My Prince -1-
Opportunities are like hidden treasures tucked away somewhere, always the tastiest kind. Just like in those wuxia novels, where the inner core of a spirit beast lurking in a shadowy cave skyrockets your internal energy.
The opportunity stashed in Histania's warehouse—the home of that spirit beast known as the Knight Commander—had the absolute best flavor. Especially since it belonged to a guy who'd become my enemy later on. Stealing it didn't even raise a sweat; it was pure delight.
Demonic Sword Tirving. The weapon wielded by the Archbishop of Greed, who unleashes a massacre in the capital. Midway through the novel, there's an episode where Malik escorts the sword, but it fails because of a heretic spy. In the end, Malik loses it, and the villainous archbishop uses it to slay the Tower Lord—a brutal weapon through and through.
Tirving's effects were nothing special. It could cut magic. Sharper than any ordinary blade. Boosted sword aura efficiency. It gripped too perfectly, which was its only real issue; otherwise, it was just a plain sword without standout perks. No holy sword ego chattering advice endlessly, no ancient skills to impart. But its cutting power? Unmatched.
The only downside was the black magic aura that drove the user insane—a perfect penalty for a heretic who loved going mad. At the same time, it was ideal for me, with my black magic resistance.
I'd ignored it before because it felt a bit shady...
"Ricardo... that sword sucks."
"It's the one you bought for 100,000 gold to give Mikhail as a gift, miss...?"
"When?"
"Back when you were at the academy."
"Why do you have it, Ricardo?"
"Looked cool, so I stole it."
"Ooh... nice sleight of hand! But... it sucks."
Thanks to the miss's taunt, I steeled myself and decided to steal it. It felt iffy since it was meant for Mikhail, but if it looked even a little badass, she'd have something to brag about: her butler wielding a demonic sword. Wandering around with that flimsy dwarf-made blade would just embarrass her for sure. So I swiped the opportunity.
Absolutely not out of petty revenge for Rowen's weird request. Just... claiming some mental damages.
'Poison Resistance' resists the lethal poison of 'Stealth Potion'.
A potion focused solely on stealth efficiency. One I'd brewed myself.
Potent enough to kill Yuria—the saint candidate specialized in holy power—instantly if she so much as tasted it. But thanks to the poison resistance I'd built up since childhood, only I could consume it.
Only I could brew it. Only I could drink it. A unique brew, though it had the fatal flaw of breaking under aura use. Still, it let me snag Tirving effortlessly.
Black blade. Sleek and razor-sharp. As a demonic sword, it had this classy vibe.
To an ordinary eye, it'd look stunningly beautiful, tempting you to touch the blade—such a sturdy, imposing presence. Satisfied, I flashed a smile and prepared to leave the mansion. Couldn't get caught by the owner.
I climbed onto the roof, ready to bolt without paying—like skipping out on a bill.
"How about apologizing to Hanna?"
A riveting family drama echoed from below the roof.
*
Hanna was crying.
"Why are you doing this to me...?"
Clenching her fists tight, she unleashed all the pent-up emotions at her father, glaring at Rowen with eyes full of resentment.
Hanna had been lost in thought after reading the letter. Why wouldn't he just leave her alone? After ignoring her all this time, why seek her out now? She demanded answers.
"You said you didn't need a daughter like me... So when did you start treating me like dust, and now you pull this? Why!"
"I never treated you like dust."
Hanna let out a hollow laugh.
"Never? Then why'd you dismiss my spars every single time?"
"...Because your brother has the talent to lead Histania..."
"That damn talent. I'm sick of hearing it."
Rowen hesitated, choosing his words carefully, but Hanna's ears, boiling with rage, heard nothing. She hated everything. Standing in this suffocating mansion. Her incomprehensible father. Even the Histania name she'd once been proud of now felt shameful because of him.
Grind.
The sound of her grinding teeth echoed from Hanna.
"I had a feeling... That's why I even opened the letter—hoping against hope."
Plop.
Tears fell onto the discarded letter on the floor. Rowen's words, penned in his stubborn hand, blurred under the flowing tears.
"I opened it hoping maybe you'd changed. Not some 'well done' or 'congratulations,' but at least a 'sorry.'"
"But what is this...? What the hell is this?!"
