TOPWL 119

The bundle of newspapers writhed like a living creature before unfolding. The front page featured an article about the District 3 of Bern which had been enjoying booming success day after day.

“This is the duke’s doing. You know he owns multiple newspaper companies.”

“But the article isn’t false, is it?”

Reginald, gripping a stack of documents on the desk, hurled it at his aide without hesitation. The flying papers grazed the aide’s cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. The aide squeezed his eyes shut, silently enduring his master’s rage.

“Is it not enough that I’ve been outdone once by someone of low birth—must it happen again? Then tell me, what’s the point of keeping any of you around?”

In the first contest, Reginald had received a humiliating fourth-place result. Even if the results were tampered with, it was a bitter blow for someone who had always come out on top. This time, he had applied pressure through his maternal relatives. He didn’t ask for favoritism—only a fair judgment. That request had been accepted. At the very least, Yudit would not be claiming first place again.

Trusting in the influence of his extended family, Reginald had poured money into his project without restraint. Not a single space in the district was wasted. But Yudit, with the duke behind him, had brought prosperity to the District 3 of Bern. Reginald hadn’t considered that district a threat and had only kept his guard up against Azil and Hiore. By the time he realized what was happening, it was already too late.

Seven direbears? The bastard had absurdly good luck.

Still haunted by nightmares from his previous loss, Reginald now felt as if he were living through another one, wide awake.

“Huh? Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t have you all executed. Useless vermin, the lot of you!”

Reginald glared at his surroundings with bloodshot eyes. It was clear he needed somewhere to vent his fury. The servants, hoping they wouldn’t be the target, pressed their backs against the walls and held their breath.

Crash! A priceless porcelain vase from a foreign land shattered against the wall. Still unsatisfied, Reginald began throwing and smashing whatever he could get his hands on. He snapped a fountain pen in half, hurled documents, tore books apart. When that wasn’t enough, he picked up a chair and slammed it down on the desk.

“……!”

Crack! One unfortunate servant was struck squarely on the head by a broken leg of the chair. His forehead split open, and blood spurted like a fountain. At the sight of the scene, Reginald turned his fury on the injured man.

“How dare you spill filthy blood in the Prince’s Palace?”

“I-I’m sorry, Your Highness! Please, forgive me…!”

The servant turned pale, dropping to his knees and begging desperately. He tried to stem the bleeding with trembling hands, but the blood from his head wound showed no sign of stopping. It quickly soaked the floor beneath him. The others looked on with pity, but also relief—it wasn’t them.

At last, Reginald drew his sword. The prince’s cruel expression held not a shred of mercy as he raised the blade high. The servant, sensing his death, tightly shut his eyes.

Then—at that moment—the aide, who had been watching silently from the sidelines, stepped forward and quietly knocked the sword away with the scabbard still on. Reginald turned on him, eyes blazing with fury.

“You dare defy me?”

“Your Highness, this is not the time. Please, I beg you—compose yourself and hear what I have to say.”

Reginald panted, overcome by his anger. He had inherited the empress’s fiery temperament, but unlike Hiore, he was capable of reining in his temper to some extent. He had built his image as a prince who embraced and cared for the people. Killing someone in the palace in broad daylight could leave an indelible stain on that image.

The aide was right. Reginald knew it—and yet, his rage burned too hot to suppress.

His hand trembling with the weight of restraint, Reginald at last swung the sword into the wall just beside the servant’s head. The wallpaper tore, and a deep gash was carved into the wall. Bits of plaster crumbled and rained down onto the servant’s black uniform like dust.

“Get out. All of you.”

The moment the words left his mouth, the servants fled like the tide receding from shore. Thud. The door shut, leaving only Reginald and his aide alone in the office.

Reginald turned to the aide, pressing the tip of his sword against the man’s throat as he glared down at him.

“Now go on, speak. If what comes out of your mouth is nothing but useless drivel, this sword will take your head.”

