The Scoundrel Prince Sold Out the Empire - Chapter 32

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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 32: The Prince of Society (8)
Baron Gaigen thought himself extraordinarily fortunate.
‘I’ve only been in Seiael a short while, yet I’ve already built this much standing. I’m quite something.’
He’d caught the attention of the chairman at the largest and most powerful club, earning himself the Personnel Right.
And the Personnel Right was no trivial matter.
One could even refuse entry to a prince.
“Tomorrow evening is going to be splendid.”
Tonight’s gala had turned to ruin. Some debauched prince had trampled a countess publicly.
But that only made tomorrow more anticipated.
Those who’d failed to enjoy themselves properly tonight would descend upon tomorrow’s event with even greater hunger.
If nothing else, he suspected even those distinguished guests originally planning not to attend would now be requesting admission to the club’s party.
‘Tomorrow night’s stage is ours—Seiaelia’s.’
Without an Invitation Card, one couldn’t even cross the threshold of Seiael’s foremost social club.
Even if that 9th Prince had made such a spectacle of himself tonight, tomorrow he wouldn’t show his face here.
Because no invitation would be sent.
If he tried to force his way in, all the better.
They could heap every conceivable humiliation upon him.
‘How dare you treat Reizon so, Your Highness.’
He’d never been close with Reizon anyway—he frankly didn’t care if the man lived or died.
What mattered was that if he’d been chosen as that prince’s patron, he might have ended up in the same wretched position.
‘Still, I should mention it once more soon.’
Though discussion was already underway, the party would lose all meaning if the Elven nobility couldn’t be secured.
Moreover, tomorrow’s gala was to be the baron’s masterwork—a lifetime achievement.
He’d shipped landscaping artisans from the Imperial Capital by the score.
A tree modeled after the Sacred Tree of Elpia stood at the center, each branch hung with Magi Light Fireflies.
The expense was beyond reckoning.
But the moment those High Elf mother and daughter lifted their glasses of Seiaelia beneath that forest canopy, this investment would return a hundredfold.
He could already envision it.
Himself, swollen with increased standing within the club, lording it over everyone.
His teeth ached merely from imagining it.
‘I can’t bear to wait.’
When the prince left, he’d approach and offer a greeting, slip in a comment.
‘We’re preparing the finest party yet at our club tomorrow, ah, though Your Highness, I fear the caliber might not suit you, so perhaps it would be awkward for you to attend?’
His mouth twisted upward at the mere thought.
It took barely five minutes before everything came crashing down.
“Councillor Eldrithi! I wished to share one final word regarding tomorrow’s gala. Haha, to host such an esteemed guest, we’ve transformed the entire ballroom into a forest! Even the tablecloths have been tailored to suit the grandeur of Elpia…….”
“Ah.”
Smarag set down his glass.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to withdraw.”
His face bore no sign of apology whatsoever.
“Something else has come up.”
“Something else… you say?”
“I’ve promised to attend the prince’s gathering.”
Gaigen’s mind went utterly blank.
A prince. A prince, no less.
Could it be that His Highness the First Prince was gracing the foreign lands with his presence…?
‘That can’t possibly be.’
“And frankly, a party with a forest theme? It sounds positively tedious just hearing about it.”
What was the appeal of a dead tree with its roots severed?
“The prince is hosting his gathering by the seaside, I’m told. His daughter is desperately keen on it, and I confess it appeals to me as well.”
Elpia had no sea. Thus the ocean was something one could only experience abroad—a true sight worth traveling for.
“That is… that is….”
“Well then. Do have a pleasant evening.”
Smarag turned and departed.
Gaigen stood alone in the empty ballroom, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
The forest he’d spent three months cultivating would remain without its principal guest.
‘I’ve made a complete mess of this….’
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought.
* * *
To turn back the hands of time a little.
Zion was still face to face with the silver-haired girl.
‘Ainschen’s delegation is confirmed. That much is settled.’
This single elf girl before him was the fishing line that would reel up the entire diplomatic party.
So making fools of those Seiaelia bastards was as good as done.
