I Became the First Prince

I finally got used to the world (2)

I had been awake these past two weeks, yet asleep.

I knew that I lived, yet at the same time, I felt dead.

All I could do was listen to the trundling wheels of the wagon that I was certain carried my prone body.

Now and then, I heard urgent and even desperate screams and orders ringing out in the cold winter air. I held onto my shattered Mana Heart, constantly testing its energies. That last moment upon the battlefield, borne upon a Lancer’s mount, replayed itself endlessly within my mind.

I saw my uncle, surrounded by Orcs, as he took a last stand to save his castle. I saw the people who had willingly sacrificed themselves so that others could escape. My heart throbbed at the throbbing pain of all these memories, yet I welcomed my torment this time.

It was my punishment for letting so many die, all so I could live. Even though I wished to be king, I had allowed my uncle to suffer the defeat that should by all rights have been mine to suffer.

We all wish to transcend, to become something greater, yet few of us are prepared to pay the true price that this ascension demands. My plans had been no different than those of an indolent optimist. My resolve had been like that of a child.

Simply put, I had been far too arrogant.

Drunk with the glories of my past, I had seen everything as beneath me. I had looked upon even death as a trivial and fickle thing. None of the deaths of other beings were mine. And now… Now it was as if death had beaten us to the road of transcendence, its absolute and uncaring nature barring us from a greater tomorrow. All my words, all my actions were no different than those of a spoiled little princeling who considered existence to be naught but a game — an idle curiosity. I was a foolish, arrogant, and blind being. And being such, I had lost a great many people who had been dear to my heart.

I then opened my eyes.

The realization finally struck me.

At that moment, new flaming spirals engraved themselves upon my heart.

The pounding never ceased.

And then… a message popped into my head.

『A new dance poem…』

『A new characteristic…』

I did not listen; I did not focus. I could not.

All I knew was that from this moment on, I had to concentrate on things other than the creation of good verses, mere poems.

My destiny lay in a greater pursuit.

* * *

“Your Majesty!”

It was certainly a pleasure to see the First Prince awake and upon his feet. Still, no one dared to approach him and voice their joy at his good fortune of being alive. The moment that everyone looked into his cold blue eyes, silence descended upon the hall. Someone even audibly gulped. The tension in the room was stretching ever tauter as each second passed.

The First Prince started walking jerkily. Although it was more of a desperate stagger, he continued to move forward under the sheer force of his will. There were lords before him who clearly did not understand the basic principles of language, for they had rolled their eyes at him as if he was some leper who had strayed into a meeting of its betters.

The nobles exchanged glances with one another then, and Count Hestein was the first to stand.

“Well! Your Majesty… I am glad that you seem okay.”

As the Count spoke, Adrian stumbled and acted as if he was about to fall over. Count Hestein acted under instinct, reaching out to support the crippled prince. The Count got pushed back, and the sound of iron scraping upon leather was heard. The Count’s eyes widened, for the sword of the Hestein family was no longer sheathed at his waist.

No, it was now in the hands of the First Prince.

A sucking sound echoed through the hall, and a dark red liquid flowed down the blade. The Count grasped onto the prince; his fingers pale with tension.

“Your… Your Majesty, what… are… you…” The Count spoke not another word as his voice became a guttural gurgle. He slammed his hands over his throat, and blood flowed through his fingers.

His eyes rolled back into their sockets, and he crashed to the ground.

“Count Hestein!”

“Count!”

A furor broke out in the hall as the gathered nobles realized what had become of the now-late Count Hestein.

“Your Majesty!” The shocked younger Balahards shouted.

“Brother!”

Maximilian hurried forward and interposed himself before the First Prince, grabbing his shoulders. Adrian struggled to escape the hold, his sword swinging wildly, his intent clear: He wished to move on to the next noble.

“Get out of here!” Maximilian shouted into his brother’s face. His voice was filled with sorrow and frustration. His hands were stretched out before him as he spoke once more.

“I am angered as well, just the same as you are, brother!”

The First Prince did not answer; he merely shrugged off his brother’s arms and took a step back.

“But this is not how we should sate our anger! Now is the time for us all to come together and fight the Orcs!”

Maximilian once more jumped in front of Adrian, who had tried to sidestep him.

“Join together?” Adrian spat out, his lips twisting into a maddened grin.

“This is really not funny,” he added, his voice as twisted as his smile.

“Brother, no!” Maximilian exclaimed with mounting urgency.

“Vincent… How many messengers have we sent, dear Vincent?” Adrian asked.

“I have sent a man every three days, for three months. That would be roughly thirty heralds that have left our walls,” Count Balahard replied with a cold voice.

Adrian met his brother’s eyes once more. Maximilian looked down in shame, not having known this fact. At that moment, some of the cowering nobles erupted in desperate placations.

“Now, Y-Your Majesty! P-Please calm down! We… We also had our own circumstances to contend with.”

“Your Majesty, the First Prince. No matter how guilty we might be, you cannot do this! This is not right. This is not the law!”

While some had desperately begged, others strongly protested the oh-so-recent death of Count Hestein.

“In a similar situation, I had rejected a direct order to not march north. I saw no justifiable reason for such a foolish and reckless order. These men, these curs, they deserve nothing less than a summary disposition of justice,” Ehrim Kiringer stated as he stepped forward, his voice ringing out in an abstract judicial tone.

“The royal family itself pretended not to grasp the severity of our plight. By rights they, even in their absence, should face this summary disposition, for they had breached their sacred oath to their vassals.”

This argument would have been seen as treason under any other circumstance, yet Sir Ehrim was a persuasive speaker, and his words rang true. The lords soon realized the severity of their plight and knew that they could not win anyone over to their cause. Still, some tried.

“I am sorry, my lords, but how could we truly know the plight of Winter Castle?”

“Yes! We have the right to defend ourselves. If we are guilty, we deserve a trial!”

As he heard their urgent pleas, Adrian pushed his brother aside. He had just gotten up from his sickbed, and his motions still showed that he lacked his normal strength.

“The spirit of Winter Castle has not been broken,” Adrian stated. He would endure what had to be endured until he could no more. “Even if Winter Castle has been abandoned, the spirit of its defenders lives on!”

Upon hearing this, Maximilian had no choice but to retreat before the wrath of his brother.

“Come here,” Adrian beckoned to Ehrim, who came to his side, for he had expected the order.

“The Count of Shurtol. Barons Eaton, Cardane and Barnheim.”

These lords looked at one another after Ehrim called out their names.

“These four men, please step back behind the line of knights. Only you have aided us, even in the smallest of ways.”

They hesitated at first, and then followed the knight’s command.

“Today, there are sixteen nobles before me, yet I see only four humans,” the First Prince declared, his tone of voice as glacial as the deepest of winters.

It was only now that the remaining nobles realized that judgment had been passed upon them without a word in their defense. They looked around the room like frightened hares, a wall of knights hemming them in from all sides. Then, the knightly guards of the nobles drew their swords, intent upon spilling royal blood. Not an ounce of loyalty was to be found within their hearts.

The rotten heart of the kingdom finally unfolded in front of everyone’s eyes, the deep corruption that had claimed the minds and hearts of the nobility.

Maximilian felt dizzy in the face of such a brutal truth. A sickening sound filled the hall then, and everyone turned towards its source. The knights who had guarded the traitorous nobles were stumbling to the ground and spitting blood. Greenish shadows darted between these dying men. The visceral smell of blood clashed with the smell of freshly shorn grass in Maximilian’s nostrils.

The elven executioners had joined in the proceedings of the court. In an instant, these elves wiped the blood of knights from their blades and lined themselves up behind the First Prince. Then, the Wire Knights stepped forward and forced the nobles to their knees.

“Your Majesty! Please, please forgive me!”

“If you forgive me but this once, I shall be loyal to you for all eternity!”

The lords begged and begged as Adrian slowly made his way toward them.

“You had your chance!”

Every time the First Prince swung his sword, a lord lost his life.

One baron, demanding a trial to the very end, had his chest torn open in a welter of gore.

One Count, begging as he prostrated himself, soon became a headless corpse that slumped to the floor. A self-made man had managed to flee but a few paces before he was stabbed multiple times through his back.

