Chapter 85
Chapter 85
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 85
Chapter Title: 28. Nobles, Prince, King, and Empire (2)
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"Sooouuuul!"
Gewain shouted.
"Bring more booze!"
He slammed his fist on the table over and over, but neither the waitress wiping down tables nor the owner counting coins in the dim corner paid him any mind.
It wasn't the first time Gewain, drunk and belligerent, had pulled this stunt.
Damn it. How the hell did I end up like this?
Gewain slumped over the table, breathing heavily.
A few years ago, he hadn't been this pathetic wreck of a man.
He'd gripped a fine sword bestowed by the king in one hand, carried a proud mission in his heart, and though he'd hidden in an abandoned fortress with a broken body, his spirit had never faltered.
Those were the days when he'd simply waited—and waited—for the glorious day promised by the grand scheme.
But what awaited him wasn't radiant glory, but pitch-black despair.
One day, the king had come to the abandoned fortress.
The king wasn't alone. Two handsome boys accompanied him.
He'd said that perhaps he couldn't accomplish the grand scheme in his lifetime, so he was preparing his sons—the future of the royal family—for any contingency.
Chubby cheeks and eyes brimming with curiosity. He resembled the queen more than his father.
No ferocity about him, just the ordinary loveliness of a boy his age.
Unlike his brother, whose gaze set him apart from the start, the First Prince's first impression had been utterly commonplace.
Yet that ordinary boy had dumped the kingdom's century-long grand scheme into the gutter.
They'd rotated through abandoned fortresses every three months. That day marked exactly the third month.
Shortly after leaving the fortress, the sound of galloping hooves echoed from all directions. Then thousands of troops appeared.
In their midst fluttered the golden lion banner symbolizing the Leonberger royal family.
There was the king, the First Prince, and that loathsome imperial envoy.
The king spoke.
"The... bandits... all kneel..."
The moment they heard the king's blood-curdling words, Gewain and his comrades realized the truth.
The grand scheme had failed. The empire knew of their existence. And the First Prince, grinning innocently beside the envoy, was the culprit behind it all.
Gewain and his comrades made their choice.
Respect for the Leonberger royal family.
They denounced the king as a tyrant from their lips and denied he was the kingdom's sovereign.
It was the only way to somewhat lessen the royal family's suffering.
They offered no resistance.
The soldiers here were all kingdom troops; fighting them would only weaken the realm.
The empire's vile dogs, seeing no resistance and meek surrender, suggested mercy—perhaps severing their mana chains in consideration.
Gewain and his comrades hoped the king would refuse.
But the king accepted the proposal, desperate to preserve their lives.
And so, Gewain and 323 knights severed their own chains with their hands.
Excruciating pain—but the real agony began that day.
They'd devoted their lives to forging those chains, only to become invalids overnight.
The shattered fragments turned into razor-sharp daggers, mangling their insides.
In that torment of being shredded from within, they couldn't sleep without drowning in alcohol even for a day.
And so they lived like drunken cripples, until news from the kingdom reached them.
Tales of discord between the king and the First Prince. Rumors that the prince's rampant villainy had nearly led to his confinement.
Soon after, word came that the First Prince had departed north with his maternal uncle.
Then stories of war engulfing the north began circulating.
Ballerhard's Silver Lion had fallen in battle, the kingdom's shield—Winter Castle—had crumbled. The north lay in ruins, but the First Prince had rallied the survivors and defeated the orc king.
Around that time, people started calling the once-incorrigible wastrel prince by a new name.
The Savior of the North? How utterly absurd.
Gewain scoffed.
But it didn't stir him as much as he'd expected.
He had no strength left even for anger, he figured.
Amusingly, Gewain's rage ignited when the monthly royal stipend stopped coming.
Gewain wasn't a fool. He knew what it meant.
The royals had finally washed their hands of them completely.
"Goddamn it."
He cursed at the tavern owner who never came no matter how he yelled, then staggered to his feet. As he relieved himself against the alley wall, he sensed someone behind him.
"Whoever you are, wrong guy. All you'd get from me is dust."
"Are you Gewain Gust himself?"
Gewain didn't even turn.
"Don't know anyone by that name."
"His Highness the First Prince sent us."
He froze.
"His Highness cordially invites you."
Gewain waved him off.
"Wrong guy, I said."
He denied his identity vehemently, but it didn't faze the men.
"Let's go anyway."
