Just as dawn broke, the word “exploitation” was picked from the lead type tray by a typesetter, set letter by letter into the front page.
The printing presses in Landon and Hastings Port started up simultaneously.
The cylinders rolled down, and the smell of ink mixed with steam, pouring out from the printing house of the 《Velen Industrial Post》.
Before the paperboys could even wake up the street corners, bundles of fresh newspapers were already loaded onto trains, mail carriages, and disaster relief supply wagons.
On the front page, a bold, black headline took up almost an entire column.
《Who Extinguished the Light of Hope in Hastings Port》.
One of these newspapers, with its ink still not fully dry, was brought into an armored carriage heading toward the West Coast.
“This is a really well-written article.”
Old Man Orphal shook open the newspaper, the pages nearly brushing against Cecil’s hat brim opposite him.
“Once this paper is published, those folks at Wayland are going to be absolutely furious!”
Cecil leaned back slightly to avoid it.
“This newspaper certainly has a lot of nerve.”
“Whose is it?”
“The Chester Consortium.”
Orphal paused mid-stroke as he stroked his beard.
“Then it’s no surprise.”
The Chesters and the Waylands had been feuding for over a decade.
From railways to shipyards, and then to municipal reconstruction projects, as long as one side submitted a bid, the other would stay up all night trying to find a flaw in the very ink on the paper.
Now that someone had handed them the hilt of a blade, they naturally wouldn't stop at just one stab.
Orphal lowered his head back down.
The report listed the lighthouse keepers' wages, delayed supplies, Wayland's internal official documents, and a list of keepers who had died over the past twenty-five years.
In the final photograph, within a cramped basement, that dried corpse sat stiffly on a chair, still maintaining the posture it had in life.
Some things didn't need the reporter to draw any further conclusions.
The typesetter had already set the word “exploitation” on the front page on behalf of those numbers.
The carriage passed by a relief station.
Those who had received the newspaper were already arguing in the queue.
Some gripped the paper, pointing at the wage figures on it and cursing Wayland for devouring people.
Others raised the relief vouchers in their hands, stiffening their necks to counter:
“At least they actually handed out food!”
The argument yielded no resolution.
The queue continued to move slowly toward the wooden crates filled with flour and coal.
An old sailor leaning on a cane passed by, suddenly stopping when he saw the photograph.
He didn't join the argument. He merely pressed his calloused finger against a name in the newspaper, staring at it for a long time before carefully folding the page and tucking it into his breast pocket.
Cecil watched through the carriage window for a moment.
A few days ago, when these people spoke of Wayland, many would still subconsciously associate it with the title of “protector of the port.”
Now, a crack had finally appeared in that layer of propaganda.
As for whether the crack would eventually widen or be patched up again by more relief food, that was not something a single report could decide.
“Unfortunately, Thomas’s people are also quick to react.”
Cecil withdrew her gaze and opened the briefing on her lap.
“Marcus Weaven, the head of Wayland Shipping in Hastings Port, has already admitted to administrative oversights in the lighthouse affairs.”
“He has suspended the supervisor in charge of lighthouse supplies, promised to raise the keepers' wages, and will re-evaluate the compensation for the deceased.”
“That was fast.”
Orphal gave a soft tsk.
“He admits to the evidence in the paper that's hardest to deny, and then dumps the rest of the blame on a single supervisor?”
“From the looks of it, yes.”
Wayland didn't deny the wages, the official documents, or the photographs of the deceased.
Denial would only keep everyone's eyes locked onto the evidence.
Marcus chose to admit the mistake, and instead reduced a systemic issue that had persisted for years into a mere administrative mishap caused by a supervisor failing to do his job.
The attitude was sincere.
The handling was swift.
They had even prepared someone to bear the brunt of the anger for the entire company.
“So this report probably won't be enough to block the authorization.”
Cecil closed the briefing.
“But it proves one thing—Wayland is not just an applicant, but also a clear interested party.”
“Prince Edric now has a reason to add conditions to the authorization bill.”
“Every lock we can add counts.”
Orphal folded the newspaper and looked out the window.
The buildings on both sides of the street gradually grew shorter, and a towering, grayish-white structure emerged from the morning mist of the West Coast.
Its windows were narrow and orderly, and a high wall was built on the side facing the sea.
It didn't look like a sanatorium.
It looked more like a testing ground trying its best to pose as a sanatorium.
“Trouble has been brewing here for more than just a day or two.”
Orphal stared at the building.
“Why are we only acting now?”
“On the night of the sea beast invasion, all tactical teams of the branch were pinned to the defensive line.”
Cecil pulled out another document.
“After that, we only had Oliver Brown's autopsy results and the testimony provided by Elias.”
“It was enough for surveillance, but not enough to search a fully licensed Wayland sanatorium that ostensibly only treats special patients.”
