Ghost Chess King (1)
Second Prince Int. He's a sharp-minded young man of twenty-six, with long black hair and sharply angled eyebrows. Pale skin, dark eyes. A fan and an abacus in his hands. No matter how you look at him, he screams, "I'm all brains."
Right now, he's reading an official dispatch from the Midland Empire—the central superpower and current strongest nation on the continent—and letting out a deep sigh.
"What is it, Your Highness?" Desk, the chief minister, asks.
Int replies with a grim expression. "You know about the academy in Midland that only royals and high nobles can attend, right?"
"...Yes."
"They're demanding we send students for this year's intake."
The great empire of Midland is infamous for gathering one or two royals from every nation like this. In peacetime, they arrange political marriages with the empire's high nobles or low-ranking royals. In wartime, they hold them hostage and demand ransom.
But that's not all. The talents who enter Midland Academy undergo relentless brainwashing over four years of education. By the time they start thinking it's better to serve Midland than rot in some backwater nation, they're hit with lavish offers—huge salaries, high positions. The resulting brain drain across the world is severe, but no one dares protest against Midland's overwhelming national power.
"Hmph..." Int strokes his chin.
Rok is a small peripheral kingdom, so they have to send at least a royal to save face. And attach a few aides to support him. Four years later, the royal might return, but those aides who left to serve him? Questionable.
But they can't send incompetents. Midland Academy uses magic tools to test entrants' aptitudes on the spot. No talent? Instant rejection—"buzz off." That's a national embarrassment, advertising to the world how talentless the kingdom is. Naturally, it leads to a drop in prestige and invites invasions from enemies.
"Cunning Midland bastards. Picking on weak nations so openly." Int grinds his teeth.
He never intended to send anyone to Midland Academy in the first place. Not out of familial affection, but pride.
"I swore before Father's portrait. I'd protect this nation, make it the greatest—by any dirty means necessary."
"..."
"I won't bow to scum who just want to steal our talent. Hmph, like hell."
Int tosses the dispatch straight into the fireplace. It catches fire with a whoosh.
"Whoa, Your Highness. Is that wise? The opponent is the great empire of Midland."
Desk tries to dissuade him, but Int seems deaf to it.
"My brains are more than enough. If I become king, Rok catching up to Midland isn't impossible."
"..."
Ambition burns in Int's eyes. The dispatch smolders, filling the air with acrid smoke.
Then, a knock at the door. In steps the Outdoor Captain of the Black Yack Knights. He bows apologetically.
"We... failed."
Int covers his face with his hand.
Desk sneers at the captain. "You went out with all that explosive powder and blizzard scrolls... and failed? Where'd Phantom Thief Kid run off to?"
"Some elf named Hotse handed us our asses. He's critically wounded, locked in the underground dungeon now."
"Pathetic. All of you."
"What'd you say?"
The captain's eyebrows shoot up. A mid-level Sword Master's aura seeps from his body.
But Desk is a Sword Master too. Beginner level, sure, but rankings are just mana-based. In tight indoor quarters—Desk's specialty—he can punch above his weight.
As the tension thickens...
"What the hell are you two doing?"
Int cuts them off coldly. His sharp charisma silences both men instantly.
"Don't raise your voices before Father's portrait."
"Forgive us!"
Desk and the captain bow deeply. Their obedience to Int is plain as day.
"Haa..." Int sighs heavily. "We can't leave the throne vacant forever. Before Midland's pressure ramps up, we need to stabilize the domestic situation..."
Before he finishes, disaster strikes.
Crack-crack-CRASH! The palace roof shakes violently, then thud—drops away. Like a giant yanked it off whole.
"Wh-what!?"
Int, Desk, and the captain snap their heads up. With the roof gone, starry night sky—and seven faces—peer down.
"Ah! There he is! That's Second Prince big bro!"
"Three of 'em."
"Shh... fi-re... don't... catch?"
"Ho ho ho. Kinda gross up close, though."
"Beep! Black hair one's Int."
"Heh heh! Ahh, this is the u.lt.i.mate pinch."
Roin, Cliche, Kubelin Hotse, Unicef, AlphaGo, and Diablo. They've somehow ripped off the roof and are peering inside.
Int bellows at Cliche. "What the—you're flipping rocks like bug-hunting kids! Who the hell are you!?"
"Oh? It talks!"
"...Bluntly treating us like bugs, huh."
Anyway, the Pink Dragon Knights drop one by one before Int. Roin clambers down last on a rope, all timid-like.
Cliche drawls lazily. "Int. You're under arrest for treason."
Int grimaces in disbelief, then chuckles.
"You know what they call a millstone handle?"
"Absurdity."
"Right. You grab the millstone to grind beans, but the handle's gone. How's that feel? Absurd, right? That's me right now."
"..."
"Utterly absurd."
"Sounds familiar."
Cliche tilts his head. Int lounges like a vet, cigar in mouth. Desk and the captain step forward, jaws set. Two Sword Masters.
Normal folk wouldn't even dream of facing them, but...
"Shh... wha'... fi-re... why's... it lookin'... all caught already...?"
Bored-faced Hotse draws her kukri and saunters forward. Facing two Sword Masters without a care.
Clang! The captain blocks her with his black longsword. Thick liquid aura drips from the tip.
Aura density means power: gas to liquid to near-solid, the stronger it gets.
Shing. Desk draws his rapier too. Black gaseous aura billows up—near-liquid, like a restaurant auntie's "two-person" portion that's really for three.
At once—clang! Three blades clash.
"Tch!"
The captain twists away fast. He knows Hotse's strength from the sports festival.
Schwick! His thigh dagger flashes out, wrapped in black aura, stabbing at Hotse's side.
But—pop! Hotse bends backward at the waist like rubber, upper body only. The captain freaks at the elasticity.
Thwack! Her long leg snaps an overhead kick. He barely blocks with his arm.
But—snap. Something tears. Bone? Ligament?
'Guh!?' Whatever it is, it hurts like hell. The captain winces.
"Blocked?"
Hotse's thick, moth-antenna brows twitch. The captain freezes. Killer intent! Spine chills.
Her blonde hair dyes blood-red before his eyes. Golden irises too.
"Wh-what?"
First he's heard of an elf's hair changing color. The captain grips his dagger, steps back—or tries to.
Splat! Before his foot hits ground, Hotse's fist flies.
Squish! Big snail crushed. The captain's head lolls. Nose explodes—double nostril gusher.
"Damn!"
Desk launches a combo. Hotse low-kicks nonchalantly.
Crunch! Desk's leg buckles; he drops to one knee.
Beginner and mid Sword Masters. Both kneel—in seconds.
"Impossible!"
Int jumps up from his seat. To normals, the fight ended in a blink.
"Wha'! You lot... whatcha wanna do? Fetch yer ma 'n pa...?"
Hotse yanks their beards, shakes.
"Kill us!"
The two shout defiantly. Hotse turns to Roin.
"How's... we do 'em...