The Tax Hound's Total Surrender
Tax audit. But Aila's composure ended right there. Muller's final arrow was the most horrific word in the trade city of Peluah—a death sentence for merchants.
[Special Tax Audit by the Market-Direct Tax Bureau]
"Haa... it's here. Honestly, even I'm tense about this."
Aila bit her lip, her face drained of color. Normally, she'd face it head-on, but a tax audit was a different beast. No matter how thriving the business or spotless the books, a determined auditor digging in could always find something. Accounting in this era was a messy mix of personal and company funds, with receipts going missing left and right.
And the inspector dispatched this time was the ruthless stickler known even in Peluah's Tax Bureau as the "Mad Hunting Dog."
"We need to match the cash flow in the vault right now. Where's the receipt for yesterday's wholesale payment? God, how do we prove the unit costs for all these machine parts?"
As Aila flailed in panic amid the pile of documents, I lightly tapped her shoulder.
"Calm down. You're my partner—handle selling outside brilliantly. I'll take care of the housework."
"How the hell are you gonna handle it? These are Peluah's top accountants crashing in!"
The next morning, the door to Golden Fleece's temporary accounting room burst open with a bang. Three men in black suits stormed in—the tax auditors.
"We are freezing all ledgers and the vault of the Carnoble Factory. Any single discrepancy found will result in immediate business suspension for tax evasion."
The lead auditor, the so-called "Hunting Dog" Gillian, flashed his glasses as he slammed a massive abacus and inkwell onto the table. His eyes burned with murderous intent to tear this arrogant upstart factory apart.
As Aila swallowed dryly and stepped behind me, I smiled leisurely and thumped down five thick leather-bound ledgers in front of them.
"Welcome, Auditor Gillian. Everything you're looking for is right here."
Gillian scoffed. No way could the books of a factory managing dozens, hundreds of workers and churning out astronomical volumes fit into just five volumes. There had to be gaping holes everywhere.
"Let's see Carnoble's grand scam, shall we?"
And he, Gillian, would be the one to expose it.
He opened the first ledger.
And just ten minutes later.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Gillian's fingers slowed on the abacus beads. Deep wrinkles furrowed his stern brow, and a bead of cold sweat trickled down his forehead.
"...What is this?"
What he faced wasn't the common single-entry bookkeeping used by merchants in this fantasy world. Single-entry just lists income and expenses. But Carnoble's method was different. Assets and expenses, liabilities and equity, revenue perfectly divided left and right—the flower of modern capitalism, the art of mathematics.
Double-entry bookkeeping.
"Revenue, raw cotton purchases, worker wages, depreciation on gears and belts, even transport margins on wholesale to external dealers. All categorized by item."
I explained leisurely, hands clasped behind my head.
"Remarkably, both sides balance perfectly—not a 0.01 percent error."
Gillian flipped through the second, third ledgers like a madman, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Wh-what's this line-by-line cost calculation?! The price of three drops of spinning oil and one worker's ten-minute wage broken down into the cost of weaving a single bolt of cloth?!"
"That's how you calculate the factory machines' precise net profit. Check the inventory rotation records too. FIFO principle—warehouse spoilage costs zeroed out."
"Then what about the 20 pounds of cotton lost to rats in the warehouse last week? You must've omitted it from the books!"
"Oh, that? Deducted as non-operating loss, reclassified as scrap material, recycled as sofa stuffing in the workers' lounge. Receipt and disposal details attached to page 72, bottom right of volume four. Not taxable."
"...!"
Gillian's glasses slipped down his nose.
Purchases, sales, loss tracking, fixed and variable costs perfectly separated. With every page, his sharp voice grew weaker, more subdued.
Concepts alien to this world's merchants, but to me—someone who'd lived mad on differential equations and engineering math in modern Korea—these numbers were basic weapons.
Numbers never lie.
"......"
After a grueling six-hour audit, Auditor Gillian listlessly set down his quill.
His eyes no longer those of a hunting dog. They held the reverence of a devotee before a perfect masterpiece.
"Auditor, find any hooks? I'm ready to sign the fine notice."
At my teasing question, Gillian rubbed his dry face and sighed deeply.
