Thirty Knights and a Spoiled Prince
In the world of Reincarnation Sword God, the Rihnn Empire stood as the main stage of the story. Its Third Prince, Victor, had no shortage of siblings.
Two older brothers, three older sisters. And one younger sister below him, if I remember right?
Shiron pulled a notebook from his coat and ran through what he knew.
A child of the principal wife, not a concubine—but born so late in the emperor’s life that he fell out of favor…
Everything he had was from the original story. Ten years before the plot’s main timeline, this was about all he could be sure of.
He’s around my age, or a little older.
Still, dealing with a spoiled prince didn’t require much more than what he had already reviewed. After fencing with a mind-reading angel, an unproven brat who hadn’t even demonstrated his own ability felt almost easy.
One provocative letter, and he comes running. No caution, pure impulse. He should have scouted a little longer—but a brat is a brat, I guess.
Victor couldn’t possibly be as capable as he believed. No matter how high he flew or how hard he crawled, he was still the Third Prince. The current emperor’s attention was fixed on his grown first and second sons; Victor would not have competent retainers to move like his own limbs.
The first or second would already have built their own factions and stocked them with people ready for a knife fight in the dark. Victor has neither a power base of his own nor a backer willing to reach out a hand. So of course he ends up using a salaried worker like Berta.
Shiron scrawled his assessment of Victor across the page.
Immature. Emotional.
A harsh verdict. He tucked the notebook away and cracked his fingers one by one. The ugly look on his face paired with the wet popping of joints made him look every bit the third-rate villainous young master.
“Young Master. Are we going to thrash that insolent little brat?”
On the way to the prince, Encia appeared without warning—dressed not in her maid uniform but in a tailored suit—and whispered at his side. She handed him a damp cloth she had prepared in advance and beamed.
Lucia, uninterested in the unexpected guest, had gone to wash up. The only people at Shiron’s side now were the two demon maids.
“Yeah. What do you think we should do?”
“I don’t like that brat one bit.”
When Shiron answered with a deliberately sour face, Ophelia—likewise changed into a suit—spoke up.
“It’s already annoying enough that he put his hands on someone you’ve marked. Bringing a whole knight order with him makes me furious.”
“Must have been scared.”
“…Hearing that only makes me angrier. If he knew his place he would have stayed home. Instead he pads out the numbers and shows up looking ridiculous…”
Ophelia growled the words under her breath. Shiron patted her back.
“Settle down. If we wear our hostility on our sleeves, we’re the ones who look cheap.”
“…Yes.”
Despite the sulky look still stamped on her face, Ophelia smoothed her expression the moment she answered.
They walked a few minutes more. At the center of a bright garden, a cluster of armored knights came into view.
He brought quite the crowd.
Shiron snorted and counted the ranks. The force looked to number at least thirty, every man with a longsword at his hip.
And in front of them sat a boy, leisurely holding a teacup.
Slightly curled blond hair. An open, friendly set to his eyes. A mischievous expression that called a little troublemaker to mind. The way he lounged in his chair all but said, I dragged a whole force out here—let’s see how you react. The arrogance was thick enough to taste.
The moment Shiron laid eyes on Victor, a serious thought settled in his mind.
Yeah. Bratty little shit. I want to hit him.
Even so, he made no effort to show his irritation. Throwing the first punch at a cocky child would only make his own side look worse.
“Ptew.”
So he settled for spitting once on the ground.
Then, without so much as a glance at Victor, he set his hand on Siriel’s shoulder where she sat across from the prince.
“Oh! Oppa!”
Siriel whipped her head toward the touch—and her cheek ran straight into the finger Shiron had already raised. He poked her with a deliberately teasing little game and greeted her first.
“What’s the occasion? You’re all dressed up. You didn’t need to. Trying to show off for someone?”
“Of course I was trying to show off for Oppa.”
She bounced up from her seat, smiling brightly as she showed off her dress.
“How do I look?”
Siriel remembered Eldrina’s advice. Her mother had said that when someone praised a change in your clothes, the best thing to do was to let them take a good, long look.
Instead of answering, Shiron poked her cheek a few more times. Siriel rubbed the spot and grinned from ear to ear. She seemed to have taken it as pure approval.
He sent his cousin—who had a gift for looking adorably deliberate—back toward the mansion, then took a seat of his own.
Only then did he glance over the faces arrayed before him. Every one of them looked rotten with offense, which was entertaining enough.
Their foul mood was only natural. To invite a guest and not even offer the barest welcome—when the guest was a prince of the empire—was beyond the pale.
“Good day. I am Shiron Prien.”
Whether they liked it or not, Shiron greeted them as if nothing were wrong.
“…A pleasure.”
Victor returned the greeting with a dazed look. The pair’s complete failure to read the room had knocked him sideways for a moment. He recovered quickly, though, and arranged his face into a smile.
“You seem close with your sister.”
Victor looked from Shiron to Siriel as she moved away. Shiron’s expression turned flat, as if the prince had just wasted his breath.
“‘Seem close.’ That’s a nice thing to say.”
“I didn’t say it to be nice. I spoke with the young lady a little just now. The more we talked, the more I found myself impressed by how deep the affection between you two runs.”
