Proving Worth (3)
'So, has the Retard Prince ever managed to beat the Gloomy Loner Prince?'
He hadn't.
Not once. Not in a single field of endeavor.
Cecil Soladin had been required to compete with the First Prince from the moment of his birth, and nowhere, at any point in his life, had he ever gained the upper hand.
If merely failing to gain ground had been the extent of it, he might count himself lucky. But it went far beyond that.
The man called Cecil remained, always and forever, groveling at the First Prince's feet.
No matter how he strained. No matter how he toiled. No matter what means he borrowed.
The overwhelming talent of a First Prince who did not know the word defeat made a habit of reducing Cecil into something lesser even than a mediocrity.
Through countless defeats, Cecil both resented the First Prince—who did not so much as regard him as a rival—and understood him.
Had their positions been reversed, he too would have felt no threat whatsoever from his opponent.
'You must have won at least once, surely? You did beat a tiny, adorable little girl like me, after all.'
And so, when word arrived that the First Prince had lost to the young daughter of House Aln, Cecil asked the bearer of the news whether this was meant as a joke.
He simply could not imagine the First Prince losing.
But every word of it was true.
The First Prince had been the one to challenge, had lost that challenge, and had even suffered public humiliation at the hands of the daughter of House Aln.
Upon the fortress known as the First Prince—the one who never fell, who knew no defeat, who was spoken of as invincible, the very fortress Cecil had once believed he would personally have to topple if it were ever to fall—a massive scar had now been carved.
Hearing the news, Cecil laughed. He roared with laughter, loud enough for the retainers who followed his house to hear, declaring that the First Prince, too, was only human after all.
— Behold. The First Prince is ultimately nothing more than a man. Even the inadequate child of House Aln managed it. However incompetent you may be, you could at least manage this much.
It was the same when he heard those words from his parents.
As always, he forced a smile and nodded, and when they told him the girl Lucy Aln seemed to despise the First Prince and that he should attempt to win her over, he swore it would yield good results.
And then, left alone in the dead of night, Cecil thought.
He wondered whether his endless failure to defeat the First Prince was truly because he himself was incompetent.
'Don't tell me you've never won even once? And you actually think you're more capable than me? Really?'
Even now, long after that, Cecil could not stop doubting his own ability.
The doubt that maybe it was not because the First Prince was so gifted, but because Cecil himself was so hopelessly talentless, that he could never bring him down.
'Then surely you won't back down if I request a duel?'
Every time the name Lucy Aln spilled from the mouths of the experts, Cecil's doubts only grew larger.
One person said:
It was merely a festival game. If the First Prince had taken it seriously, what chance would some snot-nosed little brat have had?
Another said:
He had personally witnessed the scene at that festival, and it was a trick that only worked because it was a festival. In a real fight, the girl wouldn't even have been a match.
Those fond of flapping their gums put it this way:
The First Prince had shown mercy out of respect for Sir Benedict Aln's honor, repaying his service by elevating the reputation of his lacking daughter.
Their stories differed in detail, but stripped down, they were all the same.
The First Prince could not possibly have lost in a proper contest.
Lucy Aln had only managed to win because the circumstances were abnormal.
Whenever Cecil listened to this from the sidelines, he wanted to demand of them:
If your stories are true, then what am I—the one who could never beat the First Prince in any situation, no matter how pathetic the tricks I stooped to?
What exactly am I, that I am less than some mere little girl?
'Well, obviously the Retard Prince could crush a nobody like me without breaking a sweat. Right?'
"Second Prince?"
Cecil opened his eyes at the frightened voice, exhaled a long, heavy breath, and looked around.
Everyone was watching him nervously.
The reason was not hard to guess.
Every one of them had assured him that if only he extended his hand, Lucy Aln would take it.
She's clashed with the First Prince, so naturally she'll come to our side.
She clearly hates him—surely she won't just stand by and watch him take the throne.
She'll be captivated by Your Highness's noble character.
Lions can only serve beneath lions.
Born into a house of warriors, she will naturally follow a warrior.
And what had been the result?
Had he merely been refused—or had that refusal not been accompanied by a savage humiliation besides?
'Retard Prince.'
"Retard Prince."
The word was familiar to Cecil.
It was the accusation his parents habitually hurled whenever they rebuked him for losing to the First Prince.
But he had never imagined he would hear it from another's mouth.
Sitting back, fingers twitching restlessly, Cecil did not so much as lift his head as he spoke.
"Archie."