And so he was all but dragged north.
The north, said to be in ruins, was far—far—from what he'd imagined.
He'd expected a funeral atmosphere. Not even close.
The scars everywhere were clear remnants of brutal battles and massacres.
Yet the people brimmed with vitality.
Men armed to the teeth swarmed the streets, and the lord's soldiers turned a blind eye. It felt like they were gearing up for war. Gewain was dumbfounded.
The whole kingdom cowered before the empire, shrinking even its armies, yet this place felt like another world.
"Northerners no longer trust the kingdom or the nobles. They've decided to protect themselves."
So said the man who introduced himself as a mid-rank mercenary from the Silver Fox Mercenaries.
"The lords just let that happen?"
"Men who wouldn't have their houses without His Highness. He's already permitted arming the populace—who'd dare object?"
Gewain fell silent.
He might lack the strength for anger, but the First Prince remained a raw nerve.
Yet as they passed northern domains, he heard endless tales of the prince.
Commoners who recognized the Silver Foxes insisted they stay despite their poverty, pouring out gratitude for how the prince had crushed the orc horde ravaging the north. The mercenaries regaled them with heroic sagas of the Winter Castle battle and the central front.
"I knew you harbored ill feelings toward His Highness. But heed my advice: don't act rashly. Not here in the north, at least."
Gewain didn't reply to the Silver Fox.
And at last, they reached Winter Castle.
There, he reunited with old comrades after years. Before they could even share their feelings, the Silver Foxes dragged them off somewhere.
The First Prince was there.
Gone was the baby fat; not a trace remained of the mischievous, curious boy.
The prince he met again was a full-fledged young man.
Seeing his scar-ridden face, Gewain felt an indescribable emotion.
First came rage.
"Wasted my time. I won't call again—go home."
Then humiliation.
"Why not leave? Need travel money? I'll give you plenty."
"Oh, expecting an apology? Forget it. Not happening."
The taunts fueled his fury.
"What glory did you lot come all this way for?"
And confusion.
Better if he'd died that day than live so pathetically. After severing his own chain—what was he so afraid of? What lingering regrets kept him clinging to life?
And why had he come here? Why had the others?
The prince promised monetary reward—even bowed his head, insincerely or not.
Lost chains, dead souls. Worthless trinkets before that. He deflated.
Even then, vengeance hadn't crossed Gewain's mind.
Until the prince condemned him.
"If only you'd hidden a blade for revenge! Come to stab the back of the trash who sold out the kingdom's future!"
Rage surged anew.
The world could point fingers at them as failures—but not the First Prince.
Insults, humiliation, shame, fury roiled his guts.
"The criminal who broke your chains and sold the kingdom's future stands here. Leave him be, and he might become the next king. Horrific, isn't it?"
When he came to, he gripped his sword, facing the prince.
A comrade lunged as if entranced, only to tumble across the floor.
"I said I'd give you a chance—not hand it over."
That blatant mockery flipped a switch.
He charged—and got thoroughly thrashed.
"I'll wait."
Looking down at him and his comrades sprawled on the floor, the prince said.
Until they could infuse mana into their swords again.
"If you don't want a kingdom-selling trash as king."
If they couldn't form chains, gather mana in their hearts.
And he laid down terms.
"Fight for the kingdom—not for me."
Gewain had no intention of falling for such flattery.
Not until the prince mentioned the empire.
Gain strength for revenge, fight the empire, atone for sins—one stone, three birds. The prince grinned.
Madman. Insanely mad.
They couldn't let such a man steer the kingdom. A future-seller lecturing on the future? No.
Fine. Heart, gut—anywhere. He'd gather mana. And repay that day's humiliation.
Vowing that, Gewain chuckled bitterly.
He'd thought his fire burned out completely—but embers remained.
Even if it was an ugly emotion incomparable to his once-noble sense of duty.
That night, for the first time in ages, Gewain slept deeply without drink.
Comrades kept arriving.
Men whose flames had guttered out blazed back to life after meeting the prince—battered and bruised as a bonus.
They poured that fervor into recovery.
Crude methods they'd have scorned before—but beggars couldn't be choosers.
Amusingly, the prince had taught them those tricks.
Handing whetstones to men sharpening blades for his back.
Gewain couldn't fathom the prince's thinking. Nor did he care.
Whatever the prince plotted, Gewain just wanted his revenge.
Against the empire that made king deny knights and knights deny king.
