Chapter 66: Hidden Safe

The central table was a heavy piece of equipment made from solid iron and dark stone. It was used to melt down raw metals and shape the casings for magic cores.

However, when I ducked beneath the heavy iron frame and looked at the base of the central stone pillar supporting the forge, my Locksmith’s Eye highlighted a concealed iron panel embedded directly into the floor rock.

The iron panel was covered in a layer of soot and dark dust, making it look like a regular part of the stone foundation.

"A hidden floor safe," I said, wiping away the dark dust with my sleeve.

A small cloud of gray ash drifted into the air, making me cough slightly before the dark metal surface came into full view.

In the center of the iron panel sat a small, square keyhole. Surrounding the keyhole were four tiny, raised brass pins arranged in a diamond pattern.

I brought my magnifying loupe close to the keyhole to inspect the internal mechanism.

"A mechanical lock with anti-tamper needle springs," I analyzed, nodding approvingly. "Low level security lock. Whoever built this safe didn’t trust magic guards."

"And honestly, I cannot blame them," I added with a quiet chuckle. "Mages are notoriously terrible with physical keyholes. They usually try to force everything with mana and end up melting the tumblers."

This was a classic physical lock. It did not use mana inputs, lock spell runes, or blood seals. It relied entirely on precise mechanical tolerances and hidden spring traps designed to snap the tip of any improper key that entered the keyhole.

"If you use magic on a needle-spring lock, the thermal expansion triggers the trap instantly," I noted softly. "No wonder they left it behind in a hurry. They didn’t have time to pick it manually without the key."

"If that manager in the black suit tried to open this with his fancy spatial magic, the heat and spatial pressure would have fused the internal pins together," I reasoned out loud, tapping my chin thoughtfully. "He probably decided whatever was inside wasn’t worth five minutes of delicate work."

"Lucky for me, delicate work is my specialty," I murmured, taking a comfortable kneeling stance on the cold ground.

I pulled out my leather tool wrap from my magic pouch, rolling it open on the stone floor beside me.

The soft leather unrolled with a quiet rustle, revealing neat rows of polished steel picks, tension bars, and micro-mirrors resting in tailored cloth slots.

I selected my finest tools for this job, handling each piece with care. I picked a long, ultra-thin diamond-head pick forged from hardened steel, a medium-weight tension wrench, and a small brass mirror attached to a flexible iron wire.

I could not help but smile as I held the delicate tools in my hands. This was a thank you gift that Lady Silvia gave me. Duke Voulstridge didn’t know that his lovely wife spent a fortune to buy this for me.

I remembered how it happened just a few weeks ago at the manor. I was teasing her during afternoon tea about how high-ranking noble ladies probably didn’t know the difference between cheap street picks and artisan tools.

I told her that real locksmiths needed tools that wouldn’t bend under heavy spring pressure or snap when dealing with hardened steel traps.

She had just laughed and shaken her head at my bold attitude, telling me that I was far too young to be lecturing her on craftsmanship.

But the very next day, a velvet box arrived at my residence containing this custom set forged from high-density tempered steel. She had ordered it secretly from a master craftsman in the noble district just to prove a point.

"If the Duke knew how much gold she spent on this leather wrap, he would probably have a heart attack," I whispered with a faint grin, balancing the thin steel pick on my fingertip. "Thanks again, Lady Silvia. Your investment is about to pay off."

"Alright. Time to work," I whispered.

I slid the brass mirror into the keyhole first, angling it toward the upper pin chamber while holding a small light crystal above the frame.

Through the reflection in the mirror, I could see the internal layout clearly. Four upper driver pins, four lower key pins, and two thin copper trap needles resting right above the second tumbler slot.

"Double trap arrangement," I noted, studying the tiny reflection inside the keyhole. "If pin number two goes up too high, the trap needle drops into the binding shear line and snaps the keyhole shut forever."

"Simple, effective, and very unforgiving," I murmured, keeping my left hand steady.

Clink.

I inserted the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole, applying a tiny, delicate counter-clockwise pressure.

