The Crown Prince’s Mercy and the Shadow of Death

Only then did they realize I wasn’t joking, and the alley fell silent. Even those without greed are tempted when faced with a staggering sum. A few of them began glancing at each other nervously. It’s working. This was gaining traction. I summoned the most obnoxious face I could imagine. I tried to mimic the Second Prince again, but that brat was… well, a bit too low-class. I didn’t need to think long. His brother had a superlative talent for this specific brand of arrogance.

Visualizing the Crown Prince, I straightened my posture. I stiffened my neck and puffed out my chest as if I had never bowed to a single soul in my life. Mimicking his smooth, melodic voice, I spoke quietly.

“Would twenty million be too difficult to refuse?”

Their young faces froze. One of them even took a half-step back. The boy obsessed with the jacket turned toward the “weasel,” his breathing becoming ragged.

“Ben, what’s going on? You said he was just some country bumpkin up from the provinces!”

I, who had spent my life moving only between the capital and the duchy only to be branded a “bumpkin,” looked at the weasel called Ben. He gave a wry smile. As he uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, the thugs surrounding me parted like the Red Sea.

As I suspected, the hierarchy of this group was clear. This man wasn’t just some leader of a pack.

“We can’t be satisfied with twenty million. You’ll give us whatever we ask for, won’t you?”

“How much do you want?”

“Shouldn’t it be around a hundred million to be worth the name of your House?”

Crazy. I forgot my Crown Prince act and lost my words in shock. Surely he didn’t mean silver coins in this situation. He had to be talking about a hundred million gold coins. You could buy a literal palace with that kind of money.

I suppressed the rising panic and glared at him. It was certain now. There was a reason he had let Helena go. This bastard knew exactly who I was, and he had kept me here on purpose.

Who would hold such a grudge against the Edwill family? Damn it, there are too many candidates. I consider the Count a good father, but I don’t believe for a second that he’s lived a perfectly clean and moral life. The higher you sit, the harder it is to walk a path of pure integrity. Someone out there likely considers the Count their mortal enemy.

Even if it wasn’t revenge, in this world, people are killed for political maneuvering. It’s not common, but it’s not rare either. That widened the scope. Duke Suenil always clashed with the Count, and Annette isn’t exactly the loyal type. Perhaps it was the Crown Prince, or someone else entirely.

The man mocked me openly. If I get out of here, I’m going to destroy this guy. As I grit my teeth, the man unsheathed the sword at his hip and rolled it across the ground toward me.

“Since you were looking for ‘fairness.’ I thought you’d feel less wronged if you at least held one of these.”

I picked up the sword that had come to a stop on the uneven ground. It wasn’t a weighted practice sword, nor did it have any artifacts for the user’s convenience. The weight of a real blade—my first—made my hand tremble. I forgot to even remove the scabbard before taking a stance, then seeing the blunt end, I hurriedly drew the blade. Shhhring. The steel slid out with a smooth sound, reflecting the moonlight.

The expressions of the thugs around me grew heavier.

“Ben, explain this properly,” the “jacket” boy hissed. The man scratching his chin slowly let his expression go blank. As the annoying smile vanished, his sharp eyes stood out even more.

The man soothed the boy in a voice that was uncharacteristically kind compared to his face.

“To turn your blade on me like that. It breaks my heart.”

“Ben.”

“If you receive something, you must pay the price, Joseph. Didn’t I teach you that?”

The shoulders of Joseph—the one in the jacket who seemed to be the leader—and the others stiffened. Even the brat called Keif rolled his eyes anxiously. In the escalating tension, one of them spat on the ground and gripped a rod. Every one of them had a rod strapped to their waist; they were about the thickness of an adult male’s forearm and shorter than a sword, but they looked solid and flexible.

“He’s right. If you’re scared, stay out of it, Joseph.”

Even to my eyes, the intention to step up for his comrade was obvious; there was no way Joseph, an actual comrade, wouldn’t understand. His face contorted as he drew his own rod.

The man offered a “kind” piece of advice—that it would be best to finish this before someone arrived—and as soon as he stepped back, several of them lunged at me. It was a brawl; I parried half of them and blocked the other half with my arms. It was difficult to even hold the forms I had practiced so hard. If I blocked the left, a club swung from the right; if I pushed back a club, a foot flew at me from below.