"...Yes?"
"I would like to hear your account of this affair."
Archie was one of those who had proclaimed loudest that Lucy Aln would join the Second Prince's faction.
Called out, he could only squirm and stammer, offering no proper explanation.
Cecil exhaled audibly at the sight of him, then called on another.
"Tommy."
"U-um, Your Highness. That is..."
"Explain."
"W-well, you see..."
As this roll call continued, the same thought ran through the Second Prince's faction:
We only said what the Second Prince wanted to hear.
When we spoke honestly, he slapped us down; he demanded we say only what pleased him; in the end he made the choice himself—so why is he taking it out on us?
And besides, to begin with—
"Holden."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Speak."
"I apologize. I did not foresee this situation."
What man alive could have predicted that some lunatic girl would call a prince a retard, and then—not content with that—declare she'd rather not serve someone less competent than herself, and if he was so sore about it, why not settle it in a duel?
"Our investigation into the young lady was insufficient."
"Yes. It was."
"It will be for everyone. I beg your magnanimous forgiveness."
The Second Prince ground his lips together, then let out a long breath.
"Fine. You're forgiven. In exchange, you'll all train with me from now on."
"Thank you, Your Highness."
""Thank you, Your Highness!""
This "training" was less exercise than corporal punishment verging on torture.
How could anyone call it training when even students among the Academy's physically elite second-years routinely blacked out during it?
The entire Second Prince's faction broke into cold sweats the instant the word was mentioned, yet not a single one of them refused.
After all, anyone who protested would be made to spar with the Second Prince directly and endure the beating for an entire day.
"Right. Let's move on to the next matter. The duel Lucy Aln proposed."
Lucy Aln had told him:
If he wanted to bring her in, he would have to prove himself more capable than she was. Accept the duel and try to beat her.
'We'll race to see who conquers the Academy Dungeon first. Surely you're confident? Of course you are, right?'
Cecil had nodded at the proposal.
He had not agreed because he believed he could win. Cecil's thoughts had never even reached that point.
He had agreed because the humiliation Lucy Aln had dealt him sent his blood boiling.
Because in truth, though Cecil held the higher rank, it was Cecil who had to court Lucy's favor.
And because the last words out of Lucy's mouth were something he absolutely could not let pass.
'You can run away if you want. Even the Gloomy Stalker Prince couldn't beat me, so what chance does the Retard Prince have?'
The First Prince couldn't do it, so you certainly can't.
You're a loser.
I'm a loser.
No.
I am not a loser.
I am not incompetent.
I can beat the First Prince.
I can claim the throne.
I—
I—
The metallic taste filling his mouth brought Cecil back to his senses.
Reaching up, he touched the corner of his lips and realized the source of the blood: his gnawed lip had split open.
Smearing the red from his index finger with his thumb, he lifted his eyes and spoke.
"Bring me a way to crush that girl completely. Now."
I will win against Lucy Aln. Without question.
By defeating her, I will prove that I am not incompetent.
What my brother could not achieve, I will achieve.
And then I will be acknowledged.
Without fail.
"Even if it means filthy methods. So long as I win."
No matter what it takes.
The final weekend before the Academy's gates opened.
I had gone to Alsaetin's shop, where I collected the assortment of goods he had prepared for me.
Every single item he handed over was of higher quality than I'd expected.
Did having Karia attached to his side boost his abilities along with hers?
After leaving a remark that the intel wasn't half bad for an information peddler, I stepped out of the shop, unable to hide the grin creeping across my face.
Hehe. At this rate, the dungeon run might go even smoother than I'd planned.
Conquering it the moment the gates open? Honestly, that's within reach. Should I give it a shot?
After all, what Grandpa demanded of me was results so overwhelming that no one could possibly hope to match them.
Only then would the response be praise for my ability, rather than arrows flying at the Second Prince—or at me.
Conquering the dungeon the instant it opened would satisfy that requirement perfectly.
Not to mention, the faster I cleared it, the faster the Loser God's rewards would roll in.
And this particular reward was quite the tempting item, from where I stood. It was...
"Boss."
I'd been replaying the latest quest the Loser God had handed me in my head when Karia's voice made me look up.
Having darted out of an alley, she told me to follow her, then showed me a cluster of men sprawled unconscious inside it.
"It seems the Second Prince wants to beat you very, very badly."
She said:
"Badly enough to forget he was supposed to recruit you at all."
These, it turned out, were the men who'd been lying in wait to ambush me.