"Feel the spring resistance," I told myself gently, adjusting my finger until I felt the slight push of the internal springs. "Just enough force to hold the driver pins in place, but not enough to trigger the trap needles."

I slid the steel pick inside, gently pushing past the first pin.

The first pin had a loose spring, offering very little binding resistance. I pushed the diamond head against the bottom of the lower key pin, lifting it with steady pressure until it clicked.

Click.

The first driver pin lifted and set smoothly into the shear line.

"One down," I whispered, keeping my left hand completely still. "Now for the dangerous one."

"Now for the second pin..." I muttered, my right hand holding the pick with extreme steady precision.

The second pin was the dangerous one. It was resting right beneath the copper trap needle. If I lifted the pin too high or applied too much force, the spring would release, driving a steel needle straight into the keyhole and locking the entire mechanism permanently.

"Slow and steady," I cautioned myself. "Half a millimeter at a time."

Sweat beaded on my forehead, dripping down my cheek, but my hands remained completely still. My breathing slowed to a barely noticeable rhythm as I focused every bit of my attention on the tip of the pick.

I slid the flat edge of my pick beneath the second pin, lifting it by less than half a millimeter at a time.

I could feel the faint vibration of the copper trap needle resting right against the steel shaft of my pick. One slight tremor in my fingers would send the needle shooting down into the core.

Up. Just a tiny fraction.

Up again.

Click.

The second pin set. The copper trap needle twitched slightly, but stayed in its resting groove without springing.

I held my position for two full seconds, holding my breath while waiting to see if the spring would trip. Nothing happened.

I let out a soft breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

"Good lock," I whispered to the lock, wiping the sweat from my brow with my shoulder. "You almost got me there."

"Now let us finish the rest before my hands start shaking," I said softly, shifting my pick slightly to reach the back of the cylinder.

I moved to the third and fourth pins, lifting them swiftly and cleanly into place.

The third pin set with a crisp, clean metallic sound.

Click.

The fourth pin offered a bit of stubborn binding tension, but a light, steady tap of my diamond head pushed it right into the shear line.

Click.

CLACK!

The iron panel released its latch with a sharp, heavy thud. The thick iron lid popped upward by an inch, revealing a dark, dry compartment hidden beneath the stone floor.

I pulled my tools out, slid them back into my wrap, and lifted the heavy iron lid.

"Let us see what was worth hiding under two tons of stone," I whispered, peering down into the dark opening.

Inside the dark floor safe lay two items that had survived the cult’s thorough cleanup.

"Well, look at that," I whispered into the quiet shadows of the chamber. "The cleanup crew left behind the most important part."

The first was a thick, leather bound trade manifest, its edges slightly yellowed from age but completely untouched by fire.

The second item was a heavy, rectangular object wrapped tightly in oiled black cloth.

"They were in such a hurry to jump through that portal that they forgot the baseline rule of retreat," I murmured, blowing a thin dusting of soot off the leather cover. "Never leave your record books near a floor safe if you do not have time to pick the lock."

I reached inside and pulled both items out, placing them on the stone floor beside me.

The heavy leather manifest felt cold in my hands. The black cloth felt slightly slick from the protective oil smeared across its surface.

"Let us see what kind of numbers suit guy was keeping," I said, unbuckling the small brass clasp holding the book shut.

I opened the trade book first.

The pages were filled with neat, professional handwriting written in dark blue ink. It contained long lists of goods, shipping dates, and payment records spanning over two years.

"Whoever kept this accounting log had formal training," I noted, tracing my finger down the ruled lines. "This isn’t the messy handwriting of a fanatic like Miguel. This is standard corporate bookkeeping."

I turned through several pages, reading the entries out loud in a low whisper.

Subterranean Cores with a quantity of 150 and a status listed as Classified.

High Density Vials with a quantity of 40 and a status listed as Classified.

Unrefined Iron Core Molds with a quantity of 200 and an origin marked from the Royal Foundry.

My eyes narrowed as I read the last line.