A blown-up corpse could only prove that Oliver had undergone modification, and Elias's testimony could only point to this place.
As long as there was no connection between the two that could be written into a disposal order, Wayland's lawyers could keep all suspicion locked outside the gates.
She paused.
“And... due to some special reasons.”
“I cannot submit the target to the dispatch desk.”
Once we requested carriages, withdrew equipment, and arranged field operations through the branch, the sanatorium's address and the time of the operation would appear in the dispatch logs.
Before they even stepped out of the door, the other side might have already started scrubbing the floors.
Not until the potion serial numbers in the Blue Sail Trading Company's ledgers matched up one-by-one with the sanatorium's patient list.
Not until the coroners confirmed that the spiritual circuits inside Oliver Brown's body had been artificially expanded.
The three originally unrelated clues had finally converged into one at this grayish-white building on the West Coast.
Those seemingly ordinary numbers in the ledger actually belonged to the registration sequence of the sanatorium's internal potions.
The patients on the list had no normal discharge records either.
Their names simply vanished from all registries starting from a certain day.
There were no death certificates.
Nor any records of transfer to other hospitals.
And just this morning, the investigators responsible for peripheral surveillance discovered that the sanatorium had begun moving its sealing equipment out.
So this time, on the surface, the task assigned for this operation was merely “transport of polluted materials on the West Coast.”
The real address was sealed within four orders set to unseal at specific times. Only when the convoy had departed from the branch and turned into the final street did the team captains find out where they were raiding.
“In short, acting earlier would have alerted the enemy.”
Cecil packed the documents away again.
“If we still don't act now, we'll just be helping them destroy the evidence.”
“However, the Wayland Shipping office still refuses to admit that they polluted Oliver's corpse.”
“We'll ask after we get inside.”
Orphal glanced at the approaching gate. He felt his student was hiding something from him, but he respected her plans.
“If the people inside are willing to answer properly, I'll do my best to let them finish what they have to say.”
Cecil cast a glance at her teacher.
“Teacher, we are going by the book today.”
“When have I ever not gone by the book?”
Cecil didn't answer.
The old man thought about it and didn't press further.
The armored carriage suddenly decelerated.
It wasn't just theirs.
A total of four armored carriages turned at the same moment, their heavy wheels splashing through puddles as they blocked the roads outside the sanatorium, the sewer entrance, and the seaside exit respectively.
The fourth tactical team did not charge toward the building; instead, they quickly set up devices around the outer walls to block the Origin Web channels.
Several figures flashed past the high windows of the sanatorium.
A moment later, a small side door next to the main gate was violently pushed open.
A decently dressed middle-aged man rushed out, the anger on his face thicker than the morning mist.
“What do you think you're doing?!”
He spread his arms, blocking the doorway.
“This is Wayland's private property!”
“It was a moment ago.”
Cecil gave Orphal a nod and stepped down from the carriage alone.
She pulled a multi-sealed official document from her trench coat and unfolded it before the man.
“Now, this is a pollution scene under the jurisdiction of the Seventh Agency.”
A pale blue spirituality lit up along the edges of the document, and the words “Pollution Disposal Order” emerged in the morning light.
“All personnel, cease any potential resistance!”
The administrator's face fell, and he reached out to snatch the document.
Before his fingers could even touch the edge of the paper, two investigators grabbed him from both sides and pinned him face-down onto the wet stone steps.
The tactical team bypassed him and headed straight for the main entrance of the sanatorium.
But that heavy iron door had already been locked from the inside.
Several investigators quickly took up positions in front of the door.
At the back of the team, a young investigator who had only recently joined the force gripped his short wand, his eyes shining as if he had finally reached the most exciting page of the training manual.
“Boss, do we kick the door down?”
Before the leading Sir Vere could speak, his deputy beside him turned around.
“What time do you think it is? Why would we kick the door?”
The deputy raised his cane.
“Watch closely, kid.”
A silver-blue rune flew from the tip of his cane and adhered to the center of the iron door.
【Knock Spell】.
Ordinarily, this spell could open anything locked in the world.
Needless to say for ordinary locks, even chests and cabinets enchanted with 【Arcane Lock】 could rarely hold out for more than a few breaths against it.
The light of the rune flowed along the gap of the door and seeped into the keyhole.
Several faint mechanical clicks echoed from inside the door.
The deputy raised his chin confidently.
Click.
The silver-blue glow suddenly went out.
The iron door didn't budge.
The deputy remained in his pose of holding up his cane, the composure on his face completely frozen.
He pushed the door gently again.
It didn't open.
Several investigators around him tactfully looked away in unison.
The deputy fell silent for a moment, looking at Sir Vere with a trace of embarrassment.
Sir Vere could barely hold back the twitch of his lips, which were already starting to curve upward.
He turned his head to look at the rookie beside him, who was already eager and raring to go.
“Now you can kick in the door.”
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