Some nobles even managed to draw their blades, intent on taking Adrian as a hostage. Others only drew their swords at the last moment. The First Prince was relentless in his slaughter and cut them down without hesitation. As he struggled to catch his breath, he stared at the remaining nobles. They saw him blinking his blue, bloody eyes, and they trembled before his gaze. And then, just like that, they too died screaming as they wallowed in their own feces and piss.

Adrian sank to the floor, his energy finally exhausted, his legs no longer able to support him.

“Oh… Oh Your Majesty! Oh… Please… Please, please, spare me!”

Only one noble remained. He was Count Gullon, a man who had so boasted of his closeness to Montpellier. He begged like a squealing pig, with tears and snot flowing down his face.

The First Prince slammed his arms to the floor and started to crawl toward the Count.

“My Majesty… Oh… Your… Please! Just this once, just me!”

The First Prince climbed onto the prone noble as he tried to retreat with his hands and feet, like a scuttling crab. Adrain then slowly pushed his blade into Count Gullon’s open mouth. As the blade slid deeper down, the Count grabbed onto his neck as he gurgled and groaned. He died kicking and wriggling in the manner of a filthy maggot.

Adrian released his grip upon the blade and took deep gulps of air. The blue light that had been burning all across his body subsided. An expression now came onto his withered features. His exhaustion had at last taken over. However, a sliver of life yet remained upon his features. A woman approached him then and supported him as he collapsed onto a chair with great difficulty.

Every eye in the hall was turned upon him.

Some of the faces wore expressions of regret; others were filled with fear as they considered their future.

The men from Balahard mostly evinced the former emotion, while Maximilian and the men from the capital predominately expressed the latter. Adrian did not care about how he was viewed.

“Antoine.”

“Yes, Your Majesty?”

“Make sure your men spread the rumor. These nobles decided to go their own way. They had fled from our walls during the night.”

Adrian did not mince his words. It was apparent – First Prince had changed.

The captain of the Silver Foxes merely bowed and left the hall.

“Ehrim Kiringer. Gather your men and take over each and every castle that these lords held. Do you need a justification?”

“Would it be enough if we say that Your Majesty looks poorly upon men who had died while fleeing in dishonor, and that, by your grace, you have chosen to send men to protect their holdings and their relatives?”

“Good enough. Now hurry.”

Ehrim made his departure as he led the Wire Knights. The First Prince continued to dish out orders. The knights and soldiers of Winter Castle left the hall with life-or-death expressions upon their faces. Those who received their orders did not dare protest. They simply followed them to the letter.

Even the young Count Balahard had jumped up like a young lieutenant when he was curtly instructed to give his appraisal of the current military situation.

Count Shurtol had beheld all of this with abject terror.

As he observed the blood-encrusted First Prince bark out his orders, a new feeling came into the heart of Count Bert Shurtol. The deaths of his fellow nobles had been gruesome indeed, yet he felt no disgust towards His Majesty for passing such a judgment.

Still, Bert could not even dare to breathe loudly, much less make eye contact with anyone.

So sudden and total was the change in the First Prince’s demeanor that many people felt grim and terrified in the face of it.

“The Count of Shurtol.”

“Yes! Yes, Your Majesty!” He replied almost immediately.

“The kingdom has abandoned the north.”

Count Shurtol’s expression hardened as he recalled the pressing issue he had forgotten of since the massacre. The royal family’s decision to set up their defensive lines south of the river meant that they had virtually abandoned the sixteen provinces and holdings of the north. Just as the northern lords had turned their backs on Winter Castle, so did the royal family discard the north.

Only a terrible future now remained for the northern realms, a future of hordes of monsters streaming through a pass that was no longer controlled by Winter Castle.

“I do not intend on abandoning the north to the ravages of beasts,” the First Prince continued as he stared at Count Shurtol. Adrian’s head was bowed, and his expression terrible to behold. “I will remain with the Third Legion. I will start over here, in this keep.”

This form of speech did not suit a prince in a kingdom still ruled by his father.

No, the proclamations that flowed from Adrian’s mind were those of a king in his own right.

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