The Arrogant Young Count
The southern provinces had once served as the empire’s breadbasket, blessed with mild weather and fertile soil where crops flourished in abundance. Later, however, a relentless onslaught of demonic beasts and the chaos of war would reduce the entire region to utter ruin.
As a result, a catastrophic famine would sweep across the empire in the latter half of the story.
Of course, the Castrein family would do everything in their power to help, releasing their stored grain as a humanitarian effort and scraping together provisions from beyond the empire's borders. Yet even the mighty House of Castrein could not shoulder the burden of the entire realm when two-thirds of the empire's farmland lay devastated and most of the peasantry had been reduced to wandering refugees. Their own domain, after all, was situated far to the north.
Because the South had been so prosperous and so seldom harassed by demonic beasts compared to other regions, the eventual fallout proved all the more devastating.
So, no matter how lush and idyllic the scenery appeared now, the thought of leisurely sightseeing never crossed my mind.
“Besides, this is Cortez County, isn't it?”
“You are well informed, Your Highness,” Debbie replied.
“The current count is likely staying in the capital, but I heard the young count—who’s about three years older than me—resides here in the city.”
Artula, the City of Radiant Flowers, was a southern metropolis equipped with a Warp Tunnel. It was a preeminent trade hub and the undisputed stronghold of the merchant class. In an effort to prepare his son to inherit the title, the count had reportedly entrusted the entire administration of the city to him.
Precociously gifted in business, shrewd, and exceptionally sharp-witted, the young count was a survivor. In the original novel, even after the South was entirely decimated, he managed to stay alive, eventually seeking out Bibi and dropping to his knees to plead for the southern region's restoration.
Naturally, by the time the South was destroyed in the novel, the entire empire had plunged into crisis. A full-scale civil war had erupted.
Bibi had coldly drawn the line, telling him that she couldn't afford to extend charity at the moment. Instead, she had offered him a proposition: If you want the chance to rebuild the South, stand by my side and help me seize it!
In essence, she agreed to take him on as a subordinate, telling him to put his talents to use helping her while leveraging her influence to accomplish whatever he could. The young count served Bibi devotedly, and once the empire finally stabilized, he was granted full governance over the southern territories and threw himself into post-war reconstruction.
Of course, at this point in the timeline, it was far too early for him to display the solemn resolve, maturity, or seasoned wisdom he showed in the novel. Showered with love by his parents and wielding his extraordinary talents within a privileged environment, he was almost certainly swimming in arrogance.
A faint smile tugged at my lips.
“Even though he knew I would arrive today, he didn't bother coming out to greet me, did he?”
In other words, he was precisely the sort of man who would openly disregard a princess renowned for having nothing in her head besides a pretty face.
In fact, the snub was already delivered.
No matter how tarnished my reputation was or how little backing I possessed, I was still an imperial princess. If the First or Second Prince had arrived, the young count would have been waiting at the station three hours in advance without a second thought, bowing low the instant they stepped off the platform. He might have even beamed and offered a courteous invitation, suggesting they take a tour of the city before departing.
Even if I fully intended to decline such an offer citing the tight schedule of the Consecration Festival, receiving an empty pleasantry was worlds apart from receiving nothing at all. Making a show of indifference—as though it mattered not whether some brainless princess came or went—was another matter entirely.
Debbie tilted her head, clearly baffled.
“Is Count Cortez truly so extraordinary a figure? I find it hard to understand how a mere young count could dare snub Your Imperial Highness.”
To a retainer of House Castrein, a modest noble like Count Cortez likely seemed insignificant. But for me, the situation was quite different.
“Well… his reputation is rather glowing. People say he’s exceptionally gifted for his age. Rumors already paint him as handsome, clever, and exceedingly capable, and he’s even being trained in practical governance on the ground. To someone like him, I probably seem like an utter fool of a princess. Besides, Consort Cleo is obsessed with luxury goods. Since Count Cortez leads the merchant guilds, getting too close to me might put him in an awkward position with her.”
Barbara frowned at that.
“I have also heard that the young master is quite popular in high society, and Her Majesty the Empress once praised Count Cortez as a capable man. Still, they say the family dotes on the young count excessively because he is their only son…”
Even so, the young count was acting remarkably childish. Snubbing me simply because he refused to bow to a princess who was mocked as a simpleton by high society felt short-sighted.
Wasn't social etiquette among parents and children meant to be played differently?
Strictly speaking, the reigning Count Cortez was powerful enough to ignore me; he had no reason to bow his head to someone of my standing. Yet sending his young son to show courtesy would hardly invite reprimand from Consort Cleo. Furthermore, with rumors circulating that my relationship with the Castrein Duchy had improved, one would expect him to at least show his face to gauge the truth of the matter.
