Chapter 10
Chapter 10
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: The Prince, the Flower, and the Resistance -1
-----------------------------------------------------------------
You opened your eyes in some remote forest.
"...Did the dimensional transfer succeed?"
You weren't entirely sure. This was just a forest, after all, and you couldn't spot any meaningful differences from the world you'd lived in. Perhaps the magic had failed, and you'd simply been hit with a long-distance teleport.
But whether the magic had succeeded or not,
one fact remained unchanged: you were standing in the middle of this forest.
You seemed to realize something. Was there anything special around you?
"This tree species only grows near the Imperial Capital. It was created by order of the Fifth Emperor's alchemists to commemorate his birthday."
That's right. According to the knowledge you possessed—
this forest wasn't far from the Imperial Capital.
Lucky in the midst of misfortune. If you'd ended up in some remote jungle, survival would have been your immediate concern.
But even this small forest was plenty large enough to get lost in. Looking around, you saw no signposts or man-made paths—just the occasional chirp of birds now and then.
Then, a noise you'd never heard before echoed through the air.
Bwooooooom—!
"..."
You crouched low and scanned for the source of the sound.
It was coming from the sky. The vibrating rumble was resounding from above.
An oddly shaped, oval 'something' was slicing through the heavens, producing the noise.
That 'something' resembled a building more than a living creature. Gears ticked away inside it, and it belched steam powerfully. It flew toward the setting sun, carrying a crowd of passengers aboard.
"...People riding in that thing?"
A structure flying through the sky.
Ancient civilizations were said to have left behind such relics, but this one's design had a refined look that didn't scream 'ancient.' It even featured railings in the current Imperial style.
You'd learn later that this was an airship, the pinnacle of magitech engineering.
"Better to follow that... flying golem with people on board than wander the forest aimlessly. It'll raise my chances of running into someone."
You pushed through the woods after the airship. It wasn't moving all that fast, and the deafening noise made it possible to keep up.
About an hour later, towering walls came into view.
The walls of the Imperial Capital, Crownhold. But they looked nothing like the ones you remembered.
Cracks spiderwebbed everywhere, and one section had partially collapsed. There were signs of hasty repairs. Damage to Crownhold's walls—the ones once called impregnable—was shocking enough on its own.
But the real shock was something else. The flags.
The banners flying from the central keep weren't the Imperial crest. They bore a design you'd never seen before.
As you knew, the Imperial crest had never changed since the founding of the Empire.
"......"
You sensed something was gravely wrong.
A long line snaked toward the gates, with guards bustling about, conducting inspections. Even their armor styles felt unfamiliar. Something was off compared to the Empire you remembered.
But you couldn't exactly live like a wild man in the woods forever.
You were the type to charge into threats head-on rather than back away, and this time was no different.
You slipped quietly into the queue without drawing attention. Immediately, eyes turned your way.
Especially toward your hair.
Once they spotted your proud golden locks—symbol of Imperial blood—they looked at you with contempt, mockery, anger, and the like. As if they might hurl insults at any moment.
The only reason they held back was probably the intimidating aura you exuded.
The unfamiliar gazes of scorn made your blood boil.
Born of noble blood and respected your whole life—contempt? Unthinkable.
To figure out why, you observed your surroundings.
People with dull golden hair were being treated like slaves. Utterly bizarre. Pale or dark blond hair was proof of Imperial lineage mixed in—and most blonds were Imperial nobles, after all.
Why were heirs to such noble blood being enslaved?
You got your answer from a conversation at the gates.
"Halt. State your identity. Where's your master?"
"I'm no slave."
The guard snorted loud enough for all to hear.
"Not a slave? What, some pet then? A filthy blond still strutting around with your head held high."
"Mind your manners. My patience has limits..."
"Filthy slave acting all high and mighty... You think your master's status is yours? No clue who they are, but you're just a lucky little slave. Got it?"
Poke. Poke.
He jabbed your forehead with his gauntleted hand, and you couldn't hold back any longer.
"Mind your manners, guard! I am the Empire's Second Prince, Irid Crown—!"
Silence.
An eerie silence descended.
You thought they'd been cowed into silence by your status... but no.
It was the calm before the storm—the prelude to humiliations beyond imagining.
Crack—!
Stars exploded in your vision. You crumpled from the slap.
As your mind froze in horrific outrage and you gathered mana to rip that damned guard's head from his shoulders,
you heard something unbelievable.