"This is... a revolution in accounting."
"Pardon?"
"In my life—no, since Peluah's Tax Bureau was founded—I've never seen ledgers this impeccably organized. Taxes flow transparently like water."
He stood, bowing deeply to me.
The arrogant auditor's total surrender.
"Agent Carnoble, forgive my suspicion. This ledger system is a textbook every Peluah guild must kneel and learn."
Three days later, an official document arrived from the Tax Bureau for Golden Fleece Guild and our factory.
Needless to say, no suspension or fines.
Aila read the paper with its golden seal, hands trembling.
The precise ledger entries and transparent, diligent tax compliance of the Carnoble Factory are hereby recognized in the name of the Peluah Commercial Council. Accordingly, simplified customs clearance procedures are granted for all large-scale wholesale shipments from said factory.
Customs high-pass. A golden ticket letting goods zip to foreign lands without inspection—an invincible free pass no merchant could buy.
Of course, the council had its calculations. The factory only produced cotton textiles, which had to be exported anyway. Minor procedures remained, but waiving them was a clear boon. Compensation for the intense audit, perhaps.
"Ha, haha... hahahaha!"
Aila burst into mad laughter, then clutched her forehead and collapsed onto the sofa.
"Hey, Elpanso. At this rate, I'm almost sorry for that pig bastard Muller."
"Why?"
"Why? The more he pulls all-nighters scheming to screw us... the safer we get! Fireproof certification, weavers' fervent support, ten-year warranties, and now Tax Bureau perks! Every attack just thickens our walls like crazy!"
She was right. Muller's trials had armored the Carnoble brand with unassailable trust.
I fiddled with the spring pendant on the desk and chuckled.
"Exactly."
My gaze had already moved past Muller's guild to the vast continental market.
"An ignorant fool who doesn't grasp the essence of rules and regulations shouldn't swing the system's blade recklessly. Or he'll lose his own wrist without realizing."
The grand domed hall of the Commercial Council. Right after Muller's orchestrated administrative barrage—fire safety, river rights, tax, weavers' guild petitions—had been utterly dismantled by Elpanso's flawless systems, only proving the factory's legitimacy.
The council chair, weary-faced, picked up the gavel.
"This concludes all allegations and petitions against the Carnoble Factory as baseless. If no further objections, this hearing is—"
"A moment, Chairman, please."
Bang, bang.
Just before the gavel fell. I raised my hand leisurely from the witness stand and stood.
Gazes from dozens of council merchants, gallery traders, and Muller gnawing his nails in the corner snapped to me.
"You still have the floor, Agent Elpanso?"
I bowed politely to the chairman.
"Yes. Since the esteemed Peluah Commercial Council has graciously proven our factory's perfection, I'd like to propose a major bill for Peluah's commercial advancement in return."
"A proposal...? Speak."
I glanced at Muller in the gallery, a smile playing on my lips.
The defense was over. Now, I'd seize the institutional blade he'd thrust at me—and slit his throat.
"I strongly request the enactment of a law mandating quality and specification labeling on all cotton textiles produced and circulated in Peluah."
The hall fell silent as if doused in ice water.
"Exact length and width per bolt, thread density, shrinkage rate on washing—all figures clearly marked on the cloth's end. If they mismatch actual specs, heavy fines and business suspension for the guild."
Murmurs erupted! Peluah's old-guard merchants shot up.
Leading them, Muller—pale moments ago—bellowed, belly jiggling, finger jabbing.
"Puhahaha! He's lost it! The wastrel's digging his own grave at last!"
Muller ranted at the councilors, veins bulging.
"Councilors! Cloth is handmade! Length stretches, width narrows with weaver skill, humidity, loom tension—it's natural!"
"Right! Muller's spot on!"
Craft guild masters nodded furiously.
Muller sneered triumphantly at me.
"No matter how fast your machines, how can you match cloth specs without a hair's error? Mismatch means shutdown? Ha! Shutting every Peluah textile guild? Or just yours first?"
Arrogance-born perfect delusion. I slowly raised the guillotine of mechanical engineering toward Muller's offered idiot neck.