As I pondered the situation, gazing out at the quiet surroundings where only a handful of commoners peeked curiously from afar, a priest who had finished speaking with Gregory approached me.
“I pay my humble respects to Her Imperial Highness, Princess Titania. I am Priest Cronen, chief administrator of the Southern Temple.”
He had a genial, pleasant face. Still, given that he had spoken with Gregory before even bothering to greet me, I knew better than to take that geniality at face value.
“The long journey must have taken a heavy toll on you. However, there is still quite a distance left before we reach the temple. If you would be so kind, please step back into the carriage.”
“Very well.”
I offered a polite nod and climbed back into the carriage. Lisianthus, who had gone off briefly to scout the perimeter, pulled his mount up beside my window and grumbled under his breath.
“Every time I come here, it’s mind-numbing.”
“Have you visited often?”
“A few times.”
“I knew the Castrein family paid close attention to the Consecration Festival, but I didn't realize you kept tabs on the South as well.”
“Two years ago, a terrible drought hit the southern lands, and the temple priests were crying up a storm, whining that they couldn't even hold the Consecration Festival properly.”
I searched through my hazy memories. Through the open carriage window, Lisianthus’s profile remained impassive as he continued.
“I don't know what kind of curse hung over the weather that year. Up north, hailstones were raining down in the dead of summer, while down south, the drought dragged on endlessly. The central region around the capital was relatively spared, thank goodness, but I was sent down here back then too.”
“…If it was the Consecration Festival two years ago, did Prince Brian attend?”
“Yeah. Though it felt like it would’ve been better if he hadn't bothered.”
His words jogged my memory.
That was right around the time Prince Brian and Imperial Consort Cleo had kicked up an unbearable fuss.
The imperial court rarely spared a thought for the weather in the distant north or south, so long as the capital remained untroubled. Consort Cleo, however, had harbored grand hopes that if her son performed the Consecration Festival and the abnormal weather subsided, his public reputation would soar.
Yet in a cruel twist of timing, the moment Prince Brian concluded that summer’s Consecration Festival, the weather worsened drastically.
The capital was battered by unseasonal torrential rains and severe flooding. Even the original Titania, holed up inside the palace, had been startled enough to wonder why the skies had turned so furious. To make matters worse, swarms of demonic beasts began stirring across the territories in tandem.
It was an unmitigated disaster.
The Castrein Duchy had moved heaven and earth to contain the fallout. Although the southern border and the capital lay far outside their jurisdiction, the burden had unfairly fallen upon the North to clean up the mess. Even when the northern forces managed to hold the line, other regions failed completely, allowing demonic beasts to spill over into northern territory.
In the end, Duke Castrein had stepped forward himself. He negotiated directly with the Emperor, securing temporary supreme command to reassure the panicked empire and drive back the beasts.
A sudden pang of guilt struck me, and I averted my eyes toward the empty air.
Back then, Raymon had been stretched so thin he practically needed ten bodies—reporting back and forth to the palace while handling endless approvals and field logistics under the Duke. And during all that chaos, Titania had thrown petulant tantrums, demanding to know why he visited the imperial palace so often without ever bothering to see her.
Whining ‘Why don’t you ever come visit me?’ to a man surviving on three hours of sleep a night… she truly had known no shame.
“Claiming she couldn't possibly send Prince Brian alone, Consort Cleo came all the way down here clinging to his side, dragging along twenty personal servants and over thirty supply wagons,” Lisianthus muttered. “Then, shrieking about how anyone could dare draw blood from precious imperial nobility, she threw a fit and substituted animal blood where royal blood was supposed to be offered.”
“I see… It's not something I should apologize for, but I'm sorry to hear that. Still, even after pulling a stunt like that, Priest Cronen chose to speak with Sir Gregory first, didn't he?”
“Wealthy nobles hold all the sway in the South,” Lisianthus explained with a scoff. “The clergy here belong mostly to High Priest Marzid’s faction.”
“While the North aligns with High Priest Ilian?”
“Up north, people get torn to shreds by demonic beasts on a daily basis. Naturally, folks lean toward the side that says, ‘People are dying, so let's save them first,’ rather than listening to that noble-faction garbage about how only a chosen few highborn elites deserve to be healed.”
When the reigning Pope passed away, one of the living high priests would succeed him.
High Priest Marzid, who had backed Consort Cleo, was the figurehead of the Noble Faction, whereas High Priest Ilian, who aligned with House Castrein, led the Commoner Faction. Strictly speaking, Ilian’s faction believed in treating everyone equally regardless of status—arguing that this was the true teaching of the gods.
“Granted, since we’re right next to the barrier and inside a temple precinct, demonic beasts almost never attack this area.”
Lisianthus paused, turning to look at me with a surprisingly complex gaze.