And the informer who'd orchestrated it all.
But not yet.
He'd seen and felt it endlessly en route north, and even more clearly since Winter Castle.
What the First Prince meant to northerners.
Resentment and hatred burned, but Gewain and his comrades weren't selfish enough to ignore northerners for personal grudges.
They wouldn't have been chosen for the grand scheme if they were. Nor surrendered their chains so futilely.
Perhaps the prince grasped and exploited that.
No way to know.
Who could guess that willful mind?
But one thing was clear: they couldn't ignore the greater cause.
So they buried unquenchable hatred deep, set personal revenge aside.
First, reclaim strength. Vengeance later.
Each mana circulation whipped them with chain fragments—like blades slashing inside. In that hellish pain, they relived that day's shame and sorrow.
Amid the frenzy, the prince made an unexpected offer.
"Anyone who wishes may join the royal capital procession."
Gewain and comrades wavered.
Of 306 knights, thirty volunteered.
Some longed to glimpse the king from afar; others followed vague sentiments.
Gewain was one, driven by mixed motives.
Mingled among 200 rangers departing Winter Castle, Gewain and comrades followed the prince's back, guarded by black-armored lancer knights.
Countless joined en route south.
Heads of famed northern houses, obscure minor ones.
Regardless of prestige, their deference to the prince was uniform.
And the commoners?
Cities erupted in massive welcomes.
No northerners feared the heavily armed host; all offered fervent hospitality and reverence.
The prince ruled the remote north like a king.
The central region was no different.
Count Branburt himself greeted them at the bridge linking north and center.
Not quite northern fervor, but his welcome was substantial.
Gewain and comrades sighed.
Such spectacles didn't erase their grudges. But their swords felt heavier regardless.
As they exchanged heavy glances, a gaze prickled.
The prince, ahead, was looking back.
Gewain couldn't read the emotions in those blue eyes.
That night, camped a day from the capital, the prince visited.
"From now on, watch everything that happens in the capital with both eyes wide open."
The cryptic words kept Gewain awake all night. His comrades' hollow eyes suggested the same.
"Depart!"
With a knight's booming roar, the northern procession broke camp and advanced.
By late afternoon, they reached the plains where the capital's walls came into view.
"Capital garrison cavalry approaching from afar!"
At the black-armored rider's call, the northern troops with the prince and lords snapped to attention.
The approaching cavalry, kicking up dust, halted abruptly at the tension.
"Your Highness! An honor to meet you! I'm Palail, captain of the 24th Patrol Squadron, Capital Garrison Cavalry!"
One shouted they weren't foes, not to be wary—they'd come over soon.
"Respect to His Highness the First Prince."
The captain approached hesitantly, offering an awkward bow.
"We've prepared a rest area for northern troops not far from the capital."
Polite phrasing, clear meaning.
The northern army, swelled to nearly a thousand, couldn't enter the capital.
Reasonable counsel.
The capital was the kingdom's heart; even royal troops weren't casually admitted.
If they weren't the heroes who'd repelled the monster horde.
"Prepare camp."
The prince said.
"Prepare camp!"
"Prepare camp!"
Lancers and knights echoed.
"Y-Your Highness?"
The captain gaped at the northerners unpacking.
"I'll give you one day."
The prince replied oddly.
"What do you mean..."
"Forty-two thousand two hundred orc heads."
Dry, almost arid tone.
"The number of invaders we slew for the kingdom."
But the momentum within was neither dry nor arid.
"Palail, captain of the 24th Patrol Squadron, Capital Garrison Cavalry."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
The thoroughly cowed captain barked reflexively.
"I ask you."
The prince regarded him.
"Are we victorious troops who fought for the kingdom? Or bandits to guard against?"
"V-Victorious troops!"
"Then why treat victors like bandits?!"
The prince bellowed.
"S-Sorry!"
The captain tumbled from his horse, prostrating.
"We'll slink in like rats or return north. If you truly mean to welcome us."
The prince said coldly.
"Triumph, victory rites—whatever. Do it properly."
No compromise in his resolute voice.
"One day. No more."
The captain scrambled back onto his horse.
Watching the patrol vanish, the prince clicked his tongue.
"The capital hasn't changed a bit."
Was it lament for someone, or critique of the capital's complacency? Unclear.
Only his frostbitten scowl betrayed deep displeasure.
Gewain and his comrades watched the exchange with rigid faces.