The Crown Prince’s Burden

Charles Durand stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the center of the study. His study, located within his temporary residence, felt less like a part of a palace and more like a forward command post.

The heavy oak desk was laden with military maps and border reports, while a finely crafted two-handed greatsword leaned against its side. Large border maps adorned the walls, marked with various colored thumbtacks indicating fortresses, garrisons, and the movements of scouted Imperial forces.

Sunlight streamed through the windowpanes, casting a long shadow at his feet, bisecting his tall frame at the threshold between light and darkness. His ice-blue eyes, a regal inheritance, gazed through the glass at the bright sky beyond the window.

Chief spy Reynaud de Marco stood a few paces behind the Crown Prince, hands clasped, utterly silent, barely daring to breathe. He had already given a detailed account of his encounter at the de Laval estate and Allen de Laval’s words, which bordered on a full disclosure.

The silence stretched for so long that Reynaud almost believed the Crown Prince had drifted off into thought.

“What he said,” Charles finally spoke, his voice calm, betraying no emotion, “have you investigated it?”

“Your Highness, most of it is true,” Reynaud replied instantly. He paused, his tone cautious. “As for the divine revelation… that is a matter for the Church, and it involves the Heretical Inquisition. We dared not inquire too deeply, lest we alert the snake in the grass.”

“Hmph, the Church…”

Charles let out a soft scoff, then turned, his ice-blue gaze sweeping over a corner of the desk. There, resting quietly, was a heavy, gold-embossed book—the *Holy Scripture*. It had been a gift from his father, Louis XI, on his eighth birthday.

Ironically, it was from that very moment that father and son had grown estranged.

Charles approached the desk, his fingers unconsciously tracing the *Holy Scripture*’s cold cover.

“My father,” he murmured to himself, a self-deprecating curve to his lips, “always presented himself to outsiders as being intimately close with the Church, as if he were still that devout monk. In truth, he severed ties with the Church long ago. Everyone believes he has retreated behind the scenes, that power rests with Charlotte and me, but the truth is far from it.”

A rare trace of bewilderment flickered in his ice-blue eyes.

“Reynaud,” Charles addressed his confidant, “your family, the de Marcos, has served the court for generations. Before you entered my service, you must have heard many stories about my father’s youth from your elders, haven’t you?”

Reynaud chose his words carefully. “When His Majesty was young, he was a diligent and wise monarch, striving for good governance and employing capable individuals. However… his efforts in the first half of his life appeared so… fragile in the face of natural disasters and human calamities. Your Highness, forgive my frankness, but even if you ascend the throne in the future, you may encounter similar setbacks. Human will, in the end, struggles to alter the heavens’ punishment.”

“I am not like him,” Charles countered, shaking his head, his voice resolute. “He wasn’t defeated by setbacks; he was broken by hatred.”

“Hatred?” Reynaud’s face showed surprise. “What makes Your Highness say such a thing?”

Charles offered no direct reply. Instead, he casually drew the two-handed greatsword that leaned nearby. The heavy blade slid from its scabbard with a crisp hum. He gazed at the mirror-smooth blade, which reflected his stern countenance.

“Reynaud, do you know when the crests first appeared?” he suddenly asked.

Reynaud paused, taken aback. “This… my knowledge is shallow, I only know that the power of crests has existed since ancient times, a symbol of noble bloodlines.”

“My father once asked me the same question,” Charles’s voice held a touch of reminiscence. “At the time, I couldn’t answer either.”

With a slight turn of his wrist, the light reflected from the blade danced around the study.

“He told me that our Durand ancestors, leading the remnants of humanity who survived the apocalypse, likely had no crests when they founded the Kingdom of Lorraine in the wasteland. In that era, there weren’t even nobles.”

Reynaud held his breath, listening intently to this account, which bordered on secret history.

“But later,” Charles continued, his voice low, “as the survivors established more and more nations, conflicts and wars inevitably followed. It was amidst this bloody slaughter that crests were born.”

“The first individuals to manifest crests, wielding power beyond that of ordinary mortals, fundamentally altered the rules of warfare, securing victory after victory for their nations. Eventually, the first hereditary nobility emerged.”

He slowly returned the sword to its scabbard, his movements steady and powerful.

“Crests brought immense power, allowing humanity to rebuild civilization from the ruins. But, Reynaud,” Charles turned, his gaze deep as he looked at his chief spy, “without crests, this world would likely not wear its current, twilight aspect.”

“My father,” he continued, “he despises crests, and by extension, despises all nobles who maintain their status through the power of crests. Even my sister and I, I fear, are included in his hatred.”

A profound silence settled over the study. ‘The King despises nobles? Including his own son and daughter?’ The Crown Prince’s words sounded astounding, yet Reynaud seemed to grasp their meaning.

Privately, the nobles referred to Louis XI as the ‘Mad King,’ a clear indication of the animosity between the monarch and his aristocracy.

He remained silent for a moment before speaking cautiously. “Your Highness, when His Majesty was young, he trained in a monastery and was deeply influenced by Church doctrine. The Church has always held reservations about the nobility and the crest system. Perhaps His Majesty’s radical ideas stem from this?”

“Even the Church is not a monolithic entity on this matter,” Charles sneered. He walked to the desk, pulled open a drawer, took out a letter, and handed it to Reynaud. “Look at this.”

Reynaud took the letter with both hands and unfolded it. After only a few glances, his face instantly blanched, and cold sweat soaked the back of his shirt.

“This… this is…”

“An olive branch from the Imperial Church,” Charles said, a hint of mockery in his voice. “They wish to strike a secret accord with me. Do you understand what that implies?”

Reynaud swallowed hard, then ventured, “Does this mean Your Highness has gained a powerful ally?”

“Hmph!” Charles snorted with disdain. “It means those conceited Imperial fools believe they can buy me, that I am a simpleton!”

“Do they truly believe our Kingdom of Lorraine is so fractured as to be on the verge of collapse? Do they truly believe I am an ambitious schemer willing to betray national interests to usurp my father’s power?”

He returned to the window, his gaze fixed in the direction of the Empire, his voice imbued with power.

“My father, for all his flaws, is still a monarch; he discerns who the true enemy is. Reynaud, do you know when the Church last convened a Great Council? It was centuries ago! During that council, the Kingdom’s Church and the Imperial Church clashed fiercely over whether to acknowledge the sanctity of crests. They parted ways in discord and have never reconvened since!”

Charles turned, his gaze sweeping over Reynaud like a hawk. “The Church today is merely a shadow of its former self, split into two factions. The conflict between us and the Empire has never been solely about land and wealth; it is a divergence of faith and fundamental paths!”

“The Imperial Church’s attempt to win me over can only signify one thing—internal conflicts within the Empire have festered to an irreconcilable degree! They desperately need an external war to divert attention and consume that overflowing rage!”

As the Crown Prince who commanded the Kingdom’s military might, Charles understood the Imperial threat more acutely than anyone.

The Kingdom of Lorraine had once been the first powerful nation on this continent to implement absolute monarchy. Its rise had compelled surrounding smaller states to band together for protection, ultimately forming that vast and loosely knit alliance—the Empire.

Over centuries, through internal annexations, the Empire had gradually consolidated under the dominance of seven Great Electors. It boasted a population and territory far exceeding Lorraine’s, yet its internal strife prevented any significant westward expansion.

But Charles knew this balance was precarious.

The Empire’s thirty-year Interregnum was drawing to a close, and a formidable candidate for the throne, named Sigismund, had already emerged. Charles had met him; he was a terrifying adversary—ambitious, possessing both political acumen and military genius. Between the Kingdom and this future emperor, a brutal, fate-deciding war was inevitable.

His father had entrusted Charles with military authority precisely because he hoped Charles would protect the Kingdom’s populace.

“The world believes,” Charles’s voice carried a hint of weariness and self-mockery, “that once I ascend the throne, I will become a cruel tyrant, just like my uncle. Of course, I know that my ruthless suppression of those desperate peasants is utter tyranny! But, Reynaud, what else can I do? Am I to emulate my naive sister, Charlotte, and expect those damned ‘Sword Nobles’ to suddenly develop a conscience and voluntarily surrender their wealth to aid the disaster victims?”

His tone abruptly sharpened. “She simply doesn’t understand! The Kingdom’s survival depends on those ‘Sword Nobles’ who possess crests! They are our swords and shields! Yet, simultaneously, they are the greatest architects of the Kingdom’s demise! I must both rely on them and suppress them. This is a task my father refused, my sister cannot manage, and ultimately, it falls to me!”

He abruptly looked at Reynaud, his gaze burning bright.

“Tell me, Reynaud! Without crests, how are we to resist the Imperial iron heel? The peasants I’ve killed account for only a tiny fraction of the Kingdom’s population. But if the Empire defeats us, the entire Kingdom will be enslaved!”

