The Crown Prince Who Raises Alt Characters

#Chapter 379 Tyrant (6) - RTA One is man, two is land, three is heaven. It's a metaphor used to explain differences in rank among those with abilities. A single rank's difference could be overturned with thorough individual effort and preparation. A two-rank difference could be overturned if the surrounding environment itself—terrain, weather, and the like—became an ally, rather than the individual alone. Then what about a three-rank difference? What is heaven? Heaven's fortune. In other words, a miracle. In short, it means a gap for which there's no proper countermeasure other than praying to the heavens. Derek Vagraupf was a failing excuse for a knight captain leading the Golden Cloud Knights, but even he was 4th rank. That meant he was the kind of existence a 3rd rank—one with the physical capability of a beast of prey and professional killing techniques—might barely be able to defeat only by analyzing weaknesses, setting traps, attempting ambushes, and making every possible effort. And yet. "How in the world did you win?" The Crown Prince had defeated that very Derek. And not merely defeated him—he'd crushed him outright like stepping on a bug, without sustaining so much as a single wound himself. "Of course, with Brother's original skill, someone like that would just be trash on the roadside. But that's not the case here, is it?" In this world, Alondre had been a simpleton until the age of twenty. Of course, perhaps because the body itself was monstrously gifted, he'd instinctively picked up things like breathing techniques even while his mind drifted in and out, so his body was in decent shape for someone who'd spent nearly his whole life just sitting or lying down—but even so, that only amounted to about an ordinary person's level. Since his personality itself was based on the original world's Alondre, making use of that knowledge would let him reach new heights quickly—but the time it took from Trisha waking Alondre to Alondre subduing Derek was barely over a week. "Don't tell me you just shot up to 5th rank within that one week? Is this proof of how amazing-amazing-amazing our Brother is?" "Haha, even so, how could that possibly be." "Right? It doesn't make sense, does it?" "No, if I tried, I could do it, but forcibly raising just the rank alone would only amount to a watered-down state, wouldn't it?" "......." Trisha gazed blankly at Alondre for a moment, then nodded. Alondre was just being Alondre. Instead of doing something foolish like demanding of a cicada why it cries, she turned the topic elsewhere. "Then, what will you do from now on? Honestly, our strategic options have widened quite a bit." Honestly speaking, the two of them had previously been caught in an unreasonable situation in many ways. Alondre, far from taking any political action, had to stay hidden within the household since merely being discovered as awake was nearly fatal, and even then he had to be extremely careful about using mana. Trisha, for her part, held the grand title of Crown Princess, yet had almost no real power. Given that she was even disregarded by the knight order that was supposed to be directly under her, it was inevitably difficult for her to accomplish anything properly, no matter how capable she was. But not anymore. Having made Derek a subordinate had greatly widened Trisha's range of action, and it had also become easier for Alondre to operate while avoiding others' eyes. "For now, I think it's good to increase our subordinates one by one in a way similar to Derek. Of course, overuse would be forbidden since those of higher rank might notice if they saw it, but controlling just the knight order's leadership would effectively put an entire unit in our hands." Trisha went on to lay out various strategies after that. Using the knight order's forces to dig into the backgrounds of those working in the imperial palace, creating a fake Alondre using a doll so the real Alondre could freely grow stronger outside the palace, stoking the power struggle within the imperial household to incite internal strife, seizing control of the Emperor's consorts to indirectly guide the Emperor—these were all considerably sinister notions to be coming from the mouth of a mere fifteen-year-old girl. But Trisha felt no shame. No, to be honest, her heart even fluttered a little. Trisha's talent for scheming and strategy was close to innate, as if inheriting it from her mother Beatrix, yet Trisha herself had rarely had the chance to actually make use of it. After all, what was there to scheme about when the opponent had already long crossed the finish line and was holding the winner's trophy, scheming or not. But this time, that talent and ability were needed. Moreover, the opponents were trash of a sort that made using such talent not the least bit distasteful. On top of that, she had a brother by her side as an ally who, while not quite human, was at least reliable (if her actual blood brother Nikolaus had been her ally instead, she might have seriously considered escaping this mortal world through suicide)—which made her think, isn't this worth a shot? But isn't getting excited over something like that irresponsible, even so? 