The Losers

Crash!

A sharp, brittle sound rang out as the teacup shattered into pieces and scattered across the floor.

"Just how did you handle this that it has come to such a disaster?!"

The voice of Queen Margaret—current Queen of Phanelia and birth mother of the Third Prince—echoed through the reception chamber, thick with irritation.

All her usual haughty poise had vanished; her face was twisted into something ugly with rage.

The target of that fury knelt before her: Jerome, commander of the Rose Knights, the Third Prince's personal guard and one of the kingdom's knight orders.

"I have no excuse, Your Majesty. I never imagined the First Prince would commit such a reckless act..."

"I have no interest in excuses! You failed to stop a single First Prince and let the Chancellor snatch the King's person away from us! Because of you, Commander, our entire plan is on the verge of collapse!"

Under the Queen's scolding, Jerome broke out in a cold sweat and fidgeted in place.

Just as her glare seemed ready to kill him where he knelt, a laughter-tinged voice drifted to her ear.

"Hoho. Please calm yourself, Your Majesty. Wrinkles will form on that lovely face of yours."

The man lounging in the seat of honor, leisurely sipping tea while watching the Queen's outburst, was Count Carlyle—the Holy Empire's envoy currently residing in the kingdom.

"Count Carlyle. Does this look like a situation in which I can calm myself? The rice is already cooked and ash has fallen into the pot!"

"Raging over what has already happened will change nothing. Losing one card from your hand does not mean everything is finished, does it? Hohoho."

At the Count's easy tone, Queen Margaret forced her agitated breathing back under control.

He was right. It was not over yet.

"Haa... Commander. What is the current state of the First Prince who caused that mad spectacle?"

When the Queen asked in a colder voice, Jerome flinched and delivered his report.

"He returned to the Lily Palace that day and has not taken a single step outside since. According to the rumors, his wounds have worsened and he is bedridden."

A sly smile crept across Count Carlyle's lips as he listened.

"Hmm... Perhaps none of this was the First Prince's own will at all. It may well have been the scheming of that old man, Marquis Gregory."

"The Marquis's scheming?"

"Think about it rationally. A First Prince who has spent his entire life in hiding suddenly performing such a reckless act? It makes no sense. Far more plausible that the cunning old fox caught wind of something and used the First Prince as a front to seize the King's person, wouldn't you agree?"

Carlyle's sharp analysis made Queen Margaret's eyes waver.

"Th-then isn't that dangerous? If the Marquis discovers that we laid hands on the King...!"

If that truth came to light, the Third Prince's succession would be the least of their worries—they might not even keep their own lives.

Watching the Queen's face drain of color, the Count smiled with his eyes.

"Rest easy. Even if he has caught on, what of it? There is no evidence."

"No evidence...?"

"The secret arts employed by the priests are not some common poison. No trace of them will ever be found in the King's body. If he dares accuse us without proof, that itself would be high treason—an insult to the Holy Empire. The Marquis will not open his mouth lightly."

Only then did Queen Margaret's rigid shoulders loosen; she let out a breath of relief.

But the relief was short-lived. Nothing had actually been resolved, and she pressed the Count again, irritation rising once more.

"Even if we have weathered the immediate crisis, the fact remains that we have lost the King's person to them."

Annoyance returned to her voice.

"As long as Marquis Gregory is standing guard, there is nothing we can do to the King."

At that, Count Carlyle gently set his teacup down on the table.

Clink.

"There is no need to be so anxious, Your Majesty. As it happens, a most 'distinguished guest' from our homeland is scheduled to arrive."

"...A distinguished guest?"

"His Grace the Bishop of our Holy Order is personally making the journey."

Bishop.

The two syllables resonated through the reception chamber, and Jerome's shoulders, still pressed to the floor, twitched.

A Bishop of the Holy Empire.

A being even a nation's king could not treat lightly.

"Th-the Bishop himself is coming?!"

Queen Margaret's eyes flew wide with rapture.

Count Carlyle nodded.

"No matter that he is Marquis Gregory, how could he dare stand in the way when His Grace the Bishop himself intends to preside over a sacred rite?"

The Count's eyes narrowed.

"Ahh...!"

A cry of delight escaped the Queen's crimson lips.

The Count was right.

Before the Empire's authority, a mere marquis of a single kingdom was nothing but a paper tiger.

"We can sweep that insolent old fox aside in an instant!"

A cruel smile bloomed on the face that moments earlier had been filled with irritation.

Having recovered her confidence, the Queen immediately issued orders to Jerome.

"Listen well, Commander. Starting tomorrow, withdraw every eye and ear we have planted on that worthless First Prince. Instead, you will thoroughly monitor every move Marquis Gregory makes."

"It shall be done. And... Your Majesty..."

Jerome hesitated, then carefully opened his mouth again.

"What of the knight currently imprisoned in the underground dungeon by the Marquis's order?"

A Rose Knight who had been dragged away on the charge of drawing his sword against the First Prince.

Though the man had caused an incident, he was a junior knight who had only recently come under Jerome's command, and the commander could not help but care.

The Queen covered her mouth with a hand and looked down on him coldly.

"Commander. Must I teach you even such trivialities myself?"

"...Pardon?"

"A dog that cannot even perform its role properly must be disposed of. How else will the other dogs learn their lesson?"

The death sentence was handed down with casual ease.

Jerome's clenched fists trembled faintly.

However grave the mistake, the price of loyalty was to be discarded like a consumable—death.

So in the end I too am nothing more than a tool to be thrown away the moment my usefulness ends...