Hanna's shout reverberated through the silent mansion. Heavy words she'd never voiced in her life pierced Rowen's ears.
She told him she felt like a fool for expecting change, for thinking showing her growth would soften him—even a little. She poured out her fury.
Rowen listened silently to her grievances.
'The best choice.'
That was Rowen's conclusion.
'You haven't seen that illusion.'
An excuse he couldn't voice to Hanna. His sole refuge for rationalizing his mistakes.
But seeing his daughter's tear-streaked face...
Something felt wrong. Had his self-proclaimed "best intentions"—his selfishness—pushed her to the edge? The thought churned in Rowen's mind.
What if he'd trusted her? Been a warmer father? Could they have avoided what the Blue Window showed?
Fear gnawed at him. Rowen furrowed his brow, clinging to his convictions. He was always right. She was too young to see it. He deceived himself.
'I'm always right... Every choice has been right.'
His ironclad belief urged him to yell at her to quit the sword right then. But a deeper twitch sealed his lips.
Rowen forced his mouth open.
"It's all for your sake. You don't get it now, but later..."
Hanna glared daggers.
"For my sake how?"
"..."
"How is it for me...? Dismissing me as talentless? That's for me? Crushing your growing daughter? That's for me?"
Hanna couldn't comprehend Rowen. As a child, she'd swallowed tears, understanding his bias toward her brother's superior talent. But now, surpassing him, she couldn't fathom this blocking father.
She didn't want to. Or obey.
After a lifetime of his disdain—nervously eyeing the family at meals, forcing down food till she choked—why...?
Why never once ask her opinion?
To her unchanging father, Hanna spoke in a hollow voice.
"Some butler from the boonies told me."
"..."
"That I have talent."
Words she'd never heard from family, from a total stranger. Back then, she'd thought it nonsense, eyed him like a madman.
But now? He was the fairy-tale prince who'd let her endure. A beam of light in her self-loathing darkness. It swelled her chest.
Was this love? No, right now, she just desperately wanted to see him. Vent her injustice. Ask if she was doing well.
Tears brimming, she told Rowen—grinding her teeth—that someone a hundred times better existed.
"He said... 'If I beat someone you thought unbeatable, would you believe it?'"
"At first, I thought he was crazy... Just spouting sweet lies for money. But the real kicker?"
Hanna stared straight at Rowen.
"His obvious lie felt so good, I laughed... like a madwoman."
Clang.
She dropped the sword emblazoned with the Histania crest.
"Dad... you think this is right...?"
Hanna's shoulders trembled. Rubbing her eyes, sobbing uncontrollably, her overflowing heart left her speechless. His "for your sake" had choked her near to death.
Her chest ached madly.
"You know...?"
A memory surfaced.
"A stranger told me."
Fists clenched, panting, she barely forced it out.
"Keep swinging that sword, and I'd die. Starved for praise, I'd kill myself for a scrap of attention..."
She'd thought she wouldn't. But peering deep inside...
Hanna had to admit it.
"Thought it was a lie... But back then, I really might've."
Her eyes blazed with certainty into the void.
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Hanna felt she'd never face her father again.
"I don't know what you want, Dad. But... if."
She sighed deeply.
"If I die."
Her dagger words struck.
"You killed me."
Rowen's face paled coldly. Only seeing her tearful visage did he realize something was wrong.
But the water was spilled.
His voice trembled.
"Still... I... did it for you..."
"Stop it!"
Malik clenched his fists and yelled at Rowen. He couldn't bear more of this spectacle.
Aware of his complicity in enabling it, he refused to let Hanna hurt further. Bracing for his father's wrath, he drew a deep breath.
-Crack...! Clatter-crash!
A familiar face plummeted from the ceiling.
Malik stared in bewilderment.
The red-haired man sat flustered, eyeing Malik with a "not like this" expression. Malik mirrored the absurdity.
The ceiling crasher muttered.
"What kinda roof is this weak...?"
Grumbling irritably, he scanned the room slowly. Glaring at Rowen. Smiling at Malik. Winking at Hanna.
Scratching his head, he grinned brightly at Rowen.
"Father-in-law, fancy a sunny burial spot?"
Hanna's heart pounded wildly.