The merchant's horse lathers sweat onto the cobblestones, flanks heaving from a hard two-day ride. Dust clings to the man's travel cloak as he slides from the saddle, legs shaking with exhaustion.
"You're the one they call the Truth-Counter?" His voice cracks on the last word.
Kenji looks up from his morning calculations, ink still wet on parchment covered in grain distribution models for Ashvale's recovered surplus. The scratch of his quill stops mid-equation. "I'm a forensic auditor specializing in systematic fraud detection."
The merchant's weathered face goes blank, mouth slightly open.
Kenji sets down his quill with a soft sigh, watching the ink pool at the tip. "Yes. I count truths."
The story that unfolds over the next hour carries the stench of familiar corruption—a guild master skimming collective trade funds using enchanted scales. But there's a twist that makes Kenji's pulse quicken with professional interest.
"The scales lie to your eyes, but the weight feels true in your hands," the merchant explains, rubbing callused palms together. "Certified by the Trade Authority, blessed by guild priests, sealed with verification magic that glows blue when activated. How do you question divine approval?"
Kenji's fingers drum against the wooden table—a rapid tattoo of calculation. "Divine approval follows mathematical principles. Magic can fool the senses, but it can't fool proper documentation."
Before he can accept the case, Henrik's boots thunder up the cottage steps. The door slams open, bouncing against the stone wall.
"Royal messenger." Henrik's chest rises and falls heavily. "This morning. Official inquiry about Thorne."
The royal dispatch crinkles between Kenji's fingers—thick parchment that smells of wax seals and court perfume. But underneath the florid language praising his "diligent service," something cold lurks in the formal phrasing. *Your cooperation in concluding this matter expeditiously would be... appreciated.*
"Bureaucratic intimidation." Kenji sets the letter down, noting how his hand remains perfectly steady. "They're hoping official pressure discourages further investigation."
"And when that doesn't work?"
Kenji has traced enough corporate corruption to recognize the pattern. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "Bribes. Character assassination. Then direct action."
The prediction proves accurate by afternoon.
The well-dressed stranger who arrives moves like money—soft leather boots that whisper against stone, silk doublet that catches afternoon light, rings that click softly against each other when he gestures. Everything about him screams expensive discretion.
"I represent interested parties," he says, voice smooth as aged wine, "who wish to compensate you for your... discretion... regarding certain tax collection irregularities."
Five hundred gold crowns. The stranger places the authorization on Kenji's table with the reverent care of a priest handling holy relics. The parchment practically glows with official seals and elegant script.
Kenji picks up the document, feeling its weight—heavy paper, expensive ink, the slight raised texture of embossed seals. "Fascinating. Standard settlement ratio—roughly eighteen percent of recovered assets."
The stranger's confident smile falters at the corners.
"If you can afford five hundred gold crowns to suppress evidence, the underlying fraud scheme must be worth at least ten times that amount." Kenji continues examining the authorization, noting the particular shade of royal blue ink used for the amount figures.
The stranger's manicured fingers twitch against his doublet. "That's... we didn't intend to communicate..."
"Nevertheless, it's valuable data." Kenji reaches for his quill, the steel nib scratching against parchment as he makes notes. Each stroke echoes in the suddenly quiet room. "Large-scale bribery attempts indicate coordinated criminal enterprise. Thorne was clearly one node in a distributed network."
"Sir." The stranger's voice has developed an edge, like silk stretched too thin. "Perhaps you don't understand the gravity—"
"I understand perfectly." Kenji doesn't look up from his notes, the scratching of his quill relentless. "You represent parties profiting from systematic tax fraud. Standard criminal response to exposure."
When the stranger leaves, his silk boots no longer whisper—they strike the stones with sharp, angry clicks that fade into the distance like a countdown.
That evening, as candlelight flickers across pages of documentation, Kenji realizes his situation has transformed. The tallow candle sends shadows dancing across columns of numbers, making them seem to writhe and shift.
"Mathematical implications are fascinating," he tells Henrik over a dinner of bread and cheese that tastes like sawdust in his mouth. "Each successful audit increases both reputation and risk exposure exponentially."
Henrik tears his bread into smaller and smaller pieces. "In normal words?"
"I'm good at catching thieves. Now other thieves want to stop me."
"And your plan?"
Outside, footsteps echo on cobblestones—another messenger bringing requests for audit services. Three villages, two merchant guilds, one noble house. The sound of approaching boots seems to multiply in the darkness.
"The same way I've always handled systematic fraud." Kenji stares at the growing pile of requests, each one crackling with the promise of danger. "Follow the numbers to the source."
Henrik's knife scrapes against his wooden plate. "You realize they'll come for you."
"They're already coming." Kenji touches the royal dispatch, still lying where he'd left it. The parchment feels cold under his fingertips. "The question is whether I can build something strong enough to survive their arrival."
