits of frowning ancestors stared down from the walls. I moved through the halls like a draft, my [Absolute Stealth] making me less substantial than the dust motes dancing in the moonlight slanting through the windows.
My destination was the Lord's Study. Second floor, west wing. The door was locked. A heavy, expensive-looking lock. I appraised it. [Masterwork Iron Lock. Mechanism: Standard Pin-Tumbler. Weakness: The keyhole.] I could have picked it with a thought, manipulating the pins with a sliver of [Mirage Crafting]. But that was inelegant. Why manipulate the lock when I could simply redefine the concept of 'door'?
I focused on the space occupied by the solid oak door. Then I focused on the same space, but without the door. 'Store.'
The door vanished, leaving a perfectly door-shaped hole in the wall. I stepped through into the study. The room smelled of old leather, cheap port, and paranoia.
The hidden wall safe was behind a truly hideous painting of a Viscount Scribehold from a few generations past, a man with a face like a startled walrus. I appraised the safe. [Combination Lock, 6 digits. Mechanism: Mechanical. Bypass method: Viscount's birthday, as per his inflated sense of self-importance.]
A quick cross-reference with my appraisal of the Viscount himself—[Date of Birth: 34th of Rains, 342]—gave me the code: 340342. I didn't spin the dial. I simply willed the locking mechanism to align with those numbers. A soft click echoed in the silent room.
I opened the safe.
Inside were stacks of gold coins, a few pieces of mediocre jewelry, and a stack of ledgers. The gold was irrelevant. The ledgers were the prize.
I pulled them out. 'Ultimate Appraisal.'
The data flooded into me, a river of corruption and embezzlement.
[Object: Private Ledger of Viscount Theron Scribehold]
Content:Detailed records of embezzled tax revenues, bribes accepted from merchant guilds, skimmed funds from the royal infrastructure budget, and a list of "acquired" properties, including The Crusty Loaf, listed under "Pending Acquisitions."
Evidence Level:Conclusive. Incriminating.
Hidden Feature:A coded section detailing secret payments to a known crime syndicate in the capital for "enforcement services."
It was more than I could have hoped for. It wasn't just proof of the bakery shakedown; it was a comprehensive self-indictment for a dozen capital crimes. This wasn't a scalpel; it was a tactical nuke.
I stored the ledgers in my [Infinite Inventory]. Then, as an afterthought, I stored the gold and jewelry as well. Not for profit. As evidence. And maybe a little for petty revenge. The safe was now a hollow, empty shell.
But simply taking the evidence wasn't enough. I needed to send a message. I needed to make the Viscount understand that he wasn't just being outmaneuvered; he was being erased by a force he couldn't comprehend.
I looked at the ugly painting. An idea, beautiful in its petty absurdity, came to me.
I used [Mirage Crafting]. But I didn't create an illusion. I altered reality. I reached into the painting itself and, with the precision of a neurosurgeon, I gave the startled walrus-faced Viscount a magnificent, brightly colored clown nose. Then, I added a single, perfect, curly red clown wig.
It was a masterpiece.
Phase Three: Misdirection and Delivery.
Time: 02:41 AM.
I stood in the study, the mission accomplished. But the final step was the most delicate. I couldn't just drop the ledgers on the captain of the guard's desk. That would be too direct. It would lead to an investigation, and while I was confident they could never trace it to me, investigations were messy. They created ripples. Ripples were the enemy of a quiet life.
No, this required a more subtle touch. A political solution. I needed a rival. Someone who would benefit from Scribehold's downfall and have the power to make it happen quickly and quietly.
My appraisal of the local noble landscape provided the answer: Baroness Eva Sharpe, a shrewd, ambitious woman whose lands bordered Scribehold's. My appraisal noted a long-standing, bitter feud over water rights and a stolen trade contract. She would be… motivated.
I teleported from the study to the roof of the manor, then instantly to the woods outside the walls of Sharpehold, the Baroness's estate. Her manor was smaller, neater, and better defended. The wards were actually competent.
No matter. I didn't need to go inside.
I focused on the Baroness's private study, a room I could clearly visualize through appraisal. I then created a [Mirage Crafting] projection, a simple, non-corporeal image of a featureless, grey courier. The projection appeared in her study, holding the stack of ledgers. It placed them neatly in the center of her desk, on top of her own paperwork.