Reginald’s words were no empty threat. The aide swallowed dryly before slowly opening his mouth.

“Prince Yudit’s success in developing his district is due to the people from the slums.”

Despite the blade at his throat, the aide picked up the crumpled newspaper and unfolded it. The article praised Prince Yudit for bringing in slum dwellers and providing them with food and shelter.

“District 3 of Bern is barren. Agriculture is impossible, so aside from those in the iron mining business, hardly anyone lives there. But Prince Yudit brought in slum dwellers, securing an initial workforce. The number was over three hundred—more than enough to revive an entire village.”

“You stopped me just to spout what everyone already knows?”

Furious, Reginald pressed the sword closer to the aide’s throat. A thin line of blood trickled down where the skin split. With every heartbeat, the cold steel kissed the aide’s neck. The aide steadied his breath and continued.

“We did consider eliminating them. But with the direbears, Duke Khalid, and the stationed knights involved, the attention was too high. We deemed it too dangerous to proceed.”

The aide paused, gauging Reginald’s expression—as if weighing whether it was safe to speak the next part. Then, after a brief breath, he continued.

“Put them aboard the Crowe No. 3.”

“The Crowe No. 3? That piece of junk?”

Reginald frowned. The Crowe No. 3 was a trade vessel built over ten years ago by the Empress’s family. During the application of new technologies, a fatal flaw was discovered, and the ship had never even been launched—left to rot ever since. And yet the aide was suggesting placing the slum dwellers aboard that very wreck.

“I understand the Crowe family plans to launch a trade ship to the Western Sea soon. Send them along with it.”

The Western Sea was treacherous—if ten ships were sent out, only two or three ever returned. Yet the rewards of a successful voyage were immense, which was why trade vessels continued to sail, despite the risks. That was for newer ships, though. The Crowe No. 3 would never survive the crossing.

“The idea has merit, but I doubt rats who’ve just found a home would willingly leave it.”

“Offer them what they desire most.”

“What they desire?”

Reginald’s interest was piqued. The aide’s lips curled into a faint smile.

“Yes. Those rats have long yearned to become citizens of the Empire.”

“You mean to give them citizenship?”

For Reginald, son of the Emperor and Empress, granting citizenship to the slum-born was not an impossibility. But something about giving those rats the rights of true imperial citizens left a sour taste in his mouth.

“They won’t survive anyway.”

The aide was right. Reginald, whose maternal relatives included the Crowe family, knew that better than anyone. He turned the tip of his sword to the wall and scratched deep, ragged lines into the wallpaper.

“That won’t be enough. Aren’t they already being treated like citizens? They won’t want to leave.”

“Their desire for citizenship runs deeper than you think. They believe that if they obtain it, they and their children will finally be treated as human. Still—what you said is also true. There will be those rats content to live in the sewers. In that case, we simply have to give them no choice but to leave.”

“Oh? You have something in mind?”

At Reginald’s question, the aide took a breath before speaking again.

“A few days ago, the people of Bern District 3 protested in front of the Light of the Empire. Among them was a man who incited the crowd—a Lirutian named Eden Grow. He’s a fixer, scraping by on back-alley jobs. He’s also a disciple of Aldrich.”

Reginald’s eyes gleamed at the name.

“You intend to use him?”

“Yes.”

Aldrich’s books hadn’t been declared forbidden texts for no reason. He had always carried anti-royal sentiments. It was no coincidence that a once-in-a-millennium genius had ended up teaching rats in the slums before dying in obscurity.

Now, that genius’s disciple had stirred up imperial citizens into rioting against a newspaper aligned with the Crown.

It could easily be framed as treason.

Excitement glimmered in Reginald’s eyes.

“And what if Yudit tries to use the duke’s backing to protect those rats?”

“He won’t be able to.”

The aide replied with certainty.

“We’ve already planted someone with a personal grudge against him. He has no ties to us, so he’ll be easy to use.”