The Scoundrel Prince Sold Out the Empire - Chapter 27

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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 27: The Imperial Prince of High Society (3)
Eitar Kremiz. A magnate whose reputation echoed far beyond Ainchen, across all of Deber.
So much so that even Zion, who had held the rank of Liberation Army legion commander—a position grand in title but whose actual work amounted to bombing and force projection—knew his name.
‘His entire fortune allegedly approaches ten billion Ruon?’
That meant he held wealth nearly equal to a single nation’s annual budget in his own hands.
Compared to the bounty placed on the Empire’s worst criminal, it was a full ten percent of that sum.
What made it even more remarkable, though…
Zion glanced sidelong at Eitar’s attire.
Ordinary. Even being generous, he looked like nothing more than an elderly man from a modest household.
‘That’s the most frightening part. Not just the wealth itself, but the fact that he’s famous throughout the realm for his miserliness—his eccentricity about money is legendary.’
Eitar Kremiz was a miser of the most brutal sort.
His mansion had over a hundred rooms, yet he refused to clean most of them because he grudged paying the servants’ wages—or so the story went.
It was one of the most famous anecdotes about him. The reason why, surpassing all wealthier men, the name Eitar jumped to mind whenever someone said ‘rich.’
‘At least in Deber, anyway. Well, having such a nature is precisely how a commoner could accumulate this much wealth in a colonized land.’
An Empire subject who had amassed overwhelming wealth in colonized Deber.
In other words, a rogue of the highest order.
‘Winter. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but this won’t be easy.’
It should have been difficult, that much was certain.
“Splendid.”
“Splendid.”
“Splendid.”
“All splendid, Your Highness. But as it’s drawing near to mealtime, might Your Highness grant this humble old man the honor of presenting you with delicacies?”
“……”
“……”
He glanced furtively at Winter, moving only his lips as he spoke.
“Winter. You’re truly a remarkable talent.”
Winter replied with only his lips moving as well.
“No, sir. I didn’t expect this turn of events myself.”
“What?”
His chain of thought had indeed flowed from admiration of elves to the sanctity of the Divine Race, and he had found a breakthrough there.
Yet even Winter hadn’t anticipated that Eitar Kremiz would treat Zion with such lavish courtesy.
“He’s prepared to give everything—heart and soul—just because of being Divine Race. Ha, what absurdity.”
“Indeed. Ha, what absurdity.”
Zion started to grumble further but caught himself, composing his expression.
Winter was sending him a peculiar look.
“Very well, Eitar. I grant you the honor of presenting delicacies to this Prince.”
The old man’s face brightened.
“My gratitude, my eternal gratitude!”
Was merely providing a meal worthy of such profound thanks?
Watching that brightened face, the thought arose naturally.
‘The value that a Divine Race prince’s status carries in the Empire is always beyond imagination.’
Eitar was expounding in detail before him about how he would serve Ainchen’s finest cuisine.
Winter beside him spoke of various plans.
Yet none of it reached Zion’s ears.
Instead, he looked ahead.
The worst future the waystone’s guide had shown him.
To safely prevent that future, he would need to run the shortest path forward.
But there were far too many obstacles in the way.
Unless he could shatter every difficulty, he would have no choice but to turn back.
Or so he had thought until now.
“Silence.”
A brief command. Both Winter and Eitar, who had been whispering or speaking their private thoughts, fell silent at once.
He looked down at the two men for a moment.
That was right—there had never been any need to overcomplicate matters, weighing every consideration.
‘Deber’s sole Divine Race, and moreover—the Emperor’s son. That’s me.’
Watching Eitar’s reaction, he felt it again.
The power that the status of Divine Race prince carried.
‘Yes, I was only cluttering my mind with worry and deliberation. Cut away all the excess, and it becomes simple.’
A reputation as a wastrel causing problems? Obstruction from the First Prince faction and pressure from the Third Prince’s orders?
As long as Zion Riobelt dwelt in Deber, none of it could stand as an obstacle.
Reputation doesn’t matter much when you can simply suppress it with overwhelming force.