Then, the projection spoke in a neutral, synthesized voice I pulled from the memory of a text-to-speech program from my old world.
"A gift. For the benefit of the realm. Use it wisely."
The projection then vanished. The ledgers, however, were very real. I had teleported them directly from my inventory onto her desk the moment the projection placed them.
It was perfect. She would have the evidence. She would assume it was from a anonymous informant within Scribehold's household or a spymaster playing a deeper game. She would move against him with ruthless efficiency to secure her own power, never knowing the true source was a man who just wanted to be left alone with his bread.
My work was done. I teleported back to my cottage. The entire operation, from infiltration to delivery, had taken less than thirty minutes. I was back in my chair before the moon had moved a noticeable degree in the sky.
I sat there, in the profound silence, and waited for the dawn.
---
The news broke two days later.
It started as a rumor in the market, a hushed whisper about tax collectors from the capital being seen at Scribehold Manor. Then, by midday, it was a torrent. Royal guards had placed the manor under seal. Viscount Scribehold had been arrested in a spectacular, screaming fit of rage, dragged from his home in his nightshirt. The charges were a laundry list of corruption, embezzlement, and treason.
The town of Maplewood buzzed with the scandal. But the most delicious piece of gossip, the detail that was repeated in every tavern and around every well, was about the painting.
"He had a clown nose!" a wide-eyed stable boy was telling anyone who would listen. "A big red one! And the wig! The guards said he was screaming about a ghost, a ghost that defaced his ancestors!"
I heard it all from my usual spot in the periphery, a faint, satisfied smile on my face. The "Ghost of the Treasury" had entered local legend.
I saved my visit to the bakery for the afternoon, when the initial frenzy had died down. The bell chimed, and the smell of bread was once again pure, untainted by fear.
Elara was behind the counter. She wasn't just smiling; she was beaming, a weight lifted from her shoulders so profound it made her look ten years younger. When she saw me, her eyes lit up.
"Bob! Have you heard? It's a miracle!"
"I heard some rumors," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "Something about the Viscount?"
"He's gone! Arrested!" she said, practically bouncing on her toes with glee. "They say Baroness Sharpe produced evidence! Ledgers! He'd been stealing from the crown for years! And the funniest part…" she leaned in conspiratorially, "…they say someone broke into his manor and painted a clown nose on his grandfather's portrait! Serves the miserable old crook right!"
She laughed, a sound of pure, unburdened joy. It was the best sound I'd heard in this world or the last.
"That is funny," I agreed, a genuine smile touching my lips.
She wrapped my loaf with her usual care, but her movements were light, dancing. "It's like a weight has been lifted from the whole town. That man was a blight." She handed me the bread, and her expression softened. "And you… you stood up to his thugs when no one else would. Thank you, Bob."
"I just got angry," I mumbled, looking down at the counter, playing my part.
"Well, your anger is a powerful thing," she said, her voice warm and knowing. She didn't press. She just understood.
As I left the bakery, loaf in hand, I saw Lily across the street, talking with Captain Miles. Her eyes met mine, and she gave me a small, thoughtful nod. There was no accusation in her gaze, only a deep, probing curiosity. She was adding another data point to her mental file on Bob. The quiet man who was nearby when thugs were humiliated, and when corrupt nobles miraculously fell from grace. The pattern was forming, and she was sharp enough to see it.
I didn't mind. Let her be curious. As long as she didn't have proof, my peace was secure.
I walked back to my cottage, the sun warm on my back. The sourdough in my hand felt light. The world felt right. I had done it. I had defended my sanctuary without ever throwing a punch or casting a spell in the open. I had used my powers like a surgeon's scalpel, not a warrior's club. I had been a ghost, a whisper, a correcting force in the ledger of the world.
Back inside my cottage, I broke off a piece of the bread. The crunch was perfect. The flavor was sublime. It tasted of victory. Not the loud, celebratory victory of a hero, but the quiet, deep satisfaction of a problem solved, a balance restored.
I had faced a threat to my peace and I had annihilated it from the shadows. The Ghost of the Treasury had struck, and all was right with the world.
For now.