The Scoundrel Prince Sold Out the Empire - Chapter 41

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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 41: His Return (4)
The silence was so profound that even the sound of the lamp wick burning seemed deafening.
Lend your hand to the liberation of our homeland.
The old man’s request hung in the air like damp humidity.
No living creature can survive without breathing. Yet there exists an air so foul that merely drawing it in turns the stomach. Winter knew this truth well.
Winter did not answer at once.
Instead, he merely gazed down at his own hand resting upon the table.
‘A man with three hundred million Ruon on his head, coming to me.’
Recognition of talent and capability—a recruitment play.
Or perhaps a scheme to use him.
Either way, the fact that a heavyweight like Aristh would make such an offer to someone from the back alleys was itself remarkable.
“It seems His Highness has rather elevated the value of this Winter Flowering in various ways.”
“A remarkably brilliant fellow you are. When I heard the reports, this old man’s eyes grew quite clear.”
Such was Crena’s assessment of Winter.
His character remained unverified, yet his ability alone was worth employing.
More than that—his particular talents ran in directions the Liberation Army had yet to explore.
“Why would one who moves by such lofty ideals have need of a mere gambler’s hand?”
“We are all gamblers here. We remain at the table because we cannot abandon it without recovering our lost stakes.”
“Do you know? A hand that offers too generous a pot invariably hides a marked deck beneath the table.”
“If my sleight of hand were truly that skilled, would I not have already recovered my losses?”
A verbal exchange that resembled banter.
Winter delivered the final blow.
“It seems you have no intention of letting me leave unless I sit at your table—is that not so?”
“I will let you go.”
An answer wholly unexpected. Of course, Winter maintained his poker face.
Observing Winter thus, Aristh continued calmly.
“Though I may not know all the rules of gambling, I understand this much: one’s cards can only be revealed by oneself. A hand forced upon you corrupts the game itself.”
……
“However, there is one thing I wish to address before we part.”
The wrinkled hand slowly swept across the edge of the table.
“Flowering—your mother’s name, I’m told. I know not what you think of it, but I’m grateful it was not Lemiconing.”
Beneath the table, Winter’s hand clenched into a fist.
“Aleon Lemiconing. The Palace’s traitor. The Duke who sold his nation. Dever’s greatest wing. I wonder what that name means to you.”
……
“We will stand with you in whatever you desire.”
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier still.
“How extraordinary.”
Winter’s lips curled upward.
A smile on his face, yet his eyes remained cold and distant.
“Befitting one who labors ceaselessly for liberation. Few know much of my father, you see.”
“I had to investigate. Before I could extend my hand to you.”
Aristh’s gaze did not waver in the slightest.
“As your leader, I have come before you in person and made my request known. Though I hold the title of chief, I am but one voice, and I required the consent of my valued comrades. Beyond that—”
……
“The fact that I came in person means I have chosen to trust you, Winter Flowering. I am not weighing your worth.”
Winter shook his head at once.
“Regardless of whether I can be trusted, the true purpose may simply be to create ripples of doubt within my heart, might it not?”
The Ninth Prince, Zion Riobert, has shown unusual obsession with Zion Blize’s execution ceremony.
Considering his past behavior—indulging his whims until a profit opportunity arose, then salivating at the prospect—Winter was certain there existed an undisclosed history between the two Zions, one not yet brought to light.
The instinct of a gambler who could win ten million Ruon in a single night, one might say.
“Let us be honest. This is not recruitment—it is assessment. Moreover, you intend to make me the one being assessed. You have even dragged me out here with something bordering on coercion.”
A bastard born of a traitor with deep grievances against the Empire.
And simultaneously, the most trusted aide of the Ninth Prince himself.
Winter was a single sheet of paper that could be folded either way, and this old man wanted to see which direction it would bend.
This was why the Deputy Commander of the Liberation Cause had personally wagered his own three-hundred-million-Ruon face as the stakes.
‘An amusing old man, indeed.’
Had this meeting occurred before his encounter with the Prince, Winter would have haggled over his price.
Had the Liberation Army offered him the blade for revenge against his father, he would have feigned reluctance before grasping it.
But now.
“I will stand with whichever side holds the greater advantage. What price will you offer me?”
“Ha ha.”
The old man laughed softly.
It was not a laugh of disappointment, but rather something closer to satisfaction.
“President Winter. Should you not ask about my heart before my price? Are you truly a man of the Ninth Prince? And is your worth measured only in gold coins?”
“……That is.”
Suddenly Winter lifted his head.
Then the answer flowed out.
“No. It is not.”
* * *
The dawn of Ainchen begins with salt-tinged air.
Third floor of Naval Headquarters. Through the war room windows, the golden fleet stood arrayed.
Golden lions and suns—the banners hanging from the hull of every ship.
That magnificent golden pageantry was being observed from above by a head of black hair.
“Lieutenant Commander McAlister Reminonin.”
His superior extended a document sealed with wax.
“You’ve heard of the execution ceremony in Dever and Seyel for the arch-traitor. Headquarters has ordered the dispatch of ceremonial troops under your command. You are to lead them.”
The Naval Headquarters of the Empire was a place where gold was expected in every direction. And yet, standing above all that magnificence, McAlister’s black hair was always a hand’s breadth too conspicuous.
“……An execution ceremony, you say.”
McAlister accepted the order.
“If I may speak frankly, why does the Navy step in on a matter under the Military Police’s purview?”
“For prestige. Besides, it is not something the Navy can simply abstain from in such circumstances.”
The Military Police, after all, fell under the Army.
As was true in most nations, the Empire’s relations between its Army and Navy were deeply fractious.
“Lieutenant Commander, your expression suggests displeasure. Does it trouble you that the Navy lends a hand on such a sacred occasion?”
Sacred. The word seemed ill-suited for a place where throats were cut.
Especially if his own selection bore his father’s touch.
McAlister saluted without any sign of his true feelings.
“Understood. I shall carry out the order.”
As he left the war room, he recalled the letter he had received the night before.
Reminonin. A letter bearing his father’s seal.
“This execution ceremony is a fine opportunity to raise both our house’s name and yours to greater heights. See that you conduct yourself well enough to catch the eye of those above. I love you, Mac.”
‘Father. Do you still wish to elevate our house’s name further? How much higher do you mean to climb?’
His father’s name. The house’s name.
A height reached by selling the nation.
He was sick of it.
He had fled to the sea to escape it, yet here he stood with the rank of lieutenant commander.
Without that patronage, could he have risen to this height? Even his rank was not earned purely by his own hand.
‘How lonely.’
The military was a collective and a space where one could never truly be alone.
Yet McAlister was always haunted by emptiness and solitude.
‘A special order.’
When he opened the orders, the contents were incomprehensible.
It was an order for comprehensive preparations as though a war were about to break out—far too elaborate merely to add one line bearing the Navy’s name to an execution ceremony.
Someone above was plotting something, it seemed.
* * *
Ten days had passed since the banquet.
And ten days remained until the execution ceremony.
“I report to you, Your Highness. This is the revenue from the past ten days.”
Winter unfolded the ledger.
Merely ten days had passed since the Refrigerator had made its debut at the Ainchen banquet.
In that short span, the numbers had grown plump and satisfying.
“The effect of flooding the market while the excitement from the banquet was still fresh has been quite remarkable. It was wise to keep the factory running. Blen Industries reports that they’re so swamped with orders they’ve been working nights for days now.”
Zion swallowed a yawn as he reclined against his pillow.
He had been up all night.
“We’ve narrowed the promotional taglines down to three. Fresh salads. A taste of winter in the home. Winter amid summer.”
Winter folded down his fingers one by one.
“We excluded alcohol since that’s too obvious, and the high-end restaurants among our core clientele will open their purses to the first, while the wealthy will reach for the second and third. If you have a better phrase in mind, please suggest it. Adding to them is not difficult.”
“Do as you see fit.”
Winter’s fingers paused for a moment.
“One hundred thousand Ruon per day, Your Highness. Once the factory runs at full capacity, this figure will multiply several times over.”
“I understand.”
“Though you seem rather rushed about it, if you don’t mind my saying.”
‘The sort of man who’d smell profit before a hound could.’
A dangerous thought to voice aloud.
Unlike before, he’s letting talk of money-making slip past him like someone else’s business entirely—it’s grating to watch.
His enthusiasm must be waning.
‘A prince’s whimsy. Tch.’
Winter clicked his tongue silently and changed the subject.
“And Eitar has sent word through an intermediary, requesting an audience when you have the time. He says he’ll receive you properly, though it seemed he had something he wished to discuss.”
“Eitar?”
“Only that he hoped you might visit when your schedule permits—something he wanted to say to you in person. But it was clear there was something weighing on his mind.”
“Later.”
Zion waved a hand dismissively and reclined on the bed.
“I’m tired. Leave. I’m sleeping.”
……
Winter quietly closed the bedroom door behind him.
The moment he was gone, Zion’s eyes snapped open.
Sleep had never entered the equation; now that he was alone, he had to return to what he’d been doing.
“Damn. I really don’t have the time for this.”
He’d gotten rid of Winter precisely because he couldn’t let him see what came next.
Zion crossed his legs on the bed and laid two objects side by side before his knees.
On the left: the Star’s Eye.
On the right: the Gift from Noksirluna.
The essence of Mana within the pendant was nearly depleted.
Most of the power it had contained had already been transferred into his body over the past few days,
transforming a shallow well into something approaching a lake.
But the problem wasn’t the quantity of power.
‘The pattern won’t unlock.’
The ability inscribed within that essence—Spectral Form.
The function that transformed flesh into spirit, letting blade and poison pass through alike—he had to unravel it.
But this seed showed no sign of sprouting.
Even the mind of a high sorcerer would need several months to decode it.
For ordinary practitioners—years, or perhaps a lifetime of struggle—it would be an impossible knot to untie.
“Damn it.”
Less than ten days remained before the execution.
Within that window, he had to internalize the Mana pattern of the ability.
Which meant there was no time left for caution—drastic measures were now unavoidable.
‘This may be my last attempt.’
His gaze shifted to the left.
The Star’s Eye.
The eye of a star reads all things.
All the tangled circuitry of Mana—if he looked through this eye, even the finest thread would unravel.
The problem was that this eye had shown no recognition whatsoever of Zion’s body.
‘The Guide’s Ring came naturally from the start.’
Both were royal treasures of the same house, yet their natures were entirely different.
Approached gently, the Star’s Eye would certainly take far longer to align than decoding the Mana pattern itself.
“Which means gentleness is off the table.”
Zion picked up the Star’s Eye.
The royal treasure in his palm was cold and heavy.
“Hell. I hate pain.”
Zion Blize’s body was unusually vulnerable to suffering.
Still, there was no choice.
He brought the Star’s Eye close to his eye socket and forced every ounce of Mana from his body into it.
Star’s eye, if you are asleep, then I’ll force you awake.
He pushed harder.
His vision burned white.
“Gahhh!”
There was no room to hesitate before agony.
‘Querre Stellam Orbita.’
He projected Mana structured into the form of a spell.
Something burrowed into the inner corners of his eyes like roots taking hold, sinking deep.
It hurt, certainly.
There was no helping it.
Still, the price was bearable.
‘If I fail, so what. It’s not even my body.’
The cost of failure amounted to nothing much at all.
‘At worst, I’d lose sight in one eye.’
Instead of gritting his teeth, he laughed—a short, bitter sound.
At this stakes, it was a bargain.
Heat clawed behind his eyeballs, scraped along the inner walls of his skull.
That was when it happened.
The ring on his finger hummed—a deep, resonant thrumming.
‘The Guide’s Ring responded.’
A low, rising hum, sustained and swelling.
Across the divide of space, the thread of the North Star was reacting too, vibrating in the presence of something new and strange.
Resonance—that was the better word for it.
A thin line of blood traced down his cheek.
‘If only it works. Please let this work.’
His vision swam in crimson, yet a cool, tingling sensation crept inward, spreading like frost.
Two wholly separate currents, which had never mixed before, began to dissolve into one another, slow and inevitable.
Like different pigments pooling on the same canvas, or two disparate things kneading together into a single mass.
Zion’s lips parted, his teeth bared in a grimace.
“…I can see it.”
It had worked.

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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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