No matter what trouble arises in the process, the Divine Race princes—who despise leaving the Imperial Capital—would never come to Deber in person.
‘An Imperial Decree imposed an Exile Sentence on me, so they couldn’t summon me back to the Capital even if they wanted to.’
In other words, no one could stop the wastrel prince of Deber.
Marquess Gabel’s Wife’s interference? It had never been more than a trivial matter to begin with.
“Your Highness.”
Winter bowed smoothly and leaned close, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“Still, openly demanding money while treating him like a fool—that won’t do. Your target is Eitar Kremiz.”
This man was as capable as always. Perhaps it was his gambling background, but his instincts were sharp as a blade.
While he’d been lost in thought, Winter had read nothing but his expression and bearing, yet somehow grasped the shift in his thinking entirely.
“Eitar. I’m thinking of establishing a social club, as Winter suggested. I’d call it Geonia. Would you be willing to serve as its inaugural chairman?”
Thus far, the plan proceeded exactly as Winter had outlined it.
But from this point forward, a prince’s own embellishments would come into play.
“Furthermore, to commemorate my arrival in Deber, I intend to hold the city’s first grand reception. I grant you the honor of hosting that event.”
Eitar’s eyes went wide as saucers, his hands beginning to tremble.
The reaction was exactly as anticipated, and the corners of his mouth rose.
“Y-Yes, Your Highness! I am deeply honored to receive such a privilege…!”
* * *
Dignity does not arise from wealth.
True dignity springs from station.
From titles, positions, honor, standing, renown—all those things that command men’s reverence.
Eitar Kremiz, the secretary-general of the Ainchen Businessman’s Association and chairman of the Deber Colonial Securities Investment Research Society, a formal member of the Deber General Economic Association—the most authoritative bourgeois gathering in the city—and boasting the status of Ainchen’s most famous magnate for three generations, harbored such thoughts habitually.
‘Wealth is like sand. No matter how much you accumulate, there’s a limit to how high you can build.’
So to stand high, to become one whom others look up to with awe—
One needed dignity that springs from station.
Though he’d risen from the common people to become one of the most notable magnates in a sprawling city, he still suffered from a gnawing lack and thirst—living proof of this very truth.
Therefore, the final wish remaining for Eitar, that wealthy old man, could only be to seize the one last thing his hands had never grasped.
“An Empire’s subject beholds a member of the glorious Divine Race…!”
Formal Obeisance. The reverence prescribed by law, to be offered to certain beings.
With hair and beard turned hoary with age, he knelt on one knee before one scarcely more than a boy, bowing his head.
Yet Eitar felt no humiliation—only exultation.
‘The Divine Race… and a prince at that, standing before my very eyes…!’
“A pleasure to meet you.”
Eitar carefully grasped the hand extended toward him.
A handshake… to touch the noble flesh of such an exalted being…!
“That one so high-born should deign to clasp this Eitar’s hand… I shall not wash my hands for a month, that I might honor this glory.”
“Ha ha ha. But then you’ll be unable to shake hands with me again for a month, won’t you?”
“…! Am I truly to be granted the honor of taking Your Highness’s hand once more?”
“You have every right to it, Eitar.”
“…!”
“I’ve heard much about you before.”
“Yes? May I ask from whom, Your Highness?”
“From whom, indeed?”
Eitar had fallen into a reverie of delusion—that someone in a high position had spoken his praise—and now trembled with excitement.
“I know not who it was, but to think someone so venerable and great has spoken of me… I am overwhelmed with gratitude.”
“Venerable and great? Me?”
“Who else but Your Majesty could be venerable and great, my lord?”
It wasn’t flattery—he truly believed it.
In Eitar’s eyes, Zion was a radiant being.
One whose very dignity transcended ordinary men, luminous by mere presence, a noble soul.
A being born into a value that someone of Eitar’s humble origins could never possess.
“You haven’t heard the rumors about me, it seems.”
Eitar naturally knew that the Ninth Prince, Zion Riobert, was called the worst wastrel in the Empire.
“I’ve heard whispers spread by those who envied his generous nature, but how could such a thing be a fault in an imperial prince?”
The Empire had long swathed its throne in mystique.
