The Scoundrel Prince Sold Out the Empire - Chapter 57

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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 57: Wings of the Bat (2)
A few nights later.
Winter requested a journey to Teragrad.
“There’s something you need to see for yourself.”
“What is it?”
“Words cannot convey it. I ask that you see it with your own eyes.”
“Interesting. If you’re this insistent, now I’m curious. Fine, I was planning to go down there anyway.”
Since the establishment of Ziona Mining, the treatment of laborers in Deber had improved dramatically.
It had been excellent to begin with, but now one could say with certainty that across all jobs in Deber, none offered wages and benefits comparable to the mining operation.
That wasn’t all. To manage the farm and the mine simultaneously required more hands, so the existing workers submitted recommendations, and the workforce was roughly doubled.
In other words, nearly two thousand people from Deber—those who had done or would do things the Empire deemed dubious—had congregated in one place.
‘They must be planning something by now. But even if they’re not yet, just seeing them living well should wash away all my fatigue.’
These were people who endured hardship for Zion Blije.
These were people who did not shy from loss for Deber’s sake.
Their hands must never be empty.
“I shall escort you.”
“Very well. I’ll go as a test of faith.”
After half a day of hard riding, they arrived at Teragrad.
It had changed considerably.
The most striking difference was the long rails laid across the ground and the mine carts moving along them.
“The mining operation is in full swing now, then?”
“Indeed. It’s been about ten days.”
Which meant the refined gold bullion must be stored somewhere.
Ziona Mining was equipped to handle everything from extraction to smelting.
Most mining operators didn’t smelt directly—it was too costly.
But since all the money came from the Marquis anyway, it made sense to undertake operations on the grandest possible scale.
“This way, if you please.”
Winter led Zion to the front of a heavy iron door bound with three layers of chains.
It was the entrance to a newly constructed warehouse.
Surely not?
“Shall we enter?”
Clang!
The moment the door swung open, he narrowed his eyes.
The interior, which ought to have been dark, was not.
It blazed entirely with a pale yellow gleam that dazzled the eyes.
Gold! Pure gold!
Tens of thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—of gold coins lay heaped like a mountain of sand.
It was irresistible.
“Bahahaha!”
Zion immediately threw himself into the mountain of gold coins.
Clink, clink, clink, clink!
“Gold, gold!”
He picked up one unmarked coin and held it to the light.
No nation’s currency—merely a round disc of gold.
From its substantial weight, it was pure gold.
He bit it, and his teeth left deep marks.
“Gold!”
Why had Winter made them into coins instead of bullion? What was he scheming?
Well, thanks to him, one could now swim through a heap of gold coins.
Let him do as he sees fit.
Swish-swish-swish!
Cold, heavy coins slipped through his fingers.
So this was why men coveted gold.
Paper money didn’t compare—not even close.
The moment it touched his palm, the conviction of true wealth burned into his mind.
“Since the mine is registered under a viscount, I cannot sell the gold officially for some time. So for now, we’re keeping it in reserve.”
“Spare the explanations. How much is all this worth?”
Winter’s mouth curved upward as he posed the question back.
“What would you estimate, sir?”
“Ten million Luon?”
“Your Highness, surely you haven’t forgotten what a mere heap of gold coins looks like? This is barely a pittance.”
“One hundred million? No—two hundred million Luon?”
“The output is overwhelming. Do spend more generously.”
Thump-thump. His heart hammered in his chest.
“Five hundred million…?”
Winter pinched something between his index and thumb, then swept his fingers apart in a vast gesture.
Zion had given up trying to calculate.
What did the number matter? It was all his money anyway!
If he spent freely enough, Winter would sort out the accounting on his own.
“Hahahaha!”
He still didn’t know how to convert the gold into currency, but that was hardly a problem.
Gold itself was money.
Even if it wasn’t official tender, it served the purpose just as well.
If worse came to worst, he could always slip some out under the guise of the Prince’s discretionary funds or some such excuse.
“Perhaps it’s time to leave, sir. You’re burying yourself deeper by the moment.”
“If I die buried in gold coins, that would be a death of honor.”
“How shall I word the obituary? ‘Crushed beneath his hoarded coins’?”
“…That does sound rather undignified. I’m going.”
He pushed himself upright and brushed dust from his clothes.
“Ah, Your Highness. There’s one more thing I must report.”
“What is it? Go on.”
The question was asked lightly, almost playfully, but the answer that came back was heavy as stone.
“The Duke has smuggled in Morphia.”
“Morphia?”
Four syllables, and Zion’s entire body went rigid.
By another name: the Leaf of Oblivion.
Legend held it came from the Elf Continent, and its effect was simple—happiness.
Morphia was a poison leaf that peddled in joy.
Such savage, intoxicating happiness that one could happily abandon reality itself.
‘He chose the worst possible thing.’
Zion had grown sick of Mana Plants long ago.
After all, he had earned the epithet Raven of Deber precisely because the Empire’s hunger for Mana Plant cultivation had triggered a great famine.
“Winter.”
“Yes, my lord.”
There it was—calling him “my lord” instead of “Your Highness.” The man never missed a beat.
“You bastard. Is this what you were after? Did you bring me here for this?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”
Of course not. Zion saw it now.
Maybe refining the gold into coins instead of bullion was Winter’s way of softening the blow—one less punishment to endure?
