The Kidnapped Prince is Mine Now - Chapter 36

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Chapter 36
And so, on the day I sought out Wolfgang, he posed a familiar question the moment our eyes met.
‘Who are you?’
That had been early in this life.
Several months had passed since then. Now we found ourselves in the heart of the Snowy Mountains, beset by countless perils, huddled around a campfire.
I turned over the story I’d just heard in my mind.
Marriage to Wolfgang. By his account, it wasn’t an impossible path. Not if I began the seventh cycle again, armed with all the knowledge of this life.
I could even accelerate the timing of acquiring the magical gun. Gone would be those days when, as a powerless Holy Maiden, I subsisted on the Archbishop’s scraps and played the role of a decorative flower screen.
And yet.
“Wolfgang.”
“Yes.”
“Focus on surviving this life. You’re hardly in a position to regress.”
I had no desire to plan for the seventh cycle already.
Why? Because there was beauty in striving to the end with all one’s might? It was a conviction rooted in those distant days when victory and defeat were the sum total of existence.
‘Truth be told, I prefer this life.’
That was honestly my first thought.
It was difficult to voice aloud. For some reason, it felt embarrassing—like an old fool nursing a late-blooming infatuation.
But consider this: the face of Rotar, for instance, who had forgotten every moment we’d shared together.
‘Hmm.’
I might have slapped my own cheek without thinking.
Was this camaraderie? Or something else entirely?
“Commander, we should begin preparing to move soon.”
The knight’s voice from outside the tent severed my thoughts.
I rose naturally from my seat and brushed off my rear. After a moment’s hesitation, I spoke to Wolfgang.
“Forget what you said earlier. I didn’t hear it.”
“….”
Wolfgang, contrary to his usual manner, offered no flippant retort. He simply sat perched on the log, regarding me with quiet eyes.
‘Ugh. What’s with him, really?’
It was unsettling. I deliberately turned my back and headed toward the tent where Rotar was.
Suddenly, words I’d heard before came to mind.
‘No man would willingly accept another who harbors affection for the woman who became his wife.’
And what else had he said?
‘You seem rather oblivious in such matters.’
Yes, that was how it had gone.
Back then, I’d thought only that Rotar’s jealousy was severe.
But I had to admit it now. There was something wrong with my own perception as well.
Why was that? Honestly, I couldn’t fathom what Wolfgang found interesting about me.
‘Could it really be just my face?’
Entertaining such princess-like thoughts, I stepped into the tent’s entrance. There I saw Rotar in the midst of dressing. I approached him and asked directly.
“What do you think is my greatest charm?”
Rotar Eisenrit fastened his belt while answering, showing no sign of confusion at the sudden question.
“I imagine I look rather disheveled at the moment.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yes. I find that quality endearing as well.”
What on earth was he saying? As I glared at him with a grunt of frustration, Rotar approached and wrapped a scarf around my neck.
“The wind is bitterly cold. Please take care of yourself. For my sake, if nothing else.”
He lowered his head and pressed his lips to mine in a gentle kiss, then pulled back with a soft smile.
“…Yes!”
What question had I asked Rotar again?
I couldn’t remember. My previous worries seemed utterly insignificant now.
I hadn’t foreseen it at that moment.
That within mere days, we would become strangers who exchanged not a single word.
***
A week had passed since the Drakenloch Expedition began.
In that time, the varieties of monsters we encountered numbered more than ten. As the weakest among us in this brutal ecosystem of survival of the fittest, we were inevitably targeted by creatures that caught the scent of human flesh.
Demons—grotesque abominations crawling forth from the demonic realm—occasionally appeared as well. Yet their numbers paled in comparison to when Maximilian had descended upon us.
Bang!
“My, Holy Maiden. Your accuracy improves with each passing day.”
Those vulnerable to holy power died without so much as a cry the moment a single bullet pierced them.
The morale of the Expedition Force remained sound. Though many knights sustained minor injuries, none were severe enough to warrant descent. Above all, there was palpable hope that another week of travel would bring us to Drakenloch.
Yet.
‘What if we perish the moment we arrive?’
Information about that place was scarce—desperately scarce. The most recent records were from a war two centuries past, and two centuries was easily enough time for dynasties to crumble and reform.
Once, I had asked Rotar.
“Do you know anything about this alien race?”
“If by knowledge you mean—”
“Anything at all. I’ve only heard they’re grotesquely ugly. I’ve never heard or seen anything about them controlling weather or manipulating corpses.”
“I confess I am equally ignorant on those matters.”
Rotar pondered my pressing question before finally speaking.
“I have encountered records suggesting that the Drakenloch region was the birthplace of ancient magic.”
Why hadn’t he mentioned this sooner?
“The lineage of magic was severed far longer ago than two centuries, or so I understand.”
Though Rotar spoke casually, the information was profoundly significant.
What if the alien race had resurrected the power of magic?
What if flaming arrows rained from the sky and hordes of the undead surged toward us, as depicted in films?
As I indulged in these grim imaginings, Rotar continued, surveying our surroundings.
“Though we simply call them an alien race now, there exist records referring to them as the ‘Belgrum Race’—a name meaning ‘those whom the gods have forsaken.'”
The hostility directed toward this race was starkly apparent in those words.
The more I heard, the more inevitable conflict with the Belgrum Race seemed. If the Empire viewed them with disdain, the reverse was likely equally true.
Yet.
‘The blizzard hasn’t come. Not for quite some time now.’
That torrential snowfall which had seemed determined to bury everything beneath its white expanse had ceased.
Ever since I decided to press forward without abandoning the expedition, I had steeled myself for the blizzard to resume—after all, it was the Belgrum Race’s most effective means of obstructing our advance.
Yet not a single snowflake had fallen since. Why? Did the blizzard have a limited range? Or was there another explanation?
Perhaps…
‘…are they watching us?’
Even as I pondered the Belgrum Race’s intentions, night descended. Rotar halted our progress as the sun dipped low and the twilight deepened—it was time to make camp.
I stayed well back from the knights who were swiftly erecting the tents, gnawing on dried meat that Rotar had pressed into my hands as an appetizer before dinner.
I was idly wondering who had cooking duty today—Knight Hagen made an excellent potato soup—when I heard it.
Crack.
A sound. The faint, delicate snap of a small twig breaking underfoot.
It came from directly behind me.
“…”
I stood motionless, picturing the landscape at my back. Layers of wind-breaking trees and brush stripped down to bare branches stretched across the terrain.
The sound had been so slight it could have been a squirrel or a mouse. No, wait—this cursed Snowy Mountains held not a single ordinary beast.
A small monster? A creature? Or perhaps…
My heartbeat quickened. I quietly gripped the gun at my side. I was about to turn around and locate the source when—
“Shwish.”
Before I could even pivot, a sharp exhalation of air erupted from my side. Not from behind me.
And then.
“…Ugh.”
I felt it. The sharp edge of a blade pressing against the delicate skin of my throat.
“Shiss, sssss, sss.”
What in the world was this?
Whatever had threatened my neck with a weapon seemed to be attempting communication. But to my ears, it was nothing but an unpleasant, grating screech.
“Holy Maiden!”
“Your Imperial Highness!”
Fortunately, this bizarre sound had captured the attention of the knights preparing camp.
All of them—those securing the tents and gathering firewood—turned toward me with expressions of shock.
And Rotar…
“…?”
He was nowhere in my line of sight.
Then the creature making those strange sounds attempted communication once more.
“Shup, shwee, shiss.”
I lowered my gaze slightly.
The arm of my captor—the one not wielding the blade—was pointing at something.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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