Jerome bit his lip hard.

Rage and regret filled his eyes, yet there was nothing he could do right now.

"...Understood."

After Jerome departed—

"Ohohoho!"

—the Queen's bone-chilling laughter rang through the reception chamber, and the dark shadow creeping toward the kingdom grew even denser.

When Evan, who had lain unconscious on his bed for two full days, finally awoke, the course of action he took left everyone in the Lily ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Palace dumbfounded.

The first change was the menu.

"Your Highness. Do you mean to say you intend to eat... all of this?"

Walter asked, eyes round with shock.

The table was piled high with steaks still dripping blood.

The original First Prince had hated the smell of blood and eaten only vegetables and fruit.

Yet now he was shoving raw, bloody hunks of meat into his mouth without the slightest hesitation.

"To replace this rotting carcass, even this is not enough."

He looked like a wounded wolf tearing into beast flesh to replenish itself for survival.

Evan's eccentricities did not end there.

The man who had once buried himself in the library with nothing but books now appeared on the training grounds.

"Huff... huff... koff!"

Thud.

For all his bold entrance, after a single lap of the grounds his legs gave out and Evan collapsed onto the dirt.

"Y-Your Highness!"

Startled, Emilia came running with a towel in hand.

"Stand aside."

Evan ruthlessly brushed away her hands and forced his dirt-smeared body upright.

"Your Highness. Excessive training will only prove poison. Let us stop for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠today."

Walter, who had somehow approached, carefully tried to dissuade him.

Worry filled the old butler's wrinkled eyes.

But to Evan, that worry meant nothing.

"The limits of my flesh... are mine to decide. Move."

Evan dragged his leaden legs past Walter and pushed forward.

Even when he fell while running, he rose again.

His run did not stop until he finally hit his limit and blacked out.

That seemingly foolish figure of Evan was quietly sending ripples through the most secluded corner of the Lily Palace.

"Tsk tsk... He collapsed again."

"Is he actually going to die like that? How the hell did our sickly prince end up doing something this crazy?"

Under a shade canopy set up at one side of the training grounds, men lounging in casual clothes instead of ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠armor clicked their tongues as they watched Evan.

The ones sneering and idling about were none other than the Lily Knights—the knight order assigned to the First Prince.

They were his exclusive knights, yet not a shred of knightly pride could be felt from them.

Men of low birth pushed aside by noble cliques.

Rebellious troublemakers demoted for disobeying higher orders.

Talented warriors discarded after losing factional struggles.

Being assigned to the powerless First Prince's personal order was no different from a grave for any knight.

With every path to advancement cut off, they had degenerated into loafers who simply killed time day after day.

"Three days now..."

The bear-like giant of a man—Gareth, commander of the Lily Knights—muttered in surprise.

He was not alone.

The mocking gazes of the knights who had been watching began to change as the third day passed.

At first they had thought it was nothing but a show.

They had laughed, certain he would give up after a few days.

Their expectations were thoroughly betrayed.

No matter how many times he vomited until he was sick of it, no matter how many times he planted his face in the dirt and fell a hundred times, the First Prince rose again.

Even after blacking out and being carried away on Walter's back every evening, the next morning he appeared on the training grounds without fail and began his running once more.

"......"

The idle jokes and chatter that had once filled the shade gradually vanished.

And Gareth was the first to move.

His steps carried him to where Evan was all but crawling across the ground, heaving ragged breaths.

Evan, head bowed, breath scraping the back of his throat, faltered when a massive shadow fell over him and blocked the sunlight.

"Huff... huff... huff..."

Staring at the sweat dripping onto the dirt, Evan slowly raised his head.

He licked the blood-tinged taste from his mouth once, then forced out a hoarse command.

"...Move."

It was an order.

Instead of yielding the path, Gareth opened the mouth he had kept tightly shut.

"Just why... why go this far?"

Gareth simply could not understand.

"...Crawling through the dirt like that will never turn Your Highness's frail body into steel. Even if you thrash about, what exactly do you think will change?"

It was not simple concern or mockery directed at a prince.

A hollow First Prince who possessed nothing.

And themselves, cast aside like trash after losing the power struggle.

His question was equal parts fury and self-reproach aimed at the man who had trapped himself in a sewer of a reality.

Evan forced strength into his trembling legs and stood tall.

Then he looked up at the man larger than himself.

His appearance was a mess of dust and sweat.

Yet the blue eyes flashing beneath the sweat-soaked blond hair shone with the same arrogance and loftiness as a monarch who dominated the battlefield.

A gaze as though looking down on a whining brat.

That dissonance made Gareth swallow dryly without realizing it.

Is this truly the First Prince we have known all this time?

Evan's dry voice emerged.

"Even if I could not decide the beginning—"

He staggered past Gareth, shouldering him aside.

Or rather, Gareth himself stepped aside, crushed by the prince's presence.

"—at least the end... I will decide."

Whoosh.

Evan's gaunt shoulder brushed Gareth's arm as he passed.

".....!"

Gareth stood frozen in place, staring blankly at the First Prince's back as the man staggered yet forced himself onward.

That single line ringing in his ears sent a shockwave through Gareth's long-stopped heart.

The brand of failure the world had stamped upon them.

Had it not been he himself who had hidden behind the cheap excuse of "it can't be helped," broken his own sword, and accepted defeat?

But the First Prince was different.

From him Gareth felt a shame he had never known before—and at the same time, a thrill.

The Lily Palace they had regarded as an abandoned grave.

There, a masterwork blade left to rust for so long was beginning to regain its edge.