The Duke of Benevolence's Public Apology
That morning, the Imperial Gazette stacked on every newsstand across the empire wore a slightly different face than usual.
The front page was occupied, as always, by a tedious editorial extolling the Emperor’s benevolent mercy and the empire’s greatness. Pages two and three remained filled with the same stiff political and economic articles. But the social section—the one readers reached for first and that inevitably wore out fastest—opened with something entirely new.
No vulgar scandal or sensational crime dominated the spread. Instead, more than half the page was given over to vast empty space. At its center, printed in solemn, heavy type that resembled an obituary, a single title seized every eye.
‘Complete suspension of the Mikhail Brand prize-draw event and announcement of future countermeasures.’
I never dreamed that my immaturity and thoughtlessness could cause such enormous social turmoil. I only wished to offer a small measure of joy and pleasure to those who have shown love for the liquor I created. Yet that sincere heart ignited far greater fervor than I anticipated, ultimately damaging the sacred value of labor and resulting in the waste of precious foodstuffs.
All of it is my fault.
In particular, I feel a pain like my heart is being torn apart by the abnormal consumption of Mikhail-brand spirits—not for drinking, but solely for the purpose of collecting labels. The liquor brewed from precious grain, instead of moistening throats and easing sorrow, is discarded after its label is torn off or left to tumble in the gutter at bargain prices. This is an insult to the blood and sweat of our farmers and a squandering of the Empire’s precious assets.
Therefore, effective immediately, the controversial “Mikhail Brand Prize-Draw Event” is hereby terminated in full. All prizes already drawn will be awarded to the final winners, but no further events will be held.
To the fortunate first-prize recipient of the Eternal Special Membership Card, I offer my sincere congratulations. May this stroke of luck bring even a small joy into your life.
As both apology and recompense for all those disappointed by this affair, I shall present a new form of wholesome leisure culture: the First Far East Maritime Province Grand Duke Cup Texas Hold’em Tournament.
This is by no means gambling that relies on fortune. It is a sophisticated “mind sport” in which only cool intellect and bold strategy secure victory. Like the chess tournaments enjoyed by nobles, it will be a social arena of wholesome competition where minds are tested and friendships forged.
The champion will receive an Eternal Special Membership Card together with a modest cash prize—an opportunity to claim honor that cannot be bought with money, won purely through skill.
In closing, I pray for His Imperial Majesty’s longevity and the eternal prosperity of the Empire.
With this, the sinful son Mikhail.
It was an apology, and at the same time a declaration. Never before in the history of the Imperial Gazette had a member of the imperial family publicly acknowledged his own fault and begged the public’s forgiveness. The language was impeccably courteous, yet the intent between the lines was unmistakable.
The capital’s mornings always began with bustling vitality—the rattle of carriage wheels on cobblestone, merchants shouting as they opened their shops, and the booming cries of newspaper boys that had become the very symbol of the empire’s dawn.
Yet the moment the thick oak door of Café Voltaire swung open, all that noise vanished as if it belonged to another world. Inside, the café was filled with the low whispers of intellect. The rich aroma of well-roasted coffee beans mingled with the sharp bite of pipe tobacco and the scent of old paper, creating a unique, cozy atmosphere. Morning sunlight poured through the windows, turning drifting dust motes to gold and shattering against the lenses of the gentlemen scattered throughout the room.
This was where the empire’s brightest minds gathered—scholars, high officials, mages, and literary figures who came to drink tea, read the papers, and debate the affairs of the world.
And at their center, as always, sat the Third Prince, Dmitri.
He leaned against the plush velvet sofa by the window—the seat perpetually reserved for him—reading the newspaper in silence. Before him rested a steaming cup of black tea and a small plate now half empty.
“This is truly a spectacle,” Friedrich broke the silence. He spread the social page of the Imperial Gazette across the table and clicked his tongue in disbelief. “That wastrel Prince Mikhail issuing a public apology—and on the front of the national paper, no less.”
Alfred, who sat across from him puffing on a pipe, let out a short laugh. A hazy cloud of smoke rose from the corner of his mouth. “It must be ghostwritten. There’s no way that drunkard could produce such refined prose.”
“Still, isn’t it remarkable?” Maximilian joined in, adjusting his glasses. His eyes sparkled with a strange mix of respect and excitement. “To publish something like that under his own name in a state newspaper? Most men would rather die than lose face. This is genuine courage. I’ve gained new respect for His Highness Mikhail.”
“Has he finally come to his senses?” Friedrich tilted his head.
“Who knows if that even matters?” Alfred tapped the ash from his pipe. “He’s already been banished from the capital. More interesting is the draw itself, don’t you think?” His voice carried its usual thick layer of cynicism. “How foolish the masses can be. Poor Prince Mikhail—his simple promotional gift event has driven the entire empire into a frenzy.”
