The Thirteenth Prince's Wish
By the time the banquet was winding down, the nobles began spilling out of the hall and converging on the vast tournament grounds. The princes' duel — held by tradition at every crown prince's birthday banquet — still remained.
"Will His Highness the Crown Prince claim victory again this year?"
"But of course! His Highness's swordsmanship already leaves even the order's own commanders in awe!"
The noble ladies whispered among themselves, cheeks flushed, eyes fixed on the center of the arena.
...Right. The duel.
Seated at an angle on the high nobles' dais, Cesare looked down over the arena with an indifferent gaze.
This scene in the original had been an utter bloodbath — the apex of that infamous "sweet potato" stretch of the story, the kind of arc so frustrating it left readers choking on their own rage. It was the moment Leoneld, having drunk alone at the banquet hall, was carved up by his own brothers while too weak to even stand — vowing revenge through a mouthful of blood.
But this time, it would be different. If Leoneld drank the antidote Cesare had slipped him, the outcome would turn on its head. Twenty years of poison gnawing down to his marrow couldn't be flushed out in a single gulp — but it would be scoured away, at least in part.
In the original, Leoneld's crushing defeat had never been a matter of skill. It was the poison eating through his whole body, warping the flow of his mana circles and aura.
If anything, Leoneld was the true genius. A monster who drew sword aura the very moment he first gripped a blade, and rocketed to the third circle the instant he began studying magic. If only the poison's leash were gone...
Cesare was narrowing his eyes, searching out Leoneld amid the crowd, when—
"...! We greet the Sun of the Empire!"
The surroundings went suddenly still, as if water had been dashed over the crowd — and just as quickly roared back to life. When Cesare turned, a middle-aged man of overwhelming presence was entering at the head of his knights.
The man they called the Sun of the Empire. The Emperor — Lesseus le Aurelian.
"We greet the Sun of the Empire!"
Cesare rose from his seat and bowed with elegant, measured grace.
"It has been some time, Duke Valois."
The Emperor acknowledged the greeting lightly before sinking into the seat of honor, one tier above even Cesare's. He gazed down at his sons lined up across the arena with evident satisfaction, while on every side the nobles went quiet, reading his mood, breaths held.
Then the Emperor propped his chin on his hand and leaned slightly toward Cesare. A low, conspiratorial voice reached him — pitched so that only Cesare could hear.
"To think Our sons have grown so tall already — it stirs an old heart. And so, Duke, We have been thinking of adding a small amusement to today's contest."
A faint smile curled the Emperor's lips.
"Whoever wins today shall receive, in Our own name, an Imperial Wish Grant — whatever he asks of Us, We shall grant. Though of course, the children don't know yet."
Cesare's brow twitched, almost imperceptibly. The Emperor continued, as though savoring the reaction.
"Everyone is backing the Crown Prince as the likeliest victor. Our knights, and all the young ladies gathered there. But your eye, Duke, has always been a little different."
The Emperor fixed Cesare with a steady stare and asked, "Who do you think will come out on top?"
His eyes gleamed, sharp and probing.
The silence stretched. Cesare lifted his head and met the Emperor's gaze head-on, a strange current passing between the two men. At last, shattering the long stillness, he spoke.
"I shall place my wager on the Thirteenth Prince, Your Majesty."
"Oh ho."
The Emperor narrowed his eyes, plainly intrigued.
"Leoneld, you say... That boy has never shown so much as a spark of promise, no matter how much he's grown. Is there some reason you would choose him of all people?"
Instead of answering at once, Cesare let his gaze drift to the center of the arena — where Leoneld still stood, sword in hand.
"...A mere feeling, Your Majesty."
Unless he was imagining it, their eyes had met for just an instant. A faint smile touched Cesare's lips.
"Watching someone claw his way up from rock bottom is the finest entertainment there is, is it not?"
The Emperor burst into laughter, as if rolling the words over and savoring them.
"...Amusing. Very amusing."
The duel was no ordinary tournament. One by one, the other princes stepped up to challenge the crown prince — hailed across the Empire as a swordsmanship prodigy — a stage designed, in truth, for nothing more than flaunting his strength.
"Ugh...!"
The First Prince's sword flew from his grip, and he went tumbling across the ground. The Second Prince, who challenged next, couldn't survive ten exchanges before his knees buckled.
It was over in the blink of an eye. The princes who stepped up after them dropped like autumn leaves, one after another.
"Ha — one hardly needs to watch to know the outcome."
"Another year, another private stage for His Highness. A truly cruel tradition for the poor Thirteenth Prince."
Snickering whispers laced with mockery filled the arena. Only one challenger remained now: the Thirteenth Prince, Leoneld — the one they called the imperial family's castoff.
"My, what rotten luck, that you should be last. But as your elder brother, I shan't go easy on you. This is a contest like any other."
The crown prince drew his blade with a slimy little sneer. He had already cut down opponent after opponent, yet not a single breath was out of place. Golden sword aura rippled along the tip of his blade, and the stands erupted in gasps of admiration.
Leoneld offered no answer. He simply drew his sword — a battered old practice blade — and a strange smile curled his lips. A smile of someone delighted beyond all measure; so bright, and yet so cold, it raised the hair on your arms.
"...Is he smiling?"
The crown prince's brow twitched. The audacious composure of a mongrel-born castoff had scraped his pride raw.
The crown prince kicked off the ground and shot forward like a thunderbolt.
"You don't even know your own place!"
His sword came hammering down toward Leoneld's skull. The strike, heavy with golden aura, split the air with a shriek and shook the entire arena. Meet it head-on, and he would be obliterated — the power left no room for doubt.
But that was the moment. Leoneld's form broke apart in an eerily impossible way — as though he had dissolved into nothing, leaving only an afterimage behind.
Clang—!
A single, razor-sharp screech of steel rang out. The two blades had met. Blue sword aura burned vivid along Leoneld's edge.
"...What—?"
In the instant the crown prince staggered back, undone, Leoneld slid inside his guard without one wasted step. Faster than the blink of an eye, the cold edge of the practice sword came to rest — perfectly level — against the crown prince's throat.
The impossible sight dropped the arena into a deep hush. Nobles rubbed their eyes, refusing to believe what they had just seen; the knights stood stricken, unable to close their gaping mouths. The Thirteenth Prince — the disgrace they called the imperial family's castoff — had just defeated the finest sword prodigy the Empire had ever produced.
Only after the silence had dragged on did the Emperