Chapter 13
Chapter 13
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: The Prince, the Flower, and the Resistance -3
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"Do you happen to have a job?"
"......"
Centra's words stabbed right through the Second Prince's chest, leaving his face deathly pale.
"Oh dear, don't make that face! I know it's not easy for imperial citizens to find work... especially someone with blond hair like you."
Persecution against imperial citizens—and especially those with imperial blood.
Irid had experienced it to the point of exhaustion, even if only for three days. Status or no status, he was still high-caliber talent. The position of prince demanded not just authority, but vast knowledge as well.
Civil and martial arts, calligraphy, horsemanship and hunting, formidable combat skills, and encyclopedic familiarity with imperial law.
And yet, he couldn't land a single job.
The persecution had stripped away even the barest chance to struggle.
Irid thought back to his original world.
The empire fulfilled its massive labor needs with slaves. Criminals had their status changed to slaves, and the children born between slaves were made slaves as well.
Until now, he'd never given much thought to the brutality of the slave laws... but perhaps the empire's slave system—and its discrimination against other races—had more flaws than he'd realized.
"At our inn, we, um... help with job placements?"
"...A job?"
"Yes! There are so many people like you, Irid—not slaves, but not treated as free citizens either. There's a little group they gather in. Embarrassing to say, but I lead it... If you're okay with it?"
"I'm against it."
"Ronya!"
The female mercenary Ronya cut in, throwing a wrench in things. She looked up at Irid with a skeptical glare.
"Everyone we've taken in so far has had at least some ID verification. But not this guy. I ran a background check while you were feeding him."
"......"
"Nothing. No trace of a past at all. I even asked around with guys who reach other cities—no one with that bright blond hair and the name Irid except the Fallen Emperor. It's like he dropped out of the sky."
He had, in fact. He'd arrived via a mage's dimensional transfer spell, flung into a future 100 years ahead.
Having crossed time itself, he truly had no roots here. There was nothing to prove who he was.
Irid checked the tattoo on his wrist. Half a day had passed since the stew and the luxury of a warm bath. Five and a half days remained.
The inn's cozy warmth. Centra's worried eyes gazing up at him. The gentle warmth in her gaze. Her hand fidgeting, as if eager to take his again.
Irid looked out the inn's window. Outside was nothing but chill.
He really, truly did not want to leave.
Irid crossed his arms and stared straight at Ronya. His spirit might have been battered by one shock after another, but decades of ingrained habits didn't vanish. He channeled the arrogance of imperial blood.
"Bring me a document."
"...What?"
"Inn ledger, contract, policy draft—anything. Just bring me one sheet. I'll prove my worth with it."
"Hey, you're the one under suspicion here. Who hands documents to a shady character...?"
"You mean the shady character who got beaten for three days straight and couldn't snag a job? Besides, uncertain identity has nothing to do with personal ability or character. I swear it—no harm to Centra."
"Then give me one reason to believe you...!"
Irid turned away, cutting Ronya off cold. No point reasoning with someone suspicious for suspicion's sake. He switched targets. Faced Centra—but looked just slightly aside—and said,
"What do you think?"
"Great! I just happen to have a contract that needs reviewing. It's for a sewer cleaning service—could you check it for any issues?"
"Gladly."
"Hey! Don't ignore me!"
Irid took the contract from Centra. In five minutes, he spotted three toxic clauses, six typos, and one violation of standard employment form.
Five minutes later, he produced three revised versions.
An emperor had to handle every major and minor affair across a vast empire. Naturally, a prince needed monstrous document-review skills—or loyal retainers who had them.
With his faction weak and short on talent, the Second Prince had no choice but to hone the skill himself. And now, in this future 100 years on, it finally paid off.
"...This."
"W-Wow..."
The prickly, curt Ronya stared holes through the papers, hunting for nits to pick, but the gap in intellect between mercenary and prince was vast.
Seeing their stunned reactions, Irid's lips twitched upward—then he faltered, wondering if it was right to feel pride handling a sewer cleaning contract, a skill drilled into him for running an empire.
Twenty years of cultivated princely pride clashed with three days' worth of a commoner's craving for validation.
Such confusion vanished the moment Centra took his hand.
"Ahem, you're hired!"
"Looking forward to it."
Their hands shook up and down.
Three days passed since Irid took on paperwork duties.
Mornings: He woke in bed—his first time learning that commoners used straw instead of mattresses—ate the stew Centra prepared,
processed various documents beside the tsk-tsking Ronya,
and glared at the occasional strays Centra picked up. Ronya did the same beside him.
The paperwork was plentiful, but a prince-level load was light. The mountain of backlog was pulverized by Irid's speed until only scraps remained.
With free time on his hands, he took simple walks.
(Too scared to go outside, so he paced the inn.)
He chatted often with Centra, occasionally with Ronya.
Lately, he'd been checking the clock tattoo on his wrist more frequently. Centra noticed and said, 'Did a bug bite you? I'll put some ointment on it!' It seemed no one else could see the tattoo.
The clock's hand had begun inching from 1 toward 0. Roughly two and a half days left. The end was closing in.
"......"
"What's with the grim reaper face?"
"...Nothing."
"That face and 'nothing'? Guess you never learned to lie, huh, Irid?"
"Not your business."
"You little shit."
He considered telling Centra. That in two days, he'd be leaving for far away.
But if the Violet Magic Tower Master's disciple had mastered dimensional magic...
If she could send him back to the same world, no farewell would be needed.
When he wanted this rundown inn's warmth again, he could just ask her for a dimensional trip.
He regretted not learning more about dimensional magic.
Centra often slipped out when the inn had no guests. Blond-mixed laborers who dropped by would ask, 'Is Centra out again today?' So it seemed she went out frequently anyway.
"Hey, Fallen Emperor."
"What, mercenary?"
Even Ronya's constant stream of insults rolled off him naturally now. The three words still stressed him out enough to ache, but thinking of her as uneducated trash helped a bit.
"Got an errand for you. Go do it."
"My contract's with Centra, not you."
"Go pick up Centra."
"Where?"
"......"
He'd answered too sharply without thinking, leaving Irid awkward with himself.
"...This is why guys with balls are a pain. Head to the intersection by the east adventurers' guild. She said she's buying ingredients—go help."
"On it."
Irid carefully pulled the sackcloth over his head to hide his blond hair. Centra had washed it clean, so no smell.
He grabbed the large basket from the shelf, ready to head out, when Ronya spoke up softly.
"Hey, but listen."
"Speak before I go if you need something."
"No, just... brace yourself. Founding Festival's coming up soon, right?"
"Founding Festival?"
"Yeah. Celebrates the day the Kingdom Alliance beat the empire. In two days."
"......"
Coincidentally, the exact time of his return.
"After the Founding Festival, you won't see much of Centra. We're heading into a new era."
"What kind of era?"
"The era of beer and shouting, obviously. Now go."
Ronya's loaded words made Irid recall the documents he'd processed.
Some had suspicious elements. Diverted shipments, things that could be weapons piling up. He could've dug deeper, but saw no point in the extra effort.
He was an outsider, leaving soon anyway.
He'd decided to ignore that this cozy inn was tied to Resistance activities.
Irid walked the streets of Crown Hall, once the imperial capital.
He knew the terrain inside out from frequent inspections. All the back-alley shortcuts were mapped in his head, letting him evade countless threats.
Like retired soldiers or noblewomen closing in with suspicious encirclement.
With his blond hair hidden, striding confidently, no one pegged him for a slave. He headed to the spot Ronya mentioned—beside the adventurers' guild—and waited for Centra.
"...?"
Thud thud. Thump.
Hasty footsteps. Someone fleeing? Irid calculated the sound's direction and the local layout, mapping the escape route in his mind.
He had no desire to get caught in the commotion.
But if that runner was a killer... and threatened Centra...
A remote possibility, but it nagged at him. Irid hopped the wall.
He waited at the escape route's end, arms crossed. If his prediction held, they'd appear soon. 3, 2, 1...
"Eek!"
The runner slammed on the brakes, startled by Irid blocking the alley.
Outlandish outfit. Black, glossy material hugging her body tight from head to toe, curves on full display.
A full-body bodysuit.
Functional enough, he supposed, but exposing her figure like that—no shame?
Irid looked to her face.
Centra, beet red.
"...Centra?"
"Th-This is—! Escape first, explain later!"
"That way's a bad line. Follow me. This direction's better to shake the guards."
"...Got it!"
Irid vaulted the wall without looking back. Now that he knew whose figure it was, he couldn't bring himself to glance...