Chapter 87
Chapter 87
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 87
Chapter Title: 28. Nobles, Prince, King, and the Empire (4)
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Originally, the Northern soldiers should have been escorted to a temporary camp outside the royal capital right after the victory parade ended. But thanks to the 1st Prince's stubborn insistence, they were allowed to stay within the outer walls.
The palace officials racked their brains over suddenly having to house nearly a thousand troops. The capital's guard captain was also breaking out in a cold sweat, bolstering defenses in preparation for any potential unrest or emergencies.
The 1st Prince dismissed their complaints outright.
"Don't drink to excess. Don't cause trouble. Don't leave the capital. As long as you keep those three things in mind, you can do whatever you want while you're here."
He went even further, granting his soldiers free rein to roam and dipping into his own pockets to hand out bonuses. The Northern lords, who had been gauging the 1st Prince's mood, quickly joined in, which thrilled the troops to no end.
Staying in the capital's inns instead of stiff barracks, with their pockets lined to boot—praise for him flowed from their lips whether they wanted it to or not.
"As expected, the only one who truly gets the struggles of lowly grunts like us is our Highness."
"Speaking of which, there's no one else in the world like our Highness."
Ballerhard's veteran rangers had taken over a tavern, endlessly singing their commander's praises.
"The 'Highness' you're talking about... isn't the 2nd Prince, is it?"
The regulars, who had initially been intimidated by the rangers' rough looks and vibe, cautiously piped up.
They were clearly curious about these Northern soldiers who had turned the capital upside down yesterday and today.
"Nah."
The rangers raised a single finger in unison, as if on cue.
"Obviously, it's the 1st Prince."
The regulars' faces fell.
In the North, he might be hailed as a savior or war hero, but to the capital's folk, the 1st Prince was still infamous as the hopeless delinquent even his father had abandoned.
"That look on your faces isn't sitting right with me."
"What, you got a problem with our 1st Prince or something?"
The regulars waved their hands frantically at the rangers' suddenly ferocious glares.
"No, no—it's just that we don't know much about the 1st Prince."
"We only heard he left the capital and came back this time. Nothing else. Let me buy you a round—tell us all about it."
The straightforward rangers' expressions softened at once.
"Ahem. Well, if you insist."
And with that, they launched into a spittle-flying spiel about how amazing "our Highness" truly was.
"The first time His Highness came to Winter Castle, I was the one who went out to greet him—Jorden, that's me. There he was, standing firm alone in that howling blizzard, barking orders and leading the terrified soldiers."
They spun tales straight out of epic prologues: how they'd nearly gone blind staring at the boy wreathed in shining halo, how their legs had turned to jelly watching him shoulder four burly soldiers through the storm—one per shoulder, two tucked under his arms—and trek for half a day straight.
"Wait. So you're saying he carried four grown men—one on each shoulder, two at his sides—through a blizzard so bad you could barely stand still, and ran the whole half-day?"
"What, you gonna freeze to death dawdling? He gritted his teeth and charged ahead... Hey, you doubting me?"
The ranger who called himself Jorden flew into a righteous rage, blind to the faint spices of exaggeration in his own tale.
"No, I believe you. Keep going."
The regular plied him with more drinks to soothe him, and Jorden grudgingly picked up the story.
Out poured the saga of the 1st Prince slaying an orc warrior on his first mission, all the way to clashing with the warlord at Winter Castle.
The regulars, who had started idly munching the tales like tavern snacks, soon fell silent, utterly entranced by Jorden's words.
They sighed endlessly at the months of brutal siege the Winter Castle garrison had endured. When they heard how the previous Ballerhard count and his knights had perished battling the orcs' king, they raised their glasses high in tribute.
By the time he reached the moment the routed Northern army reclaimed Winter Castle, their eyes were red-rimmed.
"If His Highness hadn't been there, we still wouldn't have taken the castle back."
"Forget the castle— we wouldn't be alive, sipping drinks in the warm sun like this."
Of course, even they couldn't quite swallow that a mere boy of sixteen had slain a monster no famed knight could touch, or rallied the Northern lords to end the crisis.
The rangers, unperturbed, boasted proudly anyway.
"Get it? That's the kind of man our Highness is. I don't care what the capital thought before—he's the real hero. I'd die for him anytime."
"Don't get dramatic. Show me a Winter Castle soldier who wouldn't."
The rangers exchanged solemn glances before breaking into chuckles.
"That Bilbo guy. Skipped the march to the capital whining about something, and now he's missing out on this feast."
"Serves him right—hoist by his own petard."
The regulars, eager for the Northerners to enjoy themselves properly, showered them with drinks and snacks—a fair trade for the stories.
"Show these capital folk some Northern spirit! Down ten shots like real men, then we start!"
"As the capital's top drinker, I accept your challenge!"
Rangers and regulars mingled in raucous revelry. Soon the tavern keeper joined in, and the place erupted in merry chaos. But amid the heated tavern atmosphere, a few men didn't blend in.
Gawain and his comrades, who had followed the 1st Prince.
"You believe that stuff?"
Gawain didn't answer.
It was too hard to believe.
Just a few years ago, he was an utterly unremarkable boy—stupid enough to sell out his own kingdom's knights to the Empire. Who'd buy that such a delinquent had become a knight capable of felling a monster even the Silver Lion couldn't?
"A prince who speaks Orc tongue."
It was the stuff of bards' fanciful hero songs—preposterous beyond measure.
Yet it wasn't easy to dismiss entirely.
If it were all lies, the Northern lords wouldn't revere the prodigal like a king, nor would soldiers publicly vow their lives to a non-lord.
"We'll watch and see for now."
Gawain said.
The 1st Prince had told them to observe everything happening in the capital closely—they'd understand in time.
Gawain and his men, lost in thought for a long stretch, rose from their seats. Untouched drinks sat abandoned as they slipped out of the tavern.
The rangers, tangled in the revelry, glanced at their retreating backs and muttered among themselves.
"Can't figure out why old Niccolo had us do this. He told everyone else too, right?"
"Beats me. Who knows what goes on in scholars' heads. We just flash our teeth, score free booze, and call it a day."
"True, but..."
"Where'd my drinking buddy go?!"
A slurred shout snapped the rangers back to the party.
Gawain and his comrades headed straight to their lodgings after leaving the tavern. There, they met the 1st Prince's messenger who had been waiting.
It was a knightess he'd seen a few times before.
Arwen Kirguyen, was it?
"His Highness awaits."
Her voice was as coldly haughty as her demeanor. Without giving them a chance to reply, she turned and strode off. They followed the knightess for quite a while, navigating the capital's winding streets until the palace came into view.
"Ah..."
Gawain let out a groan.
The palace—a place he thought he'd never set foot in this lifetime.
Arriving only after losing his knighthood stirred complicated feelings, naturally.
It would've been nice to stride through proudly, the king's gifted sword at his hip.
Forcing down the turmoil, he kept walking.
Before long, they reached the 1st Prince's Palace.
Boom!
A thunderous explosion pierced their ears. Frowning and turning, they spotted the 1st Prince in the center of a vast training yard, crossing blades with a handsome knight.
Boom! Boom!
Golden armor, lion-emblazoned tunic—the man was unmistakably from the Royal Knight Order.
Yet the 1st Prince held his own against the kingdom's elite without giving an inch, trading blows seamlessly.
As they watched the duel entranced, the knightess finished her duty with a curt bow and took up position on the far side.
Boom!
A deafening blast erupted then. The knight and prince, locked in furious exchange, sprang apart.
"You've grown beyond recognition, Your Highness."
"Really? Kals, you were a bit underwhelming compared to expectations."
"Catch your breath first."
"After hacking orcs day in, day out, sparring a knight from the Order's got my stomach churning."
"I'm sure."
The prince and knight faced each other with grins.
"Welcome back."
"Yeah. Never imagined you'd be holding down the fort here, Kals."
"Nor I that you'd greet me with drawn steel."
Gawain stared, dumbfounded.
The prince wore a tunic emblazoned with the Leonberger crest: a roaring lion trampling a dragon—the Dragon Slayer emblem symbolizing the royal house. Standing tall before the blood of Leonberger, that figure was everything Gawain and his 323 comrades had desperately yearned to become.
A pang of deprivation twisted his face unbidden.
"I don't know who you are, but you'd best drop that insolent glare and aura. This is where Leonberger blood resides—not a place for the irreverent."
The Royal Knight addressed him sharply.
His piercing presence made Gawain and his men stagger back instinctively.
Gawain bit his lip.
It was a wretched feeling.
Being berated by a knight who embodied the very ideal he'd envied, cowed by his sheer force.
"Ease off. They're the ones I summoned."
"But Your Highness, their irreverence is so blatant..."
"I said stand down."
Breathing in the meager mercy from the very prince who had reduced them to this—it was utterly wretched.
"Just remember where you are."
With that, the Royal Knight stepped back, though his sharp gaze lingered.
His intent was clear: any funny business, and heads would roll.
Gawain turned away, face stiff.
"Take this."
A bundle of crimson cloth appeared before him.
He caught it reflexively, eyes widening.
It was a knight's uniform.
Not the Dragon Slayer-crested one they'd craved, but unmistakably royal knight garb—the deep crimson hue he had never worn.
The crouched lion crest was the heir's mark, the royal sigil.
"This is..."
"Don't worry. Putting it on doesn't make you my knight."
They had to stay in the palace for a while—couldn't have them wandering around in their current state, the 1st Prince said.
Gawain stared mutely at the uniform, gaze flicking back and forth.
The hatred and resentment burned in his chest as fiercely as ever.
But so did the burning desire to become a proud knight.
To his own surprise.