The Third Prince’s orders, combined with what he’d already done to the Duchess Gebel, would be more than sufficient.
But if he was going to make demands of the Third Prince, it would be wise to secure a bit more ground first.
‘The execution site needs to be moved to Debher. For that, this much isn’t enough yet. That third son of a bitch—he’s not the type to abandon his will so easily.’
So he’d need to make him eager to grant his requests.
It was at that moment—
‘Wait. Wouldn’t just making him want to listen be enough?’
He looked at the elf girl before him.
“Nocxi Luna.”
“Yes.”
“Does Councilman Smarag wish to see Zion Brijé directly?”
“Yes.”
“Heh heh. There we have it.”
An expressionless face. Eyes like glass marbles.
Yet she looked far more beautiful than before.
She was going to be quite useful indeed.
“Your footsteps are nearly silent.”
“I’m an elf, after all.”
“Convenient. Perfect for sneaking around at night.”
“Like Your Highness does.”
……
“No presence, no sound. You do it better than I do.”
“We agreed not to speak of that.”
“…It’s fine, since it’s the person involved.”
A brief silence followed, then came her reply.
Zion stopped walking.
This smelled very rotten.
“Hey. Elf.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have another Oath Conduit?”
“It’s with my father.”
“Sell it to me. And let’s make a covenant together.”
The conduit came.
It came perfectly.
‘I’ve never seen an elf this reckless.’
The Oath Conduit was fundamentally a Magi artifact that interfered with the mind.
It forced the direction of thought and emotion, making it impossible to break the covenant.
In other words—
“You. Your condition isn’t just a problem with your mind.”
If she lacked emotion, the Oath Conduit would have no effect.
That meant from the start, this covenant was one where she lost nothing.
……
“Don’t avoid my eyes.”
……
“I said don’t avoid my eyes.”
So she wasn’t good at pretending to lack emotion after all.
Strangely, her tell was far more obvious than Winter’s.
His suspicion had solidified into certainty.
‘Quere Stellam Orbita.’
He channeled his mana.
For a human, warmth always glistens in the eyes.
This girl was completely hollow.
But that wasn’t all.
‘Her inner world is hollow too.’
It was silent.
Not the silence of a still lake, but the silence of a frozen water’s surface.
So utterly quiet it was almost unnatural.
It’s as if a hole has been torn through the very center of emotions that ought to surge within any person, and everything is pouring out through it.
As though someone had surgically excised the part governing feeling itself.
‘It’s not something she was born with. Someone tampered with her.’
“So it was you who wanted Zion.”
“Yes.”
Since magitech won’t suffice, we’re borrowing the power of magic—a relic of the old world.
“And you? Do you share Councilor Smarag’s thinking?”
“I had emotions when I was younger, I’m told. I don’t have them now. I can’t remember what they were like.”
She wasn’t even lamenting the loss.
“You don’t wish to be healed?”
“I’m not sure.”
The girl fell silent for a moment.
Then she continued in that same measured tone.
“Father wishes for me to be healed. He said he would give anything to whoever cures me.”
……Eldrithi’s “anything”?
That was rather interesting.
‘If I awakened the Saint Eye, it might be possible somehow.’
In other words, it’s absolutely impossible as things stand now.
It would require magic at the spiritual level, after all.
Without being a true Grand Sorcerer, it would be entirely impossible.
“Could Zion heal me? Father said he’d buy me a country if someone could cure me.”
“How fortunate—to have a father who could actually purchase a country.”
Ironic, considering I’ve lost one myself.
‘I should remember this, at least.’
The weight of the Saint Eye in my pocket felt unusually promising.
* * *
Upon returning to the banquet hall, every eye fixed upon the two figures entering together.
Zion, the wayward prince, walked in beside Eldrithi’s daughter—a woman who might as well be called a princess in all but name.
And they moved as though they’d just shared some confidential exchange.
Whispers rippled through the crowd like waves.
“Is that… Eldrithi’s princess?”
“Why is she with the… the prince?”
One epithet reached my ears.
Eldrithi’s princess?
Hmm.
I glanced sidelong at her.
