Why Is the Crown Prince Showing Up Here?

"No way, why is the Crown Prince popping up there?"

"Wh-what the hell is all this?"

In a back alley of the imperial capital Caliola, inside what had swapped its tavern sign for that of a tailor's shop, the secret auctioneer's voice cracked instantly. His two hands clutched the stack of manuscripts on the table, trembling uncontrollably.

"The overall quality has shot way up. And the page count is so much higher than before!"

His fuss was totally justified. The ink was incomparably sharper than in the maid edition, the dimensions perfectly uniform, backed by the smooth texture of the paper itself. It was a product that blew past this world's shoddy handmade standards.

I lounged back in my deep-pulled robe hood, crossing my legs leisurely.

"Thanks."

"Couldn't be many copies, right? Like the last one, it's all hand-drawn craftsmanship... I'll make sure to fetch the highest price possible without wasting your effort. With this page count and quality, it's doable. About 20 copies again?"

"Nope."

I cut him off flat.

"100 copies."

"......Pardon?"

The auctioneer's jaw dropped. His eyes, peeking through the robe, filled with shock. How the hell did you pull this off? they screamed. His mouth struggled open.

"N-no way... did you get your hands on a printing press or something?"

I just flashed a sly grin instead of answering. Mystery sells.

"Holy crap, those are impossible to snag."

"Gotta be serious about my comics. Sell 'em well, and I'll be grateful."

"Leave it to me. At this quality, we could easily hit a million krone per copy."

His eyes gleamed like they were reflecting gold coins.

"Release 'em slow, nice and steady—tease the nobles till they lose their minds, and the price'll skyrocket."

Hmm. That'd be a problem.

"Nah. Flood the market fast."

"Pardon?"

"Don't price 'em too high either. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Keep it reasonable—something even commoners could swing if they really wanted it."

"But sir! That's a massive loss. Why sell a masterpiece like this on the cheap...?"

"Goal's to get it in as many hands as possible."

100 copies. In an empire this size, that's still rare as hell. Selling limited runs at premium prices ain't bad, but my endgame's building a subculture ecosystem in this world. The wider it spreads, the more buzz builds, demand explodes. That hardcore fandom? It'll rake in insane profits on the next drop, and the one after.

Sure, right now we're capped at 100 a week with the press and my ink girls 1 and 2, but we'll optimize eventually.

"Countin' on you."

He bowed like he was entranced.

A couple days zipped by, weekend included. I rolled my stiff neck—two days of solid sleep'll do that—and headed to the annex auditorium. Same nightmare spot where, just days ago, that psycho Mage Tower Master tortured freshmen with the four elements for aptitude tests.

Today was orientation for Comprehensive Training.

Can't skip this one.

It was the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠class where all first-years gathered for a blood-pumping (safety charms, technically) tournament battle. Officially to gauge fragmented department levels and stoke rivalry... but from a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠writer's view? Different story.

Obvious plot device to cram all the leads together.

You need 'em in one spot sometimes. Hence, this class. And yeah—in it, the Crown Prince and Saintess throw down.

Of course, I'd hit the stage, yell "Ow!" and surrender clean for an instant exit.

"Alright... let's snag a good seat."

Today was just bracket reveals. No need to show, but with everyone gathered, perfect for gauging public opinion.

"Yo, who ya got winning the tourney?"

"Crown Prince, duh? Sliced steel barehanded, no aura."

"Princess ain't slouchin'. Killed it in magic class."

"Sleepin' on Lady Judith? All in on her."

Voices everywhere debating the leads' power scaling. VS debates are peak fun. But some groups whispered super hushed.

"Y'all hear? Extra dropped a new one."

"Story's insane."

"I snagged a copy."

Devolved into a wholesome queue-fight over loans by the end.

Whatever. Works for me.

"Heh heh heh."

Couldn't help smirking. Two days on the market, and already this? Otakus snapped it up and started the hype train. Perfect—core fans are essential for a hit.

"What? You're grinning like an idiot today. Good news?"

Someone plopped next to me with a grumpy huff.

"You made it?"

"Ugh, chills. Don't ask so sweetly? Look, goosebumps."

Man, what'd Ian Ashy do to treat Lena Youngston like this? One "you made it?" and she's reacting that hard—what am I supposed to do with my precious Ink Unit 1?