“Wasn’t it?”
“No, sir.”
Winter’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. It was an affirmation.
Zion exhaled slowly.
The fact that he wasn’t angry spoke volumes—the man’s strategy was working.
“You’re the one who pushed the Duke toward smuggling. Don’t you have contingencies for situations like this?”
“My apologies. I never imagined he’d attempt to smuggle psychotropic drugs of all things.”
It was a reasonable oversight.
Morphia smuggling was a capital crime with no possibility of clemency—immediate execution.
The reason was straightforward.
Morphia had destroyed an entire nation once before.
“Explain. How much of this was your plan?”
“To attach an Imperial merchant dealing in trade goods to the ruined Duke, and have him orchestrate smuggling operations using warships. That was the extent of it.”
“You didn’t concern yourself with the cargo?”
“I deemed it irrelevant. Silk or spices—contraband is contraband. The moment it’s discovered, the Duke drowns along with it.”
“So you ignored it entirely?”
“…Yes. I underestimated his boldness.”
“You should’ve remembered that man sold his own country. Corned into a corner, he’ll do anything. So? Has it already been brought in?”
“It has. One hundred kilograms of Morphia successfully imported. He’s currently considering distribution channels.”
One hundred kilograms.
Enough to addict a million people and still have surplus.
The scale is impressive. That much from the very start.
Though a hundred kilograms, when you think about it, is just a single crate’s worth.
That was why smuggling Morphia was so profitable.
Small in volume, minimal risk of detection, yet it yielded up to a thousand-fold margins once brought in.
But caught, and there was no clemency—only execution.
‘Now it all fits. So the Liberation Army tried to assassinate me again for this reason.’
McAlister had undoubtedly begun the Morphia smuggling at someone’s instigation, and that someone was the Ninth Prince—or so he’d assumed.
When he thought about it, the logic held.
Perhaps the worthless prince, who ordinarily indulged in Morphia, had ordered the Marquess to procure it for him.
‘And that means my hint to use Zion Riovel was for nothing.’
His comrades—knowing their disposition, they would have blown their tops the moment they heard the news.
Use him or not, a degenerate like that deserved death.
The Crown Prince had suggested using the Ninth Prince, but it didn’t matter.
Why? Because if the Crown Prince had known, he would have killed him himself.
‘All this time. All this suffering, and it was because of one traitor?’
He was among the ten men he’d sworn to kill with his own hands anyway.
One of the Palace Five Traitors—Aleon Remikoning.
He would have to dig the pit he’d prepared for him a fathom deeper.
“Winter. Summon someone for me.”
“Whom shall I bring, sir?”
“Your half-brother.”
…Winter’s poker face shattered.
* * *
Several days later, in Seiel.
The Reception Hall of the Hotel had been tense since morning.
Daien had brought tea while gauging the mood, and Winter stood behind the prince with a face colder than usual.
“Your Highness. Word has come from the first floor. They’ve arrived.”
“Send him up at once.”
Moments later, the door opened and a naval officer in the distinctive white dress uniform entered.
On his chest, the rank insignia bore the name McAlister Remikoning.
This was the guest whom Winter had accompanied to meet.
He walked toward Zion with measured strides, then dropped to one knee.
“A subject of the Empire greets one of the Divine Clan.”
Unlike commoners, nobles need not kneel during a Bow of Respect.
Yet why had the legitimate heir of the Remikoning Marquessate knelt before the prince?
Was it to lick the boots of the Empire, as his father did?
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps it was the gesture of a man who would sooner abandon a noble title maintained by licking those very boots.
‘His hair is ash-colored.’
Not a single strand dyed or altered.
The Golden Fleet to which McAlister was assigned was, true to its name, composed primarily of Empire citizens.
To maintain ash-colored hair in such a place…
“Raise your head.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The man straightened, and his eyes were clear.
There was no tremor of anxiety, no oily sheen of flattery.
They were the same eyes as that day, months ago, at the execution of Zion Blidje, when he’d stepped forward saying he would bear all the responsibility.
“Thank you for the summons. I understand there is something you wish to command me to do.”
Get to the point, he was saying.
“There is. First, I have a question.”
He took a sip of the tea Daien had brought, then continued.
“Lieutenant McAlister. Do you know of Morphia?”
“I am aware of it, though… may I ask the reason for your inquiry?”
“Tell me everything you know.”
A flicker of confusion crossed the officer’s eyes.
“…Very well. Morphia is, among various psychological-class magical drugs, known to be particularly addictive and relatively simple to refine.”
“Go on.”
“The direct harm is not severe. Yet therein lies the danger. Precisely because it is mild, it spreads widely and bites deeply. The common saying that side effects are minimal, and so the drug is easy to take up—that saying captures this problem perfectly.”
“Continue.”
“…Morphia is also one of the factors pushing Gizkal toward ruin. The damage has been so extensive that warfare between nations has erupted over nothing more than Mana Plants.”
A military man’s clipped, precise way of speaking.
“If Morphia is flowing into Deber, what would you do about it?”
“We must stop it.”
Not a moment’s hesitation.
“We must eradicate it by any means necessary. Everyone involved must be executed on the spot.”
“I see.”
Zion nodded slowly.
Then he spoke.
“Your father smuggled in Morphia.”
“……!!!”
McAlister’s face contorted in horror.

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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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