The Trash King's System

The Auditor's Arrival

Chapter 7: The Auditor's Arrival

Deyvok didn’t stop moving until he reached the relative, suffocating safety of his tenement room. He shoved a heavy, rusted locker against the door, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Every shadow in the room seemed to stretch and twist, turning into the silhouette of a man in a charcoal coat.

He slumped onto his bed, his palms still burning from the energy surge. The System flickered into existence, a harsh, neon-blue intrusion in the gloom.

[Warning: Mana exhaustion detected. Rest advised.]

"Shut it," Deyvok whispered, his voice cracking. He stared at his hands. The skin was red, blistered by the raw heat of his own manipulation. "I can't rest. Someone’s looking, aren’t they? That man—Varn—he knew. He knew exactly what I was."

He paced the small, cramped room, his boots scuffing the floorboards. Outside, the city hummed with its usual mechanical misery, but for the first time, the sound felt like a closing trap.

*

In the heart of the District Bureau, the lights were clinical and biting. Caedrik Morn stood over a heavy, durasteel workbench, his eyes fixed on a single component held within a diagnostic cradle. It was a stabilizer housing, meant for a frontline kinetic projector.

To the untrained eye, it was just a piece of military-grade hardware. To Caedrik, it was a mystery.

"Report," Caedrik said, his voice clipped and precise.

A technician hovered nearby, clutching a data-pad. "The alloy density is off-the-charts, sir. It’s not factory-standard. Whoever cast this didn't use a foundry. They used… something else."

Caedrik leaned in, his gloved finger tracing the faint, crystalline ripples on the surface of the metal. "Improvisation. I haven't seen a signature this unrefined yet this potent in twenty years. This didn't come from the official supply chain. It was cooked in a gutter."

"Sir, the armory logs show a massive influx of these components over the last forty-eight hours," the technician muttered. "If they’re not from the standard suppliers, where are they coming from?"

Caedrik straightened his coat, his eyes turning cold. "That is what we’re going to find out. Start by checking the local smithies in the Black Sector. If someone is forging high-grade alloys in a scrap-pit, they have to be sourcing the raw iron from somewhere. Find the smith who’s been taking in the most volume."

"And if they refuse to talk?"

Caedrik looked at the technician, his expression flat. "Then they’ve clearly got something worth hiding, don't they? Bring them in. I want the source, not the middleman."

*

Qorven’s workshop was silent, save for the rhythmic dripping of a leak somewhere in the rafters. The smith was busy cleaning his workbench when the door crashed open. He didn't even look up.

"I told you, Zarek, I’m not done with the batch!" Qorven shouted, waving a soot-covered rag. "Get out and wait for the signal."

"I’m afraid I’m not Zarek," a voice replied—cool, measured, and utterly devoid of the gang leader’s swagger.

Qorven froze. He looked up to see a man in a crisp, dark uniform standing in the doorway. The city’s Auditing Bureau logo was pinned neatly to his lapel.

"Auditors," Qorven breathed, his face draining of color. "I haven't done anything. I’m just a smith."

Caedrik Morn stepped into the workshop, his boots clicking with terrifying rhythmic precision on the floorboards. "A smith who recently began producing high-grade alloy components for the local military armories. That’s an impressive feat for a man with a bellows from the last century."

"I—I don't know what you’re talking about," Qorven stammered, his eyes darting toward the back room.

Caedrik noticed the shift instantly. He walked over to the anvil, picking up a stray filing of metal with a pair of tweezers. "This is very clean, Qorven. Almost beautiful. Do you know what happens to people who divert military-grade assets into the black market?"

"I didn't steal anything!" Qorven pleaded, his voice cracking. "A kid brought them to me. I just refined them. I didn't know they were illicit."

"A kid," Caedrik repeated, his voice dropping to a smooth, dangerous whisper. "A boy, living in the pits, producing weapons-grade materials. Tell me, what’s his name?"

Qorven hesitated, his hands trembling. If he spoke, he was dead. If he stayed silent, the Auditor would tear the shop apart until he found the answer.

"Rhamelis," Qorven whispered. "Deyvok Rhamelis. He lives in the tenement block near the old vent shafts."

Caedrik nodded once, a gesture of cold satisfaction. "Thank you for your cooperation, Qorven. I suggest you close this shop. You won't be needing it anymore."

*

Deyvok was frantically stuffing the last of his belongings into a worn canvas bag when he felt it—a shift in the air. The System erupted with a crimson-hued warning.

[Critical Threat Detected: Government Auditor. Distance: 50 meters.]

"No," Deyvok gasped, dropping the bag. He rushed to the window, peering through the grime-streaked glass. Below, a black transport vehicle was parked in the alley, its engines humming with a low, ionizing growl. A man in a dark coat was stepping out, looking up at the building with the detached interest of an executioner.

"They found me," Deyvok muttered, his mind spinning. "How? Qorven. That old fool."

He had no time to mourn. He grabbed the satchel, threw on his hood, and moved toward the fire escape. He had to burn everything. He reached into his pocket, gripping the mithril shard. Its violet pulse was faint, struggling against the pressure of his own fear.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound at his door was authoritative, measured, and final.

"Deyvok Rhamelis," a voice called out from the hall. It was the same voice he had heard in the workshop, echoing through the thin walls. "I am Auditor Caedrik Morn. Open the door, or I will have the lock removed for you."

Deyvok didn't answer. He scrambled onto the fire escape, the rusted metal groaning under his weight. He didn't look back at the room that had been his home for three years.

"I’m done," Deyvok whispered, his voice lost in the industrial roar of the city. "I’m not staying to be a part of their machine."

He dropped from the ladder, his boots hitting the refuse-strewn alleyway with a muffled thud. He sprinted into the darkness, his lungs screaming as he ran deeper into the maze of the city. He didn't know where he was going, only that the Auditor was behind him, and the life he had tried to build was already turning to ash.

Behind him, the heavy door to his room groaned under a kinetic charge, the frame splintering into the air.

"Empty," Caedrik’s voice echoed from the room above, sharp and annoyed. "The bird has flown. Check the perimeter. He won't have gone far."

Deyvok ducked behind a stack of crates, his pulse drumming in his ears. He wasn't just a supplier anymore. He was a fugitive. And as he stared into the dark, labyrinthine spra

wl of the Under-City, he knew the real climb—the one for his life—had only just begun.