“The rulers of the Empire are infinitely more ruthless than us! Most Imperial commoners likely don’t even know the taste of white bread. The Empire treats them merely as consumables, constantly feeding them into the meat grinder of war!”

“Do my people wish to live in such a nation? For the lives of the vast majority, I choose to let a few perish—am I truly wrong? Can I save them all? Can I halt natural disasters?!”

Charles took a deep breath, striving to calm his agitated emotions. He returned to the desk, picked up the original tax farming charter, and, seeing Bernard de Laval’s name upon it, let out a long sigh. “Because I compelled Viscount Bernard de Laval to become a tax farmer, my sister and her ‘Robe Nobles’ have branded me a villain who infringes upon private property, competes with the people for profit, and seizes wealth by force.”

He raised his head, his ice-blue eyes fixed on Reynaud, his tone imbued with a certain authority. “Reynaud, am I truly a villain?”

Reynaud looked at the Crown Prince before him, burdened by immense pressure, his heart a tangle of mixed emotions. He remained silent for a moment, then answered honestly. “Your Highness, compelling Viscount de Laval to become a tax farmer was indeed an unpopular act. However… you used those funds to support the Border Earl’s anti-bandit operation at Graymist Cape, thereby saving the lives of many more of the Kingdom’s subjects. You are not simply a villain, but neither can you be called a benevolent monarch.”

“Indeed,” Charles chuckled self-deprecatingly, tossing the charter back onto the desk. “This world isn’t black and white, and governing a nation is especially so. My sister believes that if nobles would simply surrender their wealth for the state to distribute, the nation would become more equitable. Yet, when I actually do something to that effect, why do they grow so agitated?”

His tone dripped with sarcasm. “The ‘Sword Nobles’ seek to plunder the wealth of the ‘Robe Nobles,’ and the ‘Robe Nobles’ aligning with my sister fundamentally intend to do the same. They spout platitudes of righteousness and morality, but their hearts are filled with sordid calculations.”

“Are we to believe, then, that the de Lavals’ money is so pristine? Every merchant is a rogue! Have they never oppressed the common folk? A joke! All crows are black! Why am I alone branded a tyrant? Is it simply because I allow them to continue speaking out?”

Listening to the Crown Prince’s grievances, Reynaud could only offer a soothing reply. “Your Highness, you are merely… too impatient.”

“Impatient?” Charles’s gaze abruptly sharpened, ice-blue flames burning in his eyes. “How can I not be impatient?! This nation is teetering on the brink of collapse! My sister fails to recognize the Imperial threat! Does she truly believe conflicts between nations can be resolved through dialogue?”

His voice rose slightly with agitation. “She has never dealt with those damned Imperials! Those barbarians understand only force! Only power!”

“And look at my father! He is likely planning some earth-shattering conspiracy to subvert the Kingdom! Tell me, why exactly is he courting the Border Earl Friedrich? He handed military authority to me, yet secretly cultivates generals loyal only to him…” Charles’s brow furrowed, his words brimming with suspicion.

“Your Highness!” Reynaud’s heart tightened, and he forced himself to interrupt. “Some things should not be idly speculated upon! You are the subject, His Majesty is the monarch! You need only fulfill your duties as a subject, and that crown will eventually be yours.”

“Your sister may find a different path, but her path is equally fraught with thorns. Only if you and Her Royal Highness can work together will it be the best choice for the Kingdom.”

“Do you think I haven’t considered that?” Charles stared coldly at Reynaud, his gaze seeming to pierce through him. “But Reynaud, what if… those behind me, those ‘Sword Nobles,’ wish to propel me to that position?”

“This…” Reynaud was momentarily speechless. He dared not speak lightly on such a topic.

“They have never been truly tamed! The blood of crests, born for war, flows inherently within them! They yearn for war! They yearn for true ‘freedom’!” He took a deep breath, lowering his voice. “My father, I fear, has already realized this.”

Charles seemed unwilling to delve deeper into this dangerous topic, so he changed the subject.

“Livia von Stern… what is the extent of her crest power?”

Reynaud immediately pulled a thin parchment scroll from his robes. “This is the detailed battle report sent back by our informants at Graymist Cape, Your Highness, please examine it.”

Charles took the report and quickly scanned it. The surprise and admiration in his ice-blue eyes intensified with each line. When he finished reading, he couldn’t help but genuinely praise, “Remarkable! She is a true hero.”

“Does Your Highness wish to win her over?” Reynaud tentatively asked.

