Chapter 18
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Translator: Wjin
Chapter: 018
Chapter Title: Heretic King (4)
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I unfolded the letter bearing the seal of the Prague city council and read it.
The expensive parchment was filled with all sorts of flowery rhetoric and honorifics, but stripping it all away left just one key point.
"What do they say in Prague, my lord?"
"They're not sure about crowning me king just yet, so they'll seat me as regent first and see how I do."
Janos tilted his head.
"Regent? Will you accept that offer?"
"Hmm... But I do plan to go to Prague."
I let out a light chuckle and casually tossed the letter from Prague onto the table.
'Looks like the prestige of being Charles IV's bloodline carries more weight than I thought. This confirms it—they absolutely can't afford to let me go.'
I smiled confidently.
'Prove my worth? Fine. But I'll do it my way, not yours.'
I immediately summoned Sir Kuno.
"Sir Kuno, select ten soldiers to take to Prague. Equip them with the finest armor and weapons we have, polish them spotless until they shine like elite guardsmen. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord! We'll show them the might of Sternberg!"
For this trip to Prague, only Janos would accompany me among the retainers. Someone had to stay behind and guard the castle.
A few days later.
I rode out of Sternberg Castle's gates with ten cavalrymen clad in gleaming plate armor and Janos at my side.
The entire populace of Sternberg territory had gathered in front of the gates.
Though their faces were smeared with dirt and their clothes ragged, not a single one looked pitiful. Instead, their faces brimmed with the vitality of a new future.
They silently paid their respects, seeing off their lord as he departed for Prague.
Clop, clop—
Sternberg Castle's gates receded into the distance behind us. The ten cavalrymen formed a tight formation around me, their hooves beating a steady rhythm.
Janos shadowed me like a ghost, his sharp gaze scanning the surrounding forests and hills. His hand hovered over his sword hilt, ready to draw at any moment.
"My lord, are you sure this is wise? Just ten escorts seems far too modest an entourage. What if we run into bandits...?"
"It's fine, Janos. This is actually safer."
I spoke in a steady voice, gripping the reins.
"Marching in with hundreds would look like an invasion, not diplomacy. We're not going to fight. Ten elite cavalrymen are enough to display our dignity without provoking their suspicions."
Half truth, half bluff.
"...If that's your will, my lord."
Janos looked dubious but didn't press further.
'Truth is, I don't have any more troops to bring.'
I swallowed a bitter smile inwardly. The castle's garrison of just forty had been decimated or wounded in the last two bloody battles. Fewer than twenty could wield a weapon right now.
The treasury was empty, and the granaries were so bare even the rats could hold a convention. This trip to Prague was an all-or-nothing gamble with everything we had left. Failure meant no future for Sternberg.
Once we left Sternberg Woods, the scars of war lay bare along the road.
Fields that once rippled golden were now barren wastes, and the charred skeletons of farmhouses stood like grotesque monuments by the wayside.
Travelers we passed shrank back in fear at the sight of our gleaming swords and armor, and Sternberg's banner.
Their faces were etched with deep-seated fear and distrust of war.
"...Janos, how are the common folk faring these days?"
The question slipped out unbidden.
"Who knows. They're just waiting to see who wins."
Janos replied indifferently.
"If Sigismund wins, they'll cheer for the emperor. If the Hussites win, they'll wave the chalice. Whoever hands out bread becomes their god. Most just want this endless war to end so they can plow their fields again."
Janos's cynical words captured the reality of this land. An era where survival trumped nation or faith.
After days of hard riding, the skyline finally appeared: hundreds of Gothic spires piercing the heavens beyond the Vltava River.
The capital of the Holy Roman Empire.
The heart of the Bohemian Kingdom.
Prague.
The majestic Prague Castle atop the hill and the massive walls encircling the city stood as silent testament to their grandeur.
"...It's huge."
Even Janos couldn't help but gasp. It dwarfed Sternberg beyond comparison.
How many souls teemed within those walls?
To my eyes, accustomed to modern skyscrapers, it just looked like a well-preserved medieval theme park.
But as we passed through the gates, the air itself felt denser. The heat from throngs of people, the assaulting din on our ears.
...And the stench of filth that stabbed our noses and throbbed in our heads overwhelmed us.
'What the fuck...'
Sternberg Castle had been bad enough, but a metropolis's filth was on another level.
Human waste, animal dung, rotting food scraps, the foul chemicals from tanneries, and underlying it all, the sweat of unwashed masses.
People emptied chamber pots from windows onto the unpaved streets without a care, mixing into a perfect breeding ground for plague.
At least it was winter; summer would've doubled the reek.
In the midst of that stench, Janos spoke casually.
"Prague's air is definitely different from Sternberg's. So full of life."
Life? This was the breath of decay.
"So, how do you plan to handle this massive city? Straight to the city council for the regency?"
Abandoning nasal breathing, I panted through my mouth to reply to Janos's question.
"No—cough! No."
My voice came out nasal for a moment. I cleared my throat quickly.
"We're heading to the Old Town Square."
"The square? Not the council? Don't we need to put those arrogant old fools in their place?"
"Why crawl into the viper's nest ourselves?"
I flashed a faint smile.
"Better to make them come running."
Prague's nobles and high clergy.
They were probably huddled in the council building right now, scheming how to sweet-talk me into being their puppet.
I had no intention of begging those sly nobles and theologians for a crown.
A crown must be seized by one's own hand to bear its weight.
Our procession veered from the main road to the council and spurred toward the Old Town Square, the city's beating heart.
In the chaotic streets of Prague, we stood out like a sore thumb.
Polished steel plate, proud steeds, and two banners fluttering at the lead.
Sternberg's eight-pointed star on blue, and Bohemia’s two-tailed lion.
Pedestrians parted, murmuring in awe and suspicion at the banners.
"Who are they? Knights from which house?"
"That banner... Sternberg? The ones who torched the Hussite army not long ago?"
"But why the king's colors...?"
Curiosity swelled into a wave. The crowd ballooned like iron filings to a magnet, trailing our procession in droves.
At last, the Old Town Square came into view. The twin spires of the Týn Church, the Old Town Hall with its astronomical clock.
The square pulsed like a living beast: vendors' cries, ceaseless hammer strikes from forges, children's laughter echoing through alleys.
"My lord, we're at the square as you said... but what exactly do you plan to do here?"
Janos's voice betrayed anxiety. The stares from all sides weighed on him too.
"Just watch."
I spurred my horse unhesitatingly toward the epicenter of the noise.
A path cleared through the thousands in the square. Their gazes pierced like blades.
I kept an arrogant facade, as if I owned the world, but my heart pounded wildly.
Cold sweat trickled inside my armor; my palms were slick, nearly slipping the reins.
This crowd could hoist me to the throne in an instant—or drag me down and tear me apart like a wild beast.
One misstep, one wrong word, and it was over.
'Calm down. This is the most important presentation of my life. Audience of thousands. Topic: the nation's future. Fail, and it's death.'
I halted my horse dead center—the very spot where Jan Hus's statue would one day stand. My ten cavalrymen reined in as one.
The clanking ceased, and like magic, the square's clamor faded.
Vendors fell silent, children hushed. The murmurs receded like a tide, leaving heavy silence.
Thousands of eyes.
Thousands of breaths held.
All focused on one man.
I gripped my pounding heart and slowly opened my mouth.
Vojtěk, an ordinary citizen of Prague, hacked up a cough from deep in his lungs.
"Cough, cough..."
In this damned era, being an "ordinary citizen" meant living in hell as a sinner.
War. It was all because of that fucking war.
Sigismund the emperor and the Hussite heretics. Their blade dance had sent rye and oat prices skyrocketing.
Vojtěk, who sold pretzels at the market, couldn't endure the soaring costs, council taxes, and church tithes. He had to shutter his stall.
Men were conscripted and never returned; taxes grew heavier each year.
His only son, Josef, had been dragged off too.
For the "emperor's glorious crusade," they said.
The boy never came back, even after the emperor fled. All that remained was a fresh ink notice of death at Vyšehrad.
Since then, Vojtěk fell silent; his wife prayed tearfully before the Virgin each night.
The priest prattled that he'd died for God's glory and gone to heaven, but Vojtěk scoffed.
'Great martyrdom my ass... Just a dog's death.'
His son had likely died namelessly as some noble's shield fodder, screaming in the mud.
All he had left was his ailing daughter, Anna.
Her feverish, rasping breaths through the night crushed his heart.
The doctor said medicine was needed, but Vojtěk's pockets held not even enough for tonight's bread.
'Goddamn it...'
Clutching his empty stomach, he pushed through the crowd. Porter work, even cleaning horse shit—anything.
Miss today's wage, and his wife and daughter starved.
The square bustled as always, but tension simmered beneath the vitality. More worry than smiles on faces.
Then.
Clop, clop, clop.
Arrogant hooves cut through the din.
Knight in shining plate parted the crowd.
'Noble procession.'
Vojtěk spat on the ground and hurried aside. Block the way, and the whip would fly.
His eyes held contempt, indifference, bone-deep fatigue.
Two banners fluttered at the front: blue-field eight-pointed star and Bohemia's lion.
'Sternberg?'
He'd heard. Young lord who smashed a Hussite army down south.
But what did it matter to him? Just nobles slaughtering each other.
Clop, clop—
Yet the young lord ignored the council and rode straight to the square's heart.
His boldness drew murmurs; the crowd parted, sweeping Vojtěk closer.
'Just a kid...'
Too young for the rumored hero. But his eyes were deep, chilling beyond his years.
At last, he spoke.
"Hear me, citizens of Prague!"
The booming cry made Vojtěk flinch.
"I am Ulrich von Sternberg! Son of the great Emperor Charles IV's youngest daughter, Princess Eliška! Today, I stand here to claim my rightful crown of Bohemia!"
Vojtěk snorted.
'Here to brag about bloodlines. Good for you.'
More power games among them.
Boasting greatness, demanding fealty.
Worlds apart from worrying about tomorrow's bread.
The noble was mad or drunk—demanding a crown in the marketplace?
Vojtěk turned away; not worth hearing.
His sick daughter's face flickered in his mind.
"...But! I did not come merely to flaunt my blood! I come to speak of the plague afflicting this Europe... Its name is the Roman Catholic Church."
Vojtěk's feet froze to the ground.
He doubted his ears.
What did that noble just say?
Plague? The Roman Catholic Church a plague?
That was blasphemy worthy of the stake—unspeakable.
"Behold the world around you! The pope, self-proclaimed vicar of God, sends questioners to the pyre! The emperor raises crusades for a mere crown, massacring his own people!"
Massacre.
The word stabbed Vojtěk's heart.
His dead son Josef's face rose. Died for the emperor, they said.
But that emperor was now mustering another crusade to slaughter Bohemians.
Then what the hell did his son die for?
"Is that all? Nobles squeeze your blood and sweat in taxes! Priests guzzle wine with indulgence money! Is this God's will?! The world the Lord desires?!"
Vojtěk recalled the parish priest back home.
Belly wobbling as he visited widows.
His parents gave their life savings for "heaven tickets" to that bastard.
Did they reach heaven? Who knows. What was certain: Vojtěk inherited nothing but poverty.
He'd fled the village to escape it, only to find more grinding want in Prague.
Yet this young noble spat the words Vojtěk couldn't utter even drunk—in front of him.
"The great teacher Jan Hus spoke truth! He cried that the Church is rotten to the core! Yet emperor and pope branded him heretic and burned him alive! Out of fear for the voice of truth!"
Sobs erupted across the square.
Jan Hus. The only one who'd stood for the poor and powerless.
Vojtěk remembered sneaking to his sermons in youth, heart aflame.
"Right!"
"The emperor's a traitor!"
Cries swelled; the square united.
Vojtěk realized he wasn't alone. His rage mirrored the crowd's.
"And today! I come to carry Jan Hus's cause! I will make the Four Articles of Prague my law! I will be king not of the Holy Roman Empire or Rome's Catholics, but for the Bohemian people alone!"
Vojtěk forgot to breathe. His heart raced.
Kings were always aloft, taxing and warring disasters.
A king for us?
For Bohemians alone.
A thought never dreamed.
"In my kingdom, salvation shall not be sold! Noble crimes weighed same as common! Tithes shall feed and shield the starving, not fatten priests! This is my promise!"
Noble and common sins equal.
Heaven and earth remade. Madness.
But... if true?
If such a world came?
Shing!
The young noble drew his sword high.
Prague's sun blazed off the blade.
"Then answer me, citizens of Prague! Will you take me as your king?!"
World halted in brief silence.
Vojtěk clenched fists; nails bit flesh.
A world where hard work bought his daughter's medicine.
Where sons like Josef didn't die pointlessly.
If such a world came.
If this man made it.
Vojtěk had to answer. Miss this, no second chance.
For lost son, hungry wife, suffering daughter.
He summoned a lifetime's pent-up rage from his lungs and roared.
"Our... king!!"
His cracked voice was the signal for the square's explosion.
"Raaaagh!!!"
"Our king!"
"New Charles!!"
Like a dam bursting, cheers erupted from every mouth.
Vojtěk screamed till his throat bled. Tears mixed with dust on his cheeks.
Lifetime of oppression, rage, son's loss poured out in hot sobs.
King.
Our king.
Not inept Václav, liar Sigismund.
For us. Bohemia's king.
He embraced a stranger beside him and wailed.
"Long live King Ulrich!!"
No coronation, no pomp.
But in this instant.
Ulrich von Sternberg became Bohemia's true master in name and deed.