I managed to graze the legs and arms of a few with my sword, but unless it was a fatal blow, it only served to provoke them. Spellman’s teaching—‘Do not even pick up a sword unless your heart is ready’—felt chillingly real. Unless I swung with the intent to kill, the live blade was worse than a scabbard.

However, after stabbing one in the thigh and hitting another in the face with my scabbard to buy time, I glared at them, biting my lip. Their faces still held the traces of childhood. Not all, but most of them were terrified. Could I actually swing a sword and cut down people like this?

Probably not. For me, having lived a peaceful life, murder couldn’t possibly be a light matter. I likely wouldn’t be able to endure it. If my skills were far superior, perhaps I could end it with just injuries. But even if I was better than them individually, that gap was narrowed by their overwhelming numbers.

Since I couldn’t just stand there and take a beating, my only choice was to stall for time and hold out until Helena and Daniel arrived.

“Gack!”

I took a direct hit to my lower calf and lost my balance. The moment I fell, the lynch mob descended as if they had been waiting. I struck out at their legs with the scabbard a few times, but I couldn’t ward them all off.

“Do you have any last words for your dear family?”

I spat. A mixture of blood and saliva landed on the man’s boot.

“Go to hell.”

The weasel tilted his head. The kicking, which had paused for a moment, resumed.

“Boss, Joseph. Are we really killing him?”

The brat grabbed Joseph and asked. Joseph glanced at the weasel. The weasel didn’t answer, merely offering a thin smile. He intended to kill me and leave a blatant trail of evidence—hoping someone would be traumatized by the sight of Llewellyn Edwill beaten to death in a vacant lot.

Just as I thought I was actually going to die, my vision went dark. Simultaneously, the pain of the kicking vanished. Is this the afterlife? But the screams I heard were far too vivid. I flailed my hand and touched a thick, soft fabric.

“Stay still.”

The voice was cold and sharply edged. Even from those few words, I could tell the speaker was in a foul mood. At the sound of the screams coming from beyond the fabric, I stopped struggling. I didn’t want to provoke this person.

It didn’t take long for the screaming to stop. Wrapped in the cloth, I couldn’t see out, but it wasn’t hard to guess what was happening. I slowly pulled the fabric back. The man standing silently beside me didn’t stop me this time. The thick, dark fabric was so large I had to wriggle to fully escape it. When I finally poked my face out, the cool night air chilled my feverish, wounded skin.

But I had no time to focus on that. I froze at the sight before me. Not a single person who had been beating me moments ago was still alive. Blood flowed from the corpses strewn across the ground, soaking the earth. In the center of it all stood a man. He was tall enough to stand out even in a crowd, and his body was solid beneath his black clothes.

I recognized his face. He was Kisyar Tesa, the commander of Kahillm, one of the four knight orders protecting the Imperial Palace. Blood dripped from the sword in his hand, forming a long trail on the ground.

I was afraid of Kisyar Tesa, who stood there vacantly after cutting down more than ten people, but I was even more terrified of the man kneeling and leaning over me.

The mask, which I was seeing for the third time, was still unfamiliar. I recalled the trip to the Magic Tower with Abel. The Shadow of Purdeck. Or The Mask of Prupendus. The information Frey had babbled to me came back as vividly as if it had happened moments ago.

‘He exists but has no substance; you meet him but cannot feel him.’

It was just as I had guessed. He was right in front of me, yet it felt as if information about him was being blocked. His presence felt carved away, and his face was blurred like a fog. The man’s lips curved into a smile beneath the mask. It was a relaxed, leisurely smile, but perhaps because I had heard that deeply displeased voice earlier, he didn’t seem to be in a good mood at all.

The blood of many flowed down the blade. Kisyar Tesa, dressed in black, approached, dragging his sword along the ground. When the masked man gestured, he silently bowed and left the scene.

The man quietly removed his mask. Only then did I fully recognize the familiar curve of his lips. I realized he had been wearing a hood, and that the blond hair revealed when he removed it was like something out of a myth.

“…Your Highness.”

“I had hoped you wouldn’t have to see such a wretched sight, yet you are so heartless.”

I realized the cloth I was wrapped in was the Crown Prince’s cloak, and that he had covered me with it specifically to shield my eyes.