"Impersonating anyone is bad enough, but that idiot? You must be insane."
"What...?"
"Some folks live in delusions. Listen up, slave. The Empire you lot were so proud of? The one that crumbled, leaving you Imperial scum crawling like slaves? That was all because of Fallen Emperor Irid!"
Imperials, slaves, fallen, and Fallen Emperor.
Sparks flew in your mind.
The reason blonds with Imperial blood were enslaved.
The crumbling, sloppily repaired Capital walls and vanished Imperial banners.
And that technological marvel you'd never seen: the airship.
This was the future.
You, ascended as Emperor, had destroyed the Empire.
You stood there dumbfounded, like a soul-lost fool. Even as a mob of guards beat you with clubs, your head wasn't filled with pain—but a barrage of 'why's.
Why had the mighty Empire fallen?
Why was it your fault?
Why was 'Fallen Emperor' tacked onto your name—a title that made you want to bite your tongue off?
Why, why, why...
Battered and broken, you entered what had once been the Imperial Capital, Crownhold.
Staggering along, you gazed at future Crownhold, brimming with gears and steam.
Citizens laughed as they strolled the streets, but the blond slaves were wretched sights.
Civilization had advanced: roads were pristine, streetlamps lit everything brightly.
But dark deeds lurked in the shadows.
Your sole comfort amid the shock was the faintly glowing purple clock tattoo on your wrist—just as the mage had foretold. When time was up, you'd return to your original world.
The past three days had been the most horrific of Second Prince Irid's life—born of noble blood.
In future Crownhold, his status was the lowest of the low. Everyone saw him not as nobility, but as a slave. Beatings were routine.
So when venturing out, he had to wrap his golden hair in a burlap sack. No money for a simple cloth, so he scavenged a filthy rag from the gutter.
Jobs? Impossible. Even touting his literacy— a premium skill—merchants offered peanuts.
But the three days weren't entirely wasted. Irid had gleaned info from eavesdropping.
The Empire had been defeated and occupied by the Kingdom Alliance—three kingdoms united.
Captured royals and nobles were enslaved, their children too.
'Now' was 100 years after Irid's era.
The Kingdom Alliance ruled tyrannically, losing public favor. The lower classes missed the Empire; remnants formed the Resistance.
And...
"......"
Irid rolled up his sleeve to his elbow. The purple clock tattoo glowed softly.
The clock had markings from 0 to 3, ticking down slowly.
Irid recalled the mage's words. Only three days ago, yet it felt ancient history.
'In three hours real-time, I'll summon you back, Your Highness. This mark on your wrist will show the return time. And as I said repeatedly, it's fiction...'
Three hours real-time.
Time flowed differently between future and present. The tattoo now hovered at 2.
That meant... six days. Survive six more days in this hellish future, and he'd return.
"...Damn it all."
Irid slumped against an alley wall, clutching his face with both hands.
Hunger and physical pain paled against his mental torment.
It hurt too much that he'd ruined the Empire. That its loyal subjects lived as slaves.
To aim for the throne, he needed valuable intel from future Crownhold: national trends, climate shifts. Blueprints for airships would be ideal.
Return with 100 years of tech, and no matter how his sister or brother schemed, the throne was his. But what would that mean?
If he became Emperor, the Empire would fall.
He'd live quietly. No more throne ambitions.
So...
Splashhh!
"—Mmph!"
A bucket of water dumped on Irid's head. Looking up, he saw a girl tilting a pail from a third-floor window—her sky-blue eyes wide in surprise.
"S-Sorry! I didn't know anyone was there..."
"......"
"Wait a sec!"
Irid pulled his burlap low over his face and stood. After days of this, even a dousing didn't spark anger. Better to slip out of the alley than get tangled in trouble.
But.
"Hup!"
Splashhh—!
The girl gripped a wall pipe with one hand and slid down!
Her skirt and black hair fluttered in the air resistance.
"...?!"
She landed in the alley in an instant, straightened her flipped skirt with a few pats, then eyed Irid up and down. Her movements had a bouncy, elastic vitality.
"Whoa, you're soaked. Come dry off inside. I'll even throw in a bowl of stew!"
"No, I'm fine..."
"It's chilly out; you'll catch cold like that. Come on!"
She grabbed Irid's hand and pulled him along.
He could have resisted, surely. But he couldn't shake her off—probably because it was the first 'kindness' in three days, freezing his mind.