Charles offered a wry smile. “If I could, I certainly would. But my father, for her sake, didn’t hesitate to offend numerous nobles to bestow such high honors upon the Border Earl, and even legalized her illegitimate daughter’s status. It’s not my turn to try to win her over.”

Reynaud nodded in agreement. “His Majesty’s action truly set a precedent, causing strong dissatisfaction among the nobles. His willingness to offend the nobility for this must have a profound meaning. Miss Livia, I suspect, is a crucial piece in His Majesty’s strategy.”

“You’ve already interacted with her betrothed, Allen de Laval.” Charles casually moved to the true subject. “What do you think of him? Do you believe his profligate demeanor is genuine… or a facade?”

Reynaud’s mind immediately conjured Allen’s black eyes, which seemed to see through everything, and his composed, almost playful villainous posture when facing him.

He spoke gravely, “Your Highness, this man is no ordinary individual.”

Charles nodded thoughtfully, his fingers unconsciously tapping the desk.

“The de Lavals are far more troublesome than I imagined. My father, I suspect, initially regarded them as just ordinary minor nobles.” He paused, a complex smile playing on his lips. “But which of those merchants who become ‘Robe Nobles’ is an easy target?”

He suddenly seemed to understand something, chuckling self-deprecatingly. “Perhaps Charlotte is right. Without crests, these astute merchants would likely become the true masters of this nation. They can create wealth, while those foolish ‘Sword Nobles’…

He glanced at the military maps on the wall, his tone carrying a subtle hint of disdain. “…only know how to throw wealth into the flames of war.”

Charles returned to his seat behind the desk, resuming the Crown Prince’s calm and decisive demeanor.

“The de Lavals currently owe 300,000 livres, correct?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Reynaud immediately replied. “The largest portion is for funds advanced for the Royal Central Plaza project.”

“Why is that payment delayed?” Charles pressed.

“The Kingdom’s Minister of Finance is deliberately holding up the approval of funds,” Reynaud explained. “He is notoriously greedy, and Viscount Bernard likely offended him during the project by not providing sufficient ‘tribute.'”

“Hmph, Charlotte is also a poor judge of character, allowing such a man in her faction.” Charles scoffed, then made his decision. “That Allen is a clever man. He said I should deal with the true enemy, and he is not wrong. As for the intelligence he mentioned Charlotte being interested in, it’s mostly bluster.”

He picked up a quill, quickly scribbled a few lines on a note, and affixed his personal seal. “Instruct our people to return the money owed to the de Lavals, principal and interest, as quickly as possible,” he handed the note to Reynaud. “Tell them, for truly noble aristocrats, failing to repay debts is simply undignified!”

“The de Lavals will not become our friends, but neither will they be Charlotte’s staunch allies. Keeping them alive, it seems, is currently more useful than eliminating them.”

“As for Livia von Stern…” Charles’s gaze drifted out the window. “She is currently off the chessboard. But once she returns to the capital, she will be on it.”

“The Church, heretics, my father, the Border Earl…” Charles murmured softly, complex emotions flickering in his eyes. “The pieces on this board are growing more numerous… I am truly becoming more curious about what will happen next.”

“What has Charlotte been doing lately?” he suddenly asked.

“Reporting, Your Highness, St. Nora Crest Academy will begin its new term in September. Her Royal Highness is preparing a grand freshman banquet,” Reynaud replied.

“Seeking to win over the younger generation of nobles, is she…?” A meaningful smile played on Charles’s lips. “Hmph, it seems I, too, must make an appearance.”

Silence once again fell over the study. Charles’s gaze finally returned to the heavy *Holy Scripture* on his desk. He reached out, his long fingers gently caressing the gold-embossed cover, his movements devout and tender.

Sunlight danced upon his fingertips through the window.

“Reynaud,” Charles suddenly spoke, his voice imbued with a sense of fatalistic sorrow, “this world is, in truth, a vast pipe organ.”

He raised his head, his ice-blue eyes gazing into the void, as if piercing through walls to see a far distant future. “Its keys can only be played by the Lord Himself. All of us are merely notes pulled from the bellows, dancing involuntarily to the melody It composes.”

Chief spy Reynaud de Marco watched the Crown Prince, who bore the weight of half a kingdom. In a sudden flash, he remembered seeing a young Louis Durand when he was very small. That Louis Durand, too, had been like his son: weary, pained, yet all-seeing.

Charles Durand seemed to perceive the magnificent stage fate had created for humanity, and he spoke in a low, profound voice:

“The actors are ready. The grand performance the Lord has prepared for this world is about to begin.”