"Ran the press till I nearly collapsed, so yeah, worried."

"Hmph."

Lena pouted, shooting me side-eye. What? Butt-hurt? Over what? Girls are puzzles.

But Lena's perk: ask, she'll tell.

"What set it off, exactly?"

"...Last time, you crashed from machine duty before I could ask."

She leaned in, voice dropping.

"Eyepatch girl was the Princess, right?"

"Yup."

"...How'd you even drag Her Highness into that?"

"Eh, circumstances."

*Pinch!*

Sharp pain stabbed my side.

"Ow!"

"For real? That's the Princess! First Imperial Princess! You haul royalty to a dingy warehouse, blindfold her, and run her ragged on a press till mana exhaustion KOs her?!"

She hissed in my ear. True—she conked out heroically after 100 copies, me yelling "One more! One more!" to the end.

"Relax. Got a full oath outta her."

"......Oath?"

Her eyes went wide.

"You got an oath from her? Miss High-and-Mighty?"

"Yup. Swore on the Imperial name, total secrecy lockdown."

"Ha."

She sighed in disbelief—and relief. Fair. Screw up with royals, it's clan wipe.

"Safe for now, then. But how? Oath-level sway?"

"Trade secret."

She squinted, scanning me up and down.

"You... kinda popular with girls lately?"

Snarky, but pointed.

I shrugged.

"Note it, Lena. Men's lives got three peak eras."

"Peak eras?"

"Times when popularity explodes."

"Pfft! Sure, Mr. Big Shot. Must be nice!"

She tsked, turning away. Jealous? Nah, no way.

Perfect timing—the TA on stage spoke up, killing my jitters.

"Attention! Comprehensive Training Round 1 brackets, incoming!"

I glanced up casually. If memory served, the key original matchup was locked here: Crown Prince Leonhardt vs. Saintess Arina's first clash. Sparks fly, tension builds—bitter rivalry, awkward vibes, all that jazz... until—

"Are you alright, Saintess?"

—Chapter 1's end, he saves her, tension flips to romantic seeds. Iconic scene. Jealousy, Princey.

...Let's see.

Over half the brackets filled already. No Saintess yet—soon?

"Match 43! Kano Ameri VS Arina Saint!"

......Huh?

I blinked at the screen. Kano Ameri? Why's the transmigrator power-hider facing the Saintess?

Warning bells in my head. Original's derailed. So who took the Prince's slot?

As if answering—

"Match 44!"

The TA's booming voice shook the hall.

"Leonhardt Bell VS Ian Ashy!"

"......"

"......"

Breath caught. Lena gawked at me, mouth agape.

Crown Prince Leonhardt Bell. This novel's male lead, who swore to crush the maniac selling lewd comics of his girl (me). The world's top tyrant (for real).

"......What the hell."

Bad flag? Straight to the heart.

Swordsmanship Department main building. Even as a first-year, Crown Prince Leonhardt Bell had snagged a top-tier private lab. He sat at the wide mahogany desk, silently reviewing documents.

Flawless golden hair of imperial legend, inscrutable crimson eyes. His serene aura weighed down the air itself.

*Knock knock.*

"Enter."

At his low, dignified command, a third-year Swordsmanship cadet in knight uniform eased the door open. Despite seniority, he bowed as a perfect subordinate.

"Your Highness, the Comprehensive Training brackets just dropped. Here to report."

"Good work. So, who's my first opponent?"

Leonhardt didn't even glance up from his papers. Whoever it was, he'd fold them before drawing steel—no interest in bracket nonsense.

"Cadet Ian Ashy from the Art Department."

His quill paused, just a beat.

Leonhardt slowly looked up at the knight.

"Ian Ashy?"

His brow furrowed faintly.

"Who? Never heard of him."

"Art Department's sole enrollee... No combat prowess worth Your Highness's notice. Poor rep too."

Leonhardt turned back, interest gone.

"I see. Academy rules assigned him. I won't go easy."

"Probably some artsy bum... er, given Ian Ashy's character, he'll bolt in fear."

"...Bolt?"

His crimson eyes chilled.

"Unacceptable. Tell him: on the day, face me without disappointing. Give it his all."