It had crafted a vague longing in its people merely by the fact of royal blood.
Eitar’s very attitude was precisely what the imperial household desired.
And among the royal family, to be a direct heir—a prince…
Unless one held high rank or position, most imperial subjects would react as Eitar did, merely to varying degrees.
“…This bastard Winter really did choose well.”
“Pardon? What did you just say? This old man’s ears are not what they used to be.”
“Ahem. I was merely thinking aloud.”
After that, the Prince’s attendant began proposing one thing after another.
Judging by the way he kept whispering in the Prince’s ear, he clearly wanted something.
Truth be told, even when first assembling this entourage, the man had reeked of scheming.
Eitar would have indulged any outright demand for funds without hesitation, but he’d never approved of such naked ambition.
‘Phew. At least that’s fortunate.’
Under normal circumstances, the moment he’d laid eyes on Winter coming to call, he would have scolded him sharply—a money-chaser drawn by the scent of coin.
But now it seemed this gray-haired commoner of a counselor enjoyed the Prince’s favor.
Had he made that remark in front of the wrong ears, had it reached the Prince himself—?
‘No, no. That would have been disastrous.’
A sigh of relief escaped unbidden.
Who would have imagined the Prince would regard such a lowborn creature with genuine warmth?
It was most unexpected.
‘No, wait. Put another way—it means His Highness Zion is someone who doesn’t stand on ceremony. He’s refreshingly unpretentious.’
In other words, for a man of the lower classes like himself, Eitar Kremiz, there might well be an opportunity to gain standing in the eyes of a Divine Race prince.
“Excellent.”
“Excellent.”
“Excellent.”
So Eitar resolved to grant whatever demands this gray-haired attendant and the Prince might make.
Wealth alone cannot build standing, but standing begets wealth.
Even if he spent considerable coin, winning the Prince’s favor would allow him to raise his station far higher than any sum could.
Incomparably higher than some secretary-general position or investment research society chairmanship.
‘Though, if this Eitar Kremiz were to be taken for a fool….’
Such behavior would be beneath a man of such dignity, yet that gray-haired attendant had every capacity for it.
To blind the Prince’s eyes and attempt something unthinkably presumptuous?
The identity and pride of a successful businessman who had thrived for decades would see that he paid dearly.
It was as Eitar made this vow that—
“Eitar, become the founding chairman of Club Geonia, won’t you? Serve as host of the opening gala in commemoration of my visit to Deber.”
His hands trembled violently. His eyes widened so far they ached.
Of course.
Of course the Prince was a man of wholly different standing from the lowborn.
“Such profound favor! Kuh-heh-heheheh!”
Founding chairman of a social club bearing the Prince’s name.
A businessman of such intimacy that he would sponsor the Prince’s opening feast.
Today, Eitar Kremiz’s station had risen forever.
* * *
The admiration Litanians hold for the Divine Race runs so deep and vast.
The Litanian royal house crafted it that way.
Deliberate manipulation and artifice for easier rule.
‘I thank you in advance. Your manufacture shall become a weapon for myself, Zion Blije, and for Deber.’
Before his eyes, Eitar was pouring out emotion with his entire being.
Opening and running a social club would obviously require considerable expense.
Yet simply because the Prince’s name was attached, he delighted in it so thoroughly.
“I swear to you, I shall make Club Geonia the finest establishment! I will prepare this gala with all my heart and strength, proving my sincerity and loyalty!”
Sincerity and loyalty? A scoff rose unbidden to his lips.
And yet he was pleased.
The old Imperial’s yearning would serve as a stepping stone for Deber’s liberation.
So instead of scoffing, he offered a gentle smile.
At the same time, he gave the man’s shoulder a reassuring pat.
“Don’t be so formal. When the Divine Race encounters a subject of sincerity and passion, it is their duty to grant reward, and I merely fulfill my obligation.”
“Ahhh! Ahhhhhh…!”
A subject of the Prince’s own sincerity and passion!
Eitar’s eyes had gone blank with bliss.