“Oh? Is that so?”
“Indeed. I have quite a few brothers and sisters myself. My older brothers treat me well enough, but the two of them get along terribly with each other. And my sisters have already married off into other principalities, so I found myself rather envious of—”
“Hey.”
Shiron cut him off mid-sentence.
“You didn’t drag that army behind you just to make small talk, did you?”
His gaze settled on the ranks at Victor’s back—knights in armor with weapons at their belts, and mages with staves who looked as if they had come to support them.
True enough, the letter he had sent through Berta had said that if the prince was scared, he was welcome to bring troops. Shiron had expected a few escorts at most, someday. He had not expected this many, or this soon. A force of this size was clearly beyond the Third Prince’s own means.
“Just as I heard. Your temperament is… unusual.”
Victor laughed rather than took offense at being interrupted.
“But I only did as your letter suggested. If I was scared, I was welcome to bring troops—wasn’t that what it said? So I did. Well?”
“Well nothing. Padding out the numbers this sloppily just looks half-assed.”
“W-what did you say?!”
Someone in the ranks behind the prince barked at the provocation.
Shiron paid the small fry no attention at all and went on.
“And what’s this? Dropping the formalities at a first meeting? Are you so young you never learned mutual respect?”
“…Dropping formalities? What are you talking about?”
Victor’s eyes went wide.
“Are you saying this body should use honorifics toward a young master who doesn’t even hold a title?”
“You catch on quick.”
Shiron narrowed his eyes and smiled. Even under the continued needling, Victor only looked confused—but several faces behind him had already lost control of their expressions.
Shiron ignored their stares. Meeting them head-on wasn’t even worth the effort.
He looked Victor up and down as if appraising livestock.
“I heard you wanted to get friendly with me.”
“…Of course. Naturally.”
Victor nodded for the moment.
He had wanted to make Shiron Prien his subordinate—but something told him that saying so out loud would permanently wreck any chance of a relationship.
“What kind of idiot runs a background check first if he wants to be friends?”
Shiron let out a hollow laugh at the awkward agreement and checked the atmosphere around them. Even if these people weren’t Victor’s own, sitting still through this much open insult was strange.
Someone should be stepping in about now.
“Young Master. I would ask that you cease this rudeness.”
Right on cue, an armored man stepped forward. Shiron bit back a smile and curled his lip.
“And who the hell are you to interrupt a conversation with the imperial family?”
“…Igir, aide to the Commander of the Imperial Guard.”
Aide to the Commander of the Imperial Guard.
A confidant of Zad, the Guard Commander who backed the First Prince.
“Your insulting conduct, Young Master—as a servant of the imperial house, I could not simply overlook it. Forgive the discourtesy.”
The words were an apology. His neck and waist, however, stayed rigid as iron.
It was nothing like asking forgiveness. The way he moved—like a man trying to frighten a child—settled a certainty in Shiron’s mind.
The one who lent Victor these troops. The First Prince.
The people behind Victor were not a force that could be mustered this quickly after a single letter.
Shiron was sure someone stood behind the prince.
Then who was it that tailed Berta?
Turning that question over, he moved to the next step.
“Rudeness. Well said.”
Bang!
Shiron slammed his hand down on the table.
“Then was it not rude when you people tailed me?”
The metal table crumpled like paper.
Every person present flinched at the threat. The maids watching from behind jumped as well.
Anyone else? Anyone else who wants to pick a fight with what I just did.
The moment he saw Igir, Shiron was certain.
Igir was not the one who had followed Berta. Nothing about him suited surveillance. The gear he wore had nothing to do with stealth. The fact that he had stepped forward first to settle the situation said the same. He was completely unsuited to trailing anyone. No—thinking about it, the second option was better. Someone willing to use the first man out as a shield and split the aggro. Someone who could watch the party from a comfortable distance.
If the First Prince had sent a confidant here, there was no way the Second Prince would sit still.
How long are you planning to make me wait?
Doubt and anger rose together on Igir’s face.
Grit—
And then a sound of teeth grinding that didn’t need concentration to hear. It wasn’t coming from Igir.
“…What did you just say? Tailing…?”
Igir asked again, feigning composure. The word tailing had made him flinch. Acting rashly here would be unwise. He already regretted stepping out so clumsily.
Shiron pressed him as if driving him into a corner.
“Still playing dumb? Do you know who my uncle is?”
“Enough!”
A man in a black formal uniform burst out of the ranks behind them.
“That’s enough.”
Hair slicked straight back, he adjusted his glasses and fixed his gaze on Shiron.
“I had heard the rumors of a wastrel and wished to confirm their truth for myself. As expected, you fall short of even that. Your Highness, let us rise. A worthless thug like this is not worth our time.”
“Affiliation.”
“…Are the eyes of the great Hero family’s legitimate heir just knot-holes?”
The man spoke in a way that deliberately drew attention to the blue necktie he wore—the deep blue of the imperial house.
“A court magician, then.”
“Correct.”
Shiron answered with a calm that made his earlier delinquent act look like a bad joke.
“Encia. If those bastards draw steel, you can kill them.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Shiron backhanded the man with the glasses across the face.