The Scoundrel Prince Sold Out the Empire - Chapter 33

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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 33: The Prince of High Society (9)
Imperial Capital. The Third Prince’s Palace.
“We’ve tripled the Prison guard rotation. Construction on the Execution Platform begins in seven days.”
Steam rose from the teacup.
Gareon Riobert sipped the tea without a sound.
“The spectators?”
The chamberlain continued his report, passing over a document.
“We’ve completed a preliminary roster of major figures from each faction and envoys from the vassal states. As you’ve ordered, we’re assembling the most distinguished attendees possible.”
“The First Prince’s faction?”
“Well, that is…”
“It seems they won’t be coming. The execution of the Empire’s worst criminal, and yet.”
Gareon sipped his tea again without blinking.
“The more squeamish spectators there are, the more festive the celebration becomes.”
“Your words are most wise.”
Everything was proceeding smoothly.
‘Zion Blieze. Because of you, I draw one step closer to the Divine Seat.’
Commander of the Liberation Army. The last ember of the fallen realm of Deber.
If he crushed it underfoot. If he burned away every last moth drawn to the flame.
Then His Majesty would have no choice but to look upon him with renewed favor.
“The ceremonial altar at the execution platform has been designed in the triumphal style. Additionally, on that day…”
“Enough.”
He set down the teacup.
“All that remains is the date itself.”
The Third Prince was typically devoid of emotional expression, yet now he was different.
There could be no delays. There could not be.
His lips curved into a satisfied smile of their own accord.
Had the chamberlain noticed the edge of his report dampening with cold sweat in his own trembling hands, the conversation would have taken a different turn.
“Ah, Your Highness. An urgent dispatch has arrived from Deber.”
“From Deber? That would be Zion, then.”
“Well, there is also a matter concerning the Ninth Prince. But that’s not the main point.”
“How could the cursed fool not be the main point? Speak.”
“Yes, Your Highness. The Ninth Prince publicly—that is, he trampled the Marquise of Gabel at an open gathering. He heaped scorn upon her regarding the death of the Marquis, which she had been concealing. Afterward, the Marquise was carried away with attendants supporting her…”
“The wretch has done his part. Nothing of consequence.”
He was to cause a disturbance in the forecourt of the First Prince.
It was a command he himself had issued.
Casting that dung heap into Deber had proven its worth.
“Wait. If that’s not the main point, what is?”
“That is…”
The report grew damper still. Instead of speaking directly, the chamberlain presented a letter on a gold tray.
The Third Prince, upon seeing the seal of the First Prince, reached out with an expressionless face.
“This urgent dispatch from Deber was received via the communication station, and the First Prince wrote this letter in immediate response.”
The entire contents amounted to no more than two sentences.
[The delegation from the Elpia Federation has made a strong request for a meeting with Zion Blieze.]
[As they are honored guests of the Empire and a nation to become our ally, it is proper to arrange an audience before the execution.]
[First Prince Lireon Riobert.]
For the First Prince to take direct action, it must surely be Eldrich.
His reason for inquiry was doubtless curiosity about the Great Mage—or a need for research.
The Seven Houses and the master of the Divine Seat would certainly take interest as well.
Glug.
He drank from his cup and gazed into it.
The ripples subsided, and his own face reflected back at him.
Tranquil.
‘They wish to speak with Zion Blieze…’
He likely thought it a trivial request, given that the man was imprisoned in the Empire’s Execution Platform.
But.
How could he produce a man who had already escaped?
Though he had prepared the execution ceremony under the conviction that the man had not made contact with the Liberation Army.
To present a card that no longer existed in his hand—failure to do so would certainly bring consequences.
Severe consequences at that.
“I’ve miscalculated.”
“I beg your pardon? What did you say…?”
“Never mind.”
* * *
“Ha ha ha, I was just deliberating whether to pass the title down, and here you are offering counsel, Your Highness. How gracious of you.”
So it was Remicornin after all. Watching his lips curl once before breaking into that smile, I found myself—
—my own mouth twisting despite myself.
“Therefore, Your Highness, might you grant this Remicornin the honor of serving you?”
Coming at me like this, I couldn’t exactly press the attack further.
I’d need to shift my read—from fool to provocateur.
“Keep talking.”