---
Dawn brings Elena, clutching a slate so tightly her knuckles have gone white. Crude calculations cover every inch of the surface—grain distributions, silver conversions, tax variance analyses in handwriting that shakes with nervous energy.
"Master Truth-Counter." The words tumble out in a breathless rush. "I've been working on the numbers."
Kenji looks up from his morning review to see a young woman trembling with determination. Ink stains darken her fingertips like bruises, and her clothes smell of mill dust and spent candles—the scent of someone who's worked through the night.
"I'm not a master of anything. I'm a certified—"
"You caught Thorne." Her voice cracks with intensity. "You made the numbers tell the truth."
Elena, daughter of Willem the late miller. Her slate reveals calculations that are elementary but methodical. More importantly, her eyes hold the gleam of someone who's glimpsed a larger pattern.
"I've been tracking discrepancies for years." She traces her finger along the numbers, leaving smudges on the slate. "Never understood what they meant until I watched you work. These numbers—they're everywhere. Every transaction, every tax collection, every guild payment. They're all connected, aren't they?"
Kenji examines her work more carefully. The methodology is crude, but the logic cuts straight to essential truth. His pulse quickens—this isn't just enthusiasm. It's genuine analytical thinking.
"You want to learn audit techniques?"
"I want to learn to make liars tell the truth." Her grip on the slate tightens until her knuckles crack.
The phrasing is unsophisticated, but it captures something most professionals miss. Numbers don't just reveal fraud—they compel honesty from systems designed to deceive.
"Basic training begins with transaction flow analysis."
What follows tests every teaching skill Kenji never knew he possessed. The cultural gap yawns between them like a chasm.
"Variance analysis involves calculating standard deviation from expected values."
Elena's face goes as blank as unwritten parchment.
"When numbers don't match what they should be..." Kenji tries again, watching her expression carefully, "...someone's lying."
Her eyes widen. "Oh! Like when Father's grain counts never matched what the tax collectors recorded?"
The breakthrough comes when Kenji translates abstract concepts into concrete mill operations.
"Track grain through processing. Input versus output, accounting for efficiency losses." He draws rough diagrams on her slate, chalk dust coating his fingers. "Significant discrepancies indicate..."
"Someone's stealing!" Understanding blazes across Elena's face like sunrise.
"Precisely. Now apply that principle to tax collection, guild fees, trade tariffs..."
By afternoon, Elena has grasped fundamental audit concepts. Her questions reveal intuitive systems thinking that impresses Kenji despite her limited formal education.
"Auditor Kenji." She catches herself using the formal title, cheeks flushing. "That merchant with the false scales—could we trace where the enchantment originates?"
"Explain your reasoning."
"Magical fraud requires magical expertise. Someone created those deceptive scales. If we could identify the source..." Her voice trails off, uncertain.
Kenji pauses in his note-taking. She's independently discovered upstream forensic analysis—following evidence to identify criminal networks.
"That's sophisticated investigative thinking."
"Is it good?" Hope and uncertainty war in her voice.
"It's excellent. You're thinking like an investigator."
That evening, as Elena practices calculations by guttering candlelight, Henrik brings news that makes the temperature in the room seem to drop.
"Three more audit requests today. Also word from the capital—incident at the Royal Treasury. Officials asking pointed questions about revenue shortfalls." His voice carries an undertone of worry that makes Kenji's stomach clench.
"Systematic fraud creates cascade effects. One exposed node destabilizes connected operations."
"And that's good?"
Kenji watches Elena working through exercises, her young face illuminated by flickering flame. Determined, vulnerable, genuinely excited about exposing mathematical deception. The sight fills him with equal measures of pride and terror.
"Depends on their response. Criminal organizations under pressure sometimes become more dangerous." His hand moves to the royal dispatch, fingers tracing its edges. "Henrik, increase security around the village. Elena's training will take time, and we may receive visitors who don't appreciate educational initiatives."
"What kind of visitors?"
Outside, wind rattles the shutters with increasing violence. Storm clouds mass on the horizon, black against the dying light. In the distance, the sound of hoofbeats echoes—too many horses, moving too fast for ordinary travel.
Kenji closes his notebook, the sound sharp as a blade. One student recruited, methodologies transferred, analytical thinking cultivated. But already the shadows seem to press closer, and every sound from the darkness could herald the arrival of those who profit from mathematical lies.
"The kind who prefer their ledgers to remain unbalanced." He blows out the candle, plunging them into darkness. "And who have significant resources to ensure that preference is respected."
The hoofbeats grow closer, accompanied by the jingle of mail and weapons. Elena's chalk scratches against slate in the darkness—the sound of revolution beginning, even as its enemies gather outside.
Kenji's mathematical revolution is about to face its first real test. And in the darkness, he's no longer certain the numbers will be enough to save them.