'Humanly speaking, I was dragged into this screwed-up place without even knowing why, so I should at least get some enjoyment out of it.' No matter how hard Trisha worked to accomplish something in this world, the only reward she'd get for it was the single thing: 'going back.' The effort poured in along the way, the stress endured, the crises overcome—none of that could be compensated at all. No, if she went back only to find that just as much time had actually passed as she'd spent here, it would go beyond zero into negative territory. So Trisha's conclusion was that she should at least enjoy the process. "—That's roughly the approach I had in mind. What do you think, Brother?" Trisha's eyes grew bright and expectant. Considering that about ninety-five percent of the roughly thirty minutes' worth of schemes she'd just rambled on about were content that shouldn't leave so much as a trace in a children's book, one could clearly see that outward loveliness and inward wickedness had absolutely no correlation. And since Alondre, too, wasn't particularly the type to concern himself with good and evil, he smiled gently without being appalled by Trisha's proposed collection of courtly political schemes. "Indeed, that's a fine plan." "Really? Then which one should we go with? Is the puppet-figurehead operation the best after all?" "No, they're all fine plans, but they share a common flaw." "A flaw?" Trisha didn't particularly get angry just because fault had been found with the plans she'd painstakingly devised. She acknowledged that Alondre was a superior person to herself. A plan she'd thought was her best effort might look flawed to Alondre's eyes. But at Alondre's words that followed, she couldn't help but tilt her head for a moment. "Yes. It's too slow before we see results." "Hmm? But there are some that produce results in about a week?" "If you're counting just that one, sure. What I mean is the total time it takes to reach the point we're aiming for." "Well, that's..." Trisha possessed the qualities of a capable schemer. However, scheming too, at its core, requires cards to move before one can set up a grand game. If what you held at the gambling table was worth about ten while your opponent held over a hundred million, well, wouldn't some amount of time be necessary? "Then how much time are you looking at, Brother?" Alondre gazed blankly out the window for a moment. At the empire visible through the gap in the window frame. "Who knows. In any case, sooner would be better." *** In an absolute monarchy, the Emperor's authority is immensely powerful. That's why, if the Emperor is capable and diligent, he can lead the nation with tremendous driving force. Conversely, if the Emperor is incompetent and lazy, the entire nation starts wheezing as if afflicted with some meridian-blocking disease. In severe cases, it even resorts to self-harm. And the people of the world called those who belonged to the latter category this: A dark lord. Why hide it. The current Emperor of the Empire, Mihail, was also one of those dark lords. "Heh heh heh, this is good. Good." Despite the sun being high in the sky, the Emperor's private chamber was filled with every kind of smell. The scent of the finest agarwood. The harsh, distinctive reek of liquor. The sickly-sweet smell of fruit on the verge of rotting away. The smell of women's powder and perfumed oils. Beside Mihail's shoulders and near his knees, women with disheveled clothing—or perhaps deliberately disheveled—clung to him, letting out coquettish laughter, while Mihail, his eyes glazed and half-lidded, received grapes they fed into his mouth. To say it again, this was a time when the sun was high in the sky. At court, matters awaiting the Emperor's final approval had piled up, and there were countless disputes that required the Emperor himself to step in and resolve. But Mihail did no such thing, and his vassals, too, said nothing to him about it. Loyal vassals had already been demoted or had their heads cut off as the price of their loyal counsel. Corrupt vassals were busy flattering the Emperor or coveting the power that had arisen from his absence. As a result. Corruption ran rampant in the government. Factional struggles for profit mattered more than the effectiveness or soundness of policy. Extravagance ran rampant among the nobles. With the Emperor himself flaunting luxury more than anyone, there was no way the nobles would hold back. Suffering and resentment ran rampant among the common people. No one looked after them, and whenever they tried to look after themselves, those above interfered. And if one were to ask whether the very person who had created this mess, Emperor Mihail, felt any guilt over it. The answer, without question, was that he didn't feel the slightest bit sorry. 'Why should I feel sorry?' One of the people most liable to become the most shameless and brazen in the world is precisely the person who considers himself a victim. In that sense, Mihail was a man absolutely overflowing with self-pity. 