“That wasn’t my choice. I suspect Father arranged it from behind the scenes.”
“I see. I said nothing of the sort. Go on—Councilor Smarag is watching us.”
“Understood.”
Zion continued walking, searching briefly for a seat.
Even after parting from Nocxi Luna, the gazes of the assembled nobility refused to leave us.
‘Good. Let them look. Let them chatter.’
I combed my hair back with deliberate nonchalance.
Five places. I hadn’t forgotten.
The rumors about this very moment must reach the ears of the five club presidents who refused entry to the wayward prince—without fail.
At this point, there’s hardly any need to say who the true star of tonight’s gathering is, wouldn’t you agree?
The princess they fawned over so carefully had just spent time with someone who wasn’t even invited.
‘Though the time I actually spent was rather different from what they’re imagining.’
That was when it happened.
“A subject of the realm pays respects to one of the Divine Race.”
I stopped walking.
A nobleman had appeared before me, offering a respectful bow.
Straw-colored hair. Imperial courtesy.
Yet the man himself was born and raised in Debher—a true Debheri.
Which meant that hair was dyed.
“Marquess Lemikoning.”
A flicker of surprise crossed the marquess’s eyes.
“I’m honored that Your Highness knows my name. Truly, it is a great privilege.”
“Your name came up during my journey through Debher. You’re quite famous, I hear—weren’t you called the largest wing of the Five Palace Conspirators?”
Lemikoning smiled faintly before answering.
“Some call me that, or so I’ve heard.”
“So what is it you want?”
“Today, feeling the majesty of Your Highness, this humble old man was so moved that he dared commit this rudeness, hoping merely to offer his respects.”
“Majesty, they call it. Most people just call me a degenerate.”
“The world is full of those blind to truth. To think they cannot even perceive the radiance of the Divine Race.”
‘This is unbearable.’
“Does a Debher native see it too? How curious. Surely your people have your own gods.”
“Our old gods were buried long ago with our old lands. But I confess—I have been enchanted for some time by the brilliance that shines like the Imperial sun.”
So this was why Lemikoning earned the title of Five Palace Conspirators.
Like Dechion, a creature who deserved no epithet but “dog,” regardless of his station as crown prince.
‘His tongue work is as masterful now as it ever was.’
In a way, he resembled Gebel.
Yet where Gebel’s tongue was a tool for climbing higher,
the Marquis Lemikoning’s tongue was a tool for licking—
the feet of the powerful.
‘But why is this bastard doing this to me?’
Lemikoning was not the sort to lick a prince stripped of all and cast into exile.
If he meant to lick anyone’s feet, it would be the highest—the one standing at the very top.
Even as Zion’s mind churned with these thoughts, the Marquis continued to work his lips, speaking of having heard tales of the prince’s exploits, expressing his desire to arrange a gathering sometime, all while his face wore a smile whose depths could not be fathomed.
“Which is precisely why I wondered—would you not grace the Seiaelia Club’s party with your presence tomorrow?”
Ah. So that was the real purpose.
He was about to refuse outright
when he caught sight of Winter’s face beyond the Marquis’s shoulder.
Composed, unmoved, utterly expressionless.
The signature poker face of one whose bones had been seasoned in gambling dens.
But—
ever so subtly, his hands were trembling.
“Now that I mention it, you keep a Debher native as your aide, I see. How generous of you to extend such favor even to the lowborn—clearly the rumors do not do you justice.”
Zion let the damnable words of this dog, who called his own countrymen low-born, slide past one ear and out the other.
‘Come to think of it, I did make him a promise.’
It had been well over three months since he’d told Winter to be his dog.
It was time to throw him the first scrap of meat.
“Marquis.”
“Your command, sire.”
“I hate the title of Marquis.”
For the first time, bewilderment crossed the Marquis Lemikoning’s face.
By contrast, the Ninth Prince, Zion Riobert, turned to face him with the most mischievous grin in the world.
“So here’s what we’ll do. Hand over that marquisate to your son and come back without a title. Then I’ll hear you out.”
Zion saw Winter’s hands ball into fists in the distance.

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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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