"Unrefined iron core molds," I murmured, flipping through the remaining pages with increased speed. "That is not something you buy in a local market."

"Why would a local cult need two hundred core molds?" I asked myself, pausing at a page marked with financial totals. "You do not need two hundred molds unless you are running a full scale assembly line."

Every single shipment record, every cargo manifest, and every payment note was stamped with a small, official silver seal at the bottom of the page.

"And every single page has the same official seal," I added, examining the silver stamp with my magnifying loupe. "This wasn’t an informal agreement. This was a state sponsored ledger."

I reached for the second item, carefully unwrapping the oiled black cloth.

"Now let us see what needs this much oiled cloth to stay fresh," I muttered, peeling back the thick layers of dark fabric.

Inside was a heavy, unrefined magic core mold forged from the same dark silver alloy I had found in the stone crack earlier.

It was a precision tool used to cast the outer metallic shells for artificial magic cores before injecting them with energy.

"The weight is identical," I noted out loud, resting the metal block on my knee. "Dark silver alloy. Dense, heavy, and completely resistant to standard heat."

I turned the heavy mold over in my hands, bringing my magnifying loupe close to inspect the base.

Stamped deep into the dark silver metal was a sharp, detailed crest. A crowned shield flanked by two striking dragons, surrounded by an intricate border of unknown runes.

Beneath the crest were four bold, deeply engraved words.

ROYAL FOUNDRY OF VHALTRAR

I stared at the mark for a long moment, the pieces of the puzzle finally snapping into place inside my mind.

"Vhaltrar," I whispered, feeling the cold edge of the metal against my fingers.

It was not a local underground gang. It was not a rogue noble house playing with forbidden magic in secret.

Vhaltrar was the massive, aggressive militaristic empire situated directly across the eastern border of our kingdom. They were known for their advanced foundry engineering, their strict military discipline, and their long-standing desire to expand their territory.

"This isn’t an underground cult," I said softly, my voice echoing in the quiet chamber. "This is foreign military espionage."

"So that is why the suit guy was so confident," I realized out loud, shaking my head as the truth washed over me. "He wasn’t running a street religion. He was an officer managing an invasion prep."

The Black Circle, as they called themselves in high society, was just a proxy organization funded and equipped by the Kingdom of Vhaltrar.

"They used Miguel and his religious fools as useful meat shields," I reasoned, piecing together the full timeline. "Miguel thought he was serving some ancient dark god, but he was just buying imported military hardware from an enemy empire."

They were shipping military grade core molds into our kingdom, corrupting local subterranean monster cores with dark threads, and using desperate local nobles to trigger dungeon breaks and weaken our defenses from the inside.

"It is a brilliant strategy," I admitted grimly to the empty room. "Why march an army across the border when you can pay local nobles to collapse their own city streets from within?"

And the man in the black suit might not be a cult leader. He was more likely an officer or a high ranking operative sent from Vhaltrar to oversee the operation and clean up the evidence when things went wrong.

"That explains the tailored suit and the pocket watch," I muttered. "He wasn’t a fanatic. He was a professional auditor doing field checks on a military contract."

I looked down at the dark silver mold in my hands, feeling the cold weight of the metal.

"You guys really brought military grade cores into my neighborhood," I muttered, a cold smile forming on my face. "You turned my town into your experimental test site."

I carefully wrapped the dark silver mold back in its oiled cloth and stuffed it securely into my leather magic pouch alongside the trade ledger.

"Well, suit guy, you underestimated how much a locksmith pays attention to where a key was forged," I whispered, tightening the strap on my pouch.

This was the master key I needed. Duke Voulstridge and the Royal Court were looking for local traitors, but the real threat was coming from across the border.

"The Duke thinks he is dealing with greedy local barons," I said out loud, patting my pouch reassuringly. "When I hand him this ledger and this mold, the entire royal council is going to have to rethink their defense posture."

I stood up, dusting off my trousers, and looked toward the upper ventilation shafts near the ceiling.

It was time to get out of here before the assassins arrived to clean up the mess.