'Just think how many years I had to endure humiliation under that damned bastard.' The imperial household of the Empire pursues meritocracy. Since the eldest is given somewhat more bonus points, the eldest is favored when abilities are similar, but even one who isn't the eldest can ascend to the throne so long as his ability is good enough. What does this mean? Does it mean something like, so that's how they can produce excellent emperors one after another! What a splendid system!? Let's set aside all the talk about how fairness in evaluating ability is secured, or how the system invites kin-slaying strife among rivals. Looking at it purely in terms of what life as imperial family means, this system signifies one thing. Endless evaluation. If Mihail couldn't do something his brother Fried could, that became grounds for deduction. If his brother Fried's conduct was upright while Mihail's wasn't, that too became grounds for deduction. The brands of excellence and incompetence were endlessly carved in, and everything one did was scored. That was why Mihail hated his brother. He hated his brother for possessing that genius, that decisive capacity for bold action when it mattered despite seeming lazy, that patience to appear diligent in front of others despite loving to play—he hated his brother for having what Mihail himself did not. And then his brother died. The chance to seize the throne had come, and so he seized it. Even as he eliminated, one by one, those among his brother's blood kin who raised their heads, he felt no guilt whatsoever. Because he himself had suffered on account of his brother. The country falling apart? The court growing corrupt? Who cared. This was a seat he'd earned after all that suffering. Surely he could enjoy it a little—yes, just a little bit, couldn't he? Wouldn't it be fine to attend to state affairs only after settling his body and mind? It had already been fourteen years since Mihail entered his self-proclaimed 'resting period,' yet Mihail still felt no shame. Because, as he saw it, he was a pitiable man. "Your Majesty, please try a bit of this too." It was just then, as Mihail was indulging in pleasure amid the flattering women. —Y-Your Majesty! There is a matter that must be reported at once!! Please grant permission to enter!! At the urgent voice heard from outside the door, Mihail's brow furrowed. When he gave a look, one of the women in his arms quickly spoke up. "His Majesty is currently resting from his fatigue. How dare you disturb his peace of mind!!" —B-but... At the hesitant tone coming from outside the door, a question arose in Mihail's mind. His vassals ordinarily didn't report anything while Mihail was idling about. To begin with, state affairs had long been running on rough, slapdash management such that things somehow rolled along even without the Emperor stepping in, and they also knew Mihail extremely disliked having his rest disturbed. If there was really something to report, the established practice until now was to bundle it all together and report it at once whenever Mihail, on some occasional whim, wandered about pretending to be a sane man, then receive rough verbal approval. And yet they were being this persistent? Just what on earth was going on? Mihail strode over and threw open the door. "What in the world is going on?" "Y-Your Majesty. You must go to the court right away. There—" Without even hearing the rest, Mihail headed straight for the court where his throne stood. Something quite shocking must have happened, for a commotion could already be felt in the corridor leading to the court. Shock, disbelief, confusion. Pushing aside the curtain of murmuring, Mihail finally laid eyes on the source of the commotion. "...Brother?" No, it wasn't. There was some resemblance, not none at all, but that indefinably languid, idle air his brother Fried used to carry wasn't felt in this young man. If anything, he resembled not his brother as just another member of the imperial family, but his brother during the period after being formally appointed Crown Prince, when he'd temporarily cast aside his languor and attended to his duties diligently. That person looked at Mihail, the Emperor of this nation. "Your Majesty. This humble subject, Alondre Arcandel Eizern. I have been unable to fulfill my duties these past years due to somewhat poor health. But I have now recovered fully, and so I have come to inform Your Majesty of this." "Your Late Majesty. At the time of my father Fried Wenli Eizern's death, you declared, for the sake of the greater good: 'It is not out of selfish desire to become Emperor, but only to hold the seat briefly to calm the imperial household. Once the rightful heir grows up, I will hand the seat back, so all of you may rest assured.' I heard those words most deeply moved." "Though a series of unfortunate accidents prevented Your Majesty's benevolent intention from actually coming to pass, and you must have suffered great heartbreak because of it, it is all right now." "—Please relinquish the throne."