“Tomorrow, Seaellia’s social club hosts a grand gala. With elven dignitaries in attendance, should Your Highness grace us as the guest of honor, no greater distinction could be bestowed. Pray, permit me this honor.”
‘Hmm. Which is it, I wonder.’
At least half the people in this room would know.
That Seaellia had sent its refusal to the crown prince—word for word—regarding his membership application.
‘Winter.’
I glanced sidelong, and Winter’s rigid face gave a subtle shake of his head from side to side.
A trap.
Remicornin likely had no authority to invite anyone to Seaellia’s party.
Which meant he was presuming the invitation already received, playing games with whether to escort me or not.
A guest of honor without an invitation. Accept, and I’m humiliated tomorrow; decline, and I’m humiliated today.
‘Either way, I’m disgraced. A well-laid snare.’
Of course, that logic would have held before my conversation with Lucierna.
‘Still doesn’t know the face before him.’
I nearly laughed.
Trap or no trap, this game was decided before Zion ever sat down.
The marquis didn’t realize his hand was already dead.
“How troublesome.”
“Is it so? What troubles you, Your Highness?”
Remicornin’s smile deepened further.
His face read like the script was already written.
“Marquis. You still don’t know, do you.”
“……What could you mean.”
“The elves have already agreed to attend my party. This afternoon.”
The smile fell from Remicornin’s face like a stone.
“No invitation, yet you’d present yourself as my escort. Admirable devotion, I confess.”
With the ease of lifting a teacup, Zion finished his words.
“The ball is rolling. Straight over your feet.”
I couldn’t hold back the laughter.
The marquis’s expression was that entertaining.
* * *
The marquis withdrew with as much grace as he could muster, his dismay carefully concealed.
That brazen face. I was beginning to understand where Winter’s poker face came from.
‘If I said it aloud, he’d turn serious.’
“Come with me, Winter.”
We stepped onto the terrace. Instead of the banquet hall’s perfumed air, the scent of old things caught in my nostrils—the smell of an aged palace.
“Spirits.”
Winter poured without a word.
Amber liquid rose evenly into the glass. Neither overflow nor shortage.
Yet still.
“Your hand’s still shaking?”
Zion asked it without preamble.
Winter’s shoulders tensed for just a moment, then returned to that practiced smile.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d overlook that, sir. Word gets out that a gambler can’t steady his hand, and I lose my living.”
“Your father didn’t recognize you.”
“…….”
The pouring stopped dead.
A long, deep breath. Winter set the bottle down and scratched his head roughly.
It sounded like the poker face of Deber’s finest gambler coming off.
“I’ve held one card for twenty-some years.”
“And then?”
“I flipped the pieces, and found the king was dead. Since my opponent doesn’t even recognize me, I can’t even play him.”
“Then fold. A dead king means you fold.”
“It’s not that simple.”
Winter laughed softly.
“I’ve been holding this game for over twenty years. Even though I can plainly see the king is rotten, I want to go all the way to the end. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”
His hand trembled slightly as he drained the cup.
“My mother feared the Marquis her whole life. Yet he doesn’t even recognize me. I’m not an abandoned son—I’m as though I never existed at all.”
The distance between them closed a little.
“I’m the same.”
“Your Highness?”
“I have no family. No one at all.”
It was the truth from Zion Blieze—spoken through the mask of Zion Riobert.
So listen well, Winter Flowering.
‘Remicornin. One of the Five Palace Traitors.’
Already he was a name on the list of those whose necks would one day be severed.
But as of today, his turn had simply moved forward.
‘I don’t know how to offer comfort. So I’ll give you what I do know.’
“Winter.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“From this moment, I will destroy your father for you.”
“……!”
Winter’s eyes widened.
* * *
Winter’s eyes widened again.
This time, in a different way.
“Marquis. Ha, there you are.”
The man would have killed him on the spot had he known of Winter’s mother’s pregnancy.
Yet here he was, arm draped affectionately across that very man’s shoulders, smiling warmly.
‘Your Highness?’
“Won’t you join us at the Ninth Prince’s gathering? There’s something I’ve been wanting to discuss with you.”
The Ninth Prince beamed at him with genuine warmth.
……It was a face even Winter, his own aide, had never seen before.

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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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