The Scoundrel Prince Sold Out the Empire - Chapter 26

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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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Episode 26: The Prince of High Society (2)
Zion’s plan to visit the Seielia Social Club had to be postponed when something urgent came up.
A letter had arrived at the Imperial Capital from the 3rd Prince.
“He won’t even treat me like a brother, and here he is, sending me letters all the time. Does the Second in Line of Succession really have nothing better to do?”
Winter laughed awkwardly at Zion’s grumbling.
“I fear someone might overhear you…”
He tore open the envelope. This time it bore Magical Sealing, and the contents, in essence, read as follows.
“The Governor’s Office will hold a banquet to welcome a distinguished guest in the coming days. By whatever means necessary, ensure it is ruined. Do not fear any consequences.”
“The guest must develop a distaste for Debel. It would be best if the Debel People staged mass protests or unsavory elements committed acts of violence. If direct contact proves impossible, fabricate evidence of it.”
“Should you successfully complete this task, henceforth you have my permission to live freely without concern for this Prince’s scrutiny.”
“Huh.”
“What troubles you, Your Highness?”
Instead of answering, Zion tossed the letter to him.
Winter caught it with both hands in sheer fright, reverently cradling a missive from one of the three most powerful figures in the Empire.
“May I read it, sir? If anyone finds out, I fear I’ll lose an arm.”
“What does it matter if only we know? Go ahead.”
Winter’s expression grew uneasy for a moment before he began reading.
“Well? You find it just as absurd, don’t you?”
“I’ve come to understand that the 3rd Prince is quite clever.”
“What? Why?”
“Because the 9th Prince is a bomb… Forgive me.”
“Never mind. I’m a bomb, so what?”
“…He’s throwing you at Debel—or more precisely, at the 1st Prince—while simultaneously having you serve him like a subordinate. He’s converting one loss into two separate gains.”
Hmm. That’s one way to look at it.
“For you to grasp all that from a single letter—you’ve got a sharp head on your shoulders. In any case, isn’t it outrageous?”
“I agree. A command is given, yet there is no reward to match it.”
Zion’s expression grew puzzled.
‘I said that because the task itself seemed too difficult…’
“Isn’t he offering me freedom? That’s no small reward.”
Given that the 9th Prince Zion Riobelt’s notorious reputation is that of the Empire’s worst degenerate, this is indeed an extraordinary concession.
He hasn’t even revealed the gold deposits in Terracard yet, for fear the 3rd Prince would seize them.
“The 3rd Prince’s values, as commonly understood, are thus: he gambles by endlessly raising the stakes to win bigger pots. The world is vast, there are vast lands to conquer, and the Emperor of Litania must be the victor of the greatest game—something to that effect.”
Zion already knew that the 1st Prince oversaw Colony Governance while the 3rd Prince managed Colony Development.
“It would be difficult for him to maintain any surveillance capacity while aggressively pursuing expansion strategies. In other words, he has simply dressed up his neglect—born of preoccupation—in the language of freedom.”
Now that’s cunning. Truly cunning.
Both the 3rd Prince for sending such a letter and Winter for seeing through it.
Well, at least the latter was reassuring.
‘So I’m free to mine the gold in earnest now, then? I’ll need to surround myself with trustworthy people.’
People who would turn a blind eye if he skimmed off a few nuggets here and there—or better yet, people for whom his embezzlement meant greater profit.
“Winter. Draft a plan for executing the 3rd Prince’s task by substantially increasing the Debel forced labor workforce.”
“Me, sir?”
“Or shall I do it? Go downstairs and start the car. We’re heading to the Club.”
When tasks pile up, one must address them in order of urgency.
First on that list was the Seielia Social Club, not the 3rd Prince’s command.
* * *
The Seielia Social Club. Floors two through four had been opened into a single vast ballroom, a space so expansive with such soaring ceilings that it seemed impossible it existed within a single building.
“Explain yourself once more.”
Though he carried certain minor blemishes—such as his notorious reputation as the Empire’s worst degenerate—he was still of the Divine Race and a Prince.
It had always struck him as odd that no club would eagerly welcome a prince as a member to elevate their standing.
‘Now I understand why.’
“How could a person of Your Highness’s stature wish to involve yourself in a provincial social circle such as this?”
The Marquise Gebel smiled with caustic sweetness as she continued.
“Membership is impossible. Isn’t that right, Gaigen? One cannot display goods on a shelf whose value cannot be priced—it is the same principle.”
Zion’s gaze shifted to Gaigen, the department store manager standing beside him.
A businessman he had met once before, years ago, alongside Reizo. He had forgotten, but apparently Gaigen was a member of the Seielia Social Club.
“Do you share her view?”
Gaigen flinched slightly at Zion’s cold voice, then glanced at the Marquise before straightening his shoulders.
“That is correct, Your Highness. You are far too exalted to be measured in monetary terms. Yet neither could we presume to offer you credit, ha ha.”
Winter, standing behind, caught the barb hidden in those words and his brow twitched.
What cannot be bought with money. Reputation.
Debt and credit. In other words, trust.
The bourgeoisie who once coveted the chance to sponsor the Prince alongside Reizo now stood in his corner, denouncing him.
“Since the Marquise is here, I see lengthy persuasion will be wasted. I’ll extend just one more offer. With the Prince, the club’s standing would rise considerably. I offer you the honor of joining us.”
“For a toast to ring with clear, elegant tones, the glasses must be held at equal heights. The Prince’s station stands too singular, too elevated to mingle thus. I trust you understand.”
He had mentioned no hierarchy, only that singularity.
A barbed way of saying he had no intention of associating with common stock.
“Then what of Winter’s admission? As the Prince’s aide, surely his credentials would suffice?”
What foolishness was this now? Gaigen’s brow furrowed as he answered without hesitation.
“That is not possible.”
“And your reason?”
“He is not of Debel.”
Gaigen offered no further elaboration.
His manner suggested he had already said quite enough.
For reference, the Empire had once proclaimed that Debel persons and Imperial subjects stood as equals before the throne.
“The Prince’s aide, much like the Prince himself, possesses such singular qualities that admission would prove equally difficult, I’m afraid. Haha.”
As Gaigen finished speaking, he smiled thinly.
“Is that so?”
A single word.
A smile that accompanied that one word.
“If you insist on speaking thus, I have no choice but to be all the more singular, wouldn’t you say?”
Zion suppressed the habit that still clung to his body.
His fist clenched of its own accord.
Crack!
“Aaargh!”
“Kyaaaah!”
Gaigen crumpled to the ground, clutching his face, while the Marquise shrieked at the sight of raw violence unfolding before her eyes.
“One more question. Gebel was supposed to assume the governorship, and I’m the one who turned him into a vegetable. So what in blazes gives you the audacity to provoke me?”
“Your Highness!”
A piercing cry, shrill and final. The Marquise was about to scream again when—
“Quiet.”
She swallowed the words she had been about to speak, drawn back by pure instinct.
His eyes blazed with blood-red fury.
A pressure that emanated from his very being.
The aura that only the born-chosen could possess.
A gap forged by innate nobility.
Such presence bore down upon the entire room.
“I see the ballroom is being prepared. A party must be coming soon?”
Fresh verdant leaves adorned various corners.
So this was the game: some were welcome, others were not.
He had made his decision.
‘I will become the undisputed master of Debel society within this very club. And I shall do it in grand style.’
His gaze shifted to the stone sculpture near the entrance.
Zion Riobert’s—or rather, Zion Belize’s—social debut at the Seielia Social Club.
No one else would know, yet another meaning layered itself beneath the surface.
“Is it true this club observes the tradition of wishing for the founder’s peace before leaving?”
The reason was simple.
The club’s first president, who had been serving as governor at the time, had been assassinated by the Debel Liberation Army.
“I shall offer such a wish.”
‘Though having died by my hand, I doubt he would welcome the peace I offer.’
Perhaps the peace he already enjoyed would vanish altogether.
Not that it mattered much to him.
With such thoughts, he brushed his hands clean.
“We shall meet again soon. Both of you.”
He smiled coldly, cast a final glance, then turned to leave. Winter followed close behind, and the two departed the club in silence.
“Your Highness, you showed remarkable restraint. Truly.”
The moment they stepped onto the Imperial August, Winter let out a breath of relief and spoke.
Zion looked at him, puzzled.
“I only threw one punch.”
“Exactly. You didn’t kill him. Didn’t make him a vegetable either. And you didn’t lay a hand on the woman.”
What self-evident nonsense…… Hm.
So the 9th Prince, Zion Liobert, was a scoundrel who beat a provisional governor into a vegetative state.
“I can’t just sit back and take it. I’ll become the center of attention at the party held in that club and toy with those two people.”
Marquise Gebel, who has high-ranking connections through Gebel’s network, and Gaigen, the existing member of the club and department store director.
Breaking through the interference of both would be no simple matter.
‘I shouldn’t be the one thinking of a method anyway.’
“Winter. You can do it, right?”
“You want me to plan it again, Your Highness?”
“Should I do it instead?”
To Winter, the 9th Prince Zion Liobert was a ladder to climb higher.
In other words, the prince’s success meant Winter could rise higher as well.
In a position of shared fate, entrusting the future to a scoundrel prince would….
“I’ll draw up the plan, Your Highness.”
“That’s probably for the best, isn’t it?”
“Yes….”
“At least I’ve gleaned one piece of information. The honored guests mentioned in the 3rd Prince’s assignment—they’re likely elves.”
The interior of the club’s party hall was decorated with furnishings evoking nature, which made it certain.
“They seemed to think elves would like forests since they’re the race that tends to the World Tree, but that’s foolish. They don’t actually care for it much.”
“Is that truly the case?”
“Think about it. After coming all this way to a foreign land, they want you to serve their own country’s food. It tastes worse than what they eat at home. How would you feel?”
Winter understood immediately.
“That would be quite dreadful.”
More than that, there’s no life force here either.
Life force is what matters to elves.
“You seem quite knowledgeable about elves. Did you have dealings with them during your time in the Empire?”
“What? No, that’s not it.”
I simply spent time in exile in the Elpia Federation when I was young.
Looking back now, it’s a fond memory.
“Since they’re called honored guests, they won’t be low-ranking elves. In that case, the welcome banquet itself would be held in the royal palace on the first day. The club’s party hall is being prepared in advance to seize the opportunity to invite the elves afterward.”
Winter pondered something before asking a question.
“I’d like to know the basis for your assessment. Surely the Seielia Social Club would be more than adequate to handle the full protocol for an elf of noble status from beginning to end.”
“Because elves are a superior species to humans.”
This wasn’t to say they were inherently supremacist or that arrogance was their nature.
They simply perceived the racial hierarchy as an obvious ‘fact,’ the way water naturally flows downhill.
“To make them feel they’re being treated as honored guests, you have to make the royal palace itself into a party venue for the welcome reception. Only something of that magnitude can satisfy an elf’s elevated sense of self-worth.”
Winter rested his chin on his hand.
“There’s something… just on the tip of my tongue. It feels like there might be a way.”
“What if I just threw my own party and poached the elves? No, never mind—beyond the enormous expense, it’d be impossible for me to draw a crowd with my reputation.”
A half-joking remark that spilled out in the stream of consciousness, then immediately retracted.
But Winter struck his knee.
“Your Highness! That’s exactly it!”
“What?”
“The Elpia Federation is a superpower and an advanced nation—even the people of the Empire look upon elves with yearning and admiration, as if they were a Divine Race!”
Winter pressed down hard on the accelerator.
The Imperial August roared forward with a thrumming sound.
* * *
After Winter spent a day running about, ferrying Zion to his hotel and back, the waiting period drew to a close.
Soon Zion found himself meeting someone new.
“President Eitar, the 9th Prince Zion Liobert has graced us with his presence. Do show proper courtesy.”
“As a subject of the Empire, I pay my respects to one of the Divine Race.”
An elderly man lowered himself onto one knee and bowed his head.
White-haired and lean-bodied, he nonetheless carried the vigor of a young man, and his face bore deep wrinkles alongside an air of stubborn determination.
“Your Highness. This is President Eitar, hailing from Ainchen. If I may introduce—”
He cut off Winter’s words with a wave of his hand.
“I know already.”
The old man was quite a renowned figure.
A man of considerable influence—wealthy enough that even generals of the Debel Liberation Army took note of his face.
“Eitar Cremize. A man counted among the three richest in the port city of Ainchen, am I right?”
Ainchen was the strategic hub the Empire had deliberately developed, controlling both military and civilian harbors.
Yet Eitar was a self-made figure who had risen from poverty to the very pinnacle of that thriving city with nothing but his bare hands.
“That is correct, Your Highness.”
A composed response. His brow furrowed only slightly; his expression and bearing showed no significant change.
For reasons he couldn’t quite place, his voice carried an oddly strained quality.
‘What is Winter thinking? Eitar’s notorious for being a miser—there’s no real benefit to keeping him close.’
It was the secret behind how a pauper from the lower classes had become one of the three most prominent magnates in Ainchen, but conversely, it also meant there was precious little advantage to having him at one’s side.
“What brings you to seek out the Third Prince, Eitar?”
Winter elaborated in Eitar’s stead, who kept his lips sealed tight.
“He says he has something to tell Your Highness.”
“Is that so? Go ahead.”
……
“I said go ahead.”
……
Eitar remained silent, his face rigid and unyielding.
The old man finally opened his mouth after a long stretch of time.
“Your Highness. M-m-might I trouble you to grasp my hand, just once?”
“What?”
Without thinking, he extended his hand, and Eitar seized it at once.
The trembling was so pronounced that the sensation felt distinctly strange.
“Your Highness. I shall be the founding president of the Zionia Social Club, which you will establish yourself. In other words, I intend to cover all the costs and expenses required for the club’s opening.”
Winter’s whisper. On cue, Eitar let out a cry like a child.
“To think I would ever live to grasp Your Highness’s hand in my lifetime… Hngh-hehehehe! My apologies, I’ve lost all composure, hnggh-wahhhh…!”
It was genuinely, thoroughly, entirely bewildering.

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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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