“I would be most pleased if the gala venue were the most beautiful seaside of Ainchen. Since it would be outdoors, keeping drinks cold will prove difficult. Foods may spoil if the gathering extends long. There must be a good solution… Ah. As it happens, I know of one. Winter.”
Winter, whose eyes had been shining with anticipation all this while, answered at once.
“Yes! I shall convey orders to President Rumio to manufacture multiple refrigerators and coordinate with President Eitar.”
“Good. Do so.”
“However, Your Highness, how shall we select the guests for the gala?”
In other words—how to avoid throwing a party all by himself.
You’ve got your reasons, I’m sure.
“Eitar. Are you aware that the Governor’s Residence is hosting a banquet for dignitaries from the Elpia Federation?”
“Of course, sir.”
Elves, no less—the first day will certainly demand the Governor’s personal attendance to protocol.
The Seielia Social Club’s party preparations are meant for what comes after.
I intend to render it all worthless.
“Ah, yes… So you’ll be attending the banquet, Your Highness. Of course, you must have free access to the Governor’s Residence.”
‘Not at all. I’m just going to storm in.’
For all his wealth, Eitar hails from Ainchen—he’s kept at arm’s length from Seielia’s central powers.
Which is precisely why such a misunderstanding is possible.
“And you’ll enjoy such pleasant company with the elves themselves…”
His eyes brimmed with longing.
So this old fool simply adores anything lofty and distinguished?
“Why envy them? The very next evening, you’ll be hosting and enjoying a banquet of your own making—with them as your guests.”
“Truly, Your Highness…? You mean it…?”
“I mean it entirely.”
There’s no refusing an invitation from a crown prince.
He’ll accept without hesitation, and perhaps even revel in it.
As a foreigner—elf or otherwise—he’d never grasp the nuances of imperial hierarchy.
“Our first meal together should be at the banquet hall itself, don’t you think? It will be far more memorable and enjoyable.”
In truth, I couldn’t waste time being detained by Eitar.
“I’m relying on you. You won’t disappoint me?”
“Of course not, Your Highness. I shall grind these old bones to dust preparing for you!”
Looking at his expression, I half-believed he might literally do just that.
In any case, this matter seems settled.
“Now go. You have my leave.”
The audience was over—a dismissal—yet Eitar bowed profusely and bolted from the room.
Eager to return at once and begin his preparations, apparently.
“Your Highness. Having the banquet hall decorated independently and furnished with a Refrigerator was a brilliant promotional strategy.”
“And you?”
The Seielia Social Club rose to preeminence precisely because the Governor founded it.
So now, establishing a club under my name will dim Seielia’s luster.
The astronomical costs of this undertaking will be foisted onto wealthy patrons blinded by reverence for the Divine Race.
That was the scheme Winter had devised.
“To swallow it smoothly and naturally, it might have been better to take more time, but will this suffice, Your Highness?”
“No problem. Winter, my status is worth far more than you realize.”
‘More than I realize, too.’
“But there’s a problem. To attend the banquet, I’ll need formal attire fitted and court etiquette learned. What shall I do?”
Winter visibly paled.
“Haven’t you already commissioned formal wear from Manager Creina? And Your Highness must learn court etiquette…?”
My true self is a crown prince who’s been rolling in gutters for over a decade—I know nothing of such conventions.
Creina despises Zion Riobert, so she’d certainly try to humiliate him however she could—trusting her is out of the question.
“Must I explain everything? Figure out how yourself. This is my debut in high society, and I’d rather not become a laughingstock.”
The elite can judge a man’s origins by the single finger that holds his fork.
Any other time, I might’ve simply bulldozed through as a wastrel and been done with it, but thinking of the elves, it’s best I acquit myself adequately.
I’ll need sufficient practice beforehand.
“What on earth do I do? Should I hire an etiquette instructor?”
“Hm…”
Winter exhaled a long breath, then Winter did what Winter does.
Produced a solution.
“As it happens, fortune smiles upon us. Please wait just a moment, sir. I’ll bring someone for you.”
“Bring someone? Who?”
Winter’s expression turned inscrutable.
Half shock, half bewilderment.
“I suspect it will surprise you, sir. It certainly surprised me.”

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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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