“Exactly,” Maximilian chimed in eagerly, raising his voice with the pride of an intellectual. “Buying liquor just to rip off the label and discard the contents, or selling it for pennies? Obsessing over such minuscule odds… what vulgarity. The end times are upon us.”
“I ran the numbers,” Vladimir offered cautiously, seizing the first opening he could find. A civil servant at the Imperial Revenue Service specializing in mathematics and statistics, he continued, “The VIP draw with the blue label actually had rather decent odds. The first-prize winner came from that pool. Yet the hoarding exploded over the red label. It’s ironic—nobles wealthy enough to buy blue labels were stockpiling the cheap red ones instead. Truly incomprehensible.”
“Not that hard to understand,” Alfred sneered again. “What would those people have learned at the academy? Once you’re admitted, you graduate whether you study or not.”
At his blatant mockery, Maximilian nodded with satisfaction. “Precisely! They’re fundamentally different from us. Different from His Highness Dmitri. They’re nothing but lucky in their bloodlines, while we—” He puffed out his chest proudly and turned toward Dmitri as if delivering the final word.
All eyes in the café naturally shifted to him.
“Your Highness, what is your opinion on this matter?”
Dmitri quietly set down the newspaper. He gazed out the window at the bustling street for a moment before speaking. His voice was calm, as always.
“Impressive.”
One word was enough to silence the room.
“My younger brother Mikhail… that fellow.” A faint smile curved Dmitri’s lips—yet no one could decipher its meaning. “I had no idea he was this clever.”
Everyone held their breath. Clever? That wastrel?
“When he lived with Empress Alexandra… I only saw him keeping his head down, so I never noticed,” Dmitri said, lifting his teacup and savoring the aroma before taking a sip. “The antics he pulled in the capital were probably deliberate. He loathed this place and feared the political struggles, so he did everything possible to secure his own exile.”
His bombshell left the table stunned.
“There was never any ‘coming to his senses.’ He saw through everything from the very beginning.”
Dmitri offered no further explanation. He simply turned his gaze back to the street outside.
At first I thought he was building power in his territory to pursue revenge… but judging by his actions, he truly has no interest in the throne.
His brother’s face flickered through Dmitri’s mind. In fact, hadn’t that boy spent his entire life proving he wanted nothing to do with the imperial succession?
The Mikhail he remembered had simply been a good child. While Empress Alexandra was alive, the boy had already understood: the moment he showed even a hint of ambition, both his mother’s life and his own would be in danger. So he never reached for more. His only luxury was taking picnics with his mother. Whatever money remained, he used to help the common people—offering relief or making anonymous donations. That was why they called him the Duke of Benevolence. He had been nothing more than a kind, harmless boy.
For a fleeting instant, an icy killing intent flashed through Dmitri’s eyes.
It was obvious. Anastasia would never have understood the unconditional love between mother and son, that pure and warm bond. She could not endure the sight of something so beautiful—something she had never possessed and never could. So she destroyed it. For no political calculation, for no threat posed, but out of pure malice. That was the kind of creature she was.
How pitiful.
Both Empress Alexandra and Mikhail, who had lost everything in a single day and been broken.
Dmitri unconsciously clenched his fist. The sting of nails digging into his palm somehow calmed the turmoil inside him.
If only he had come under my wing from the beginning…
He could have protected the boy somehow. If he had possessed just a little more power, he could have stopped Anastasia’s wickedness before it ever began.
In the end, it was all because I was too weak.
The bitter self-reproach rose in his throat, then transformed into cold resolve.
Therefore, I must become Emperor.
There was no other choice. The Second Prince? A fool who was merely kind. That kindness could do nothing more than wipe away the tears of commoners. The Fourth Prince? That barbarian was fit only to be a general. He should have been born among the nomads of the steppes centuries ago and become their khan.
Only he—only Dmitri—could set the empire right. Only he, who truly loved the people.
And even if he failed to become Emperor…
At the very least, that insane bitch Anastasia… she must be brought down without fail.
If not for the violent organizations and drug cartels backing her, he would have confined her long ago—or quietly assassinated her with magic in the dead of night. But the time was not yet right. He lacked both justification and opportunity.
To Dmitri, Anastasia was a creature that should not exist.
“Surely not, Your Highness. No matter what, to think he would deliberately behave that way just to be exiled…” Alfred’s voice pulled Dmitri from the deep sea of his thoughts. His face still showed clear skepticism. “More importantly, this poker tournament—are you interested, Your Highness?”
The topic naturally shifted to the final paragraph of the newspaper article.
Dmitri had already returned to his usual languid expression. He shrugged.
“I quite like it. Better than chess.”
Maximilian’s face brightened at the answer. “Then will you participate in the tournament yourself?”
“When would I find the time to travel all the way to the Far East Maritime Province? I have too much to do.” Dmitri waved his hand. “Perhaps we can play a few rounds among ourselves on a day off.”
Above all, it would be far too awkward to see that fellow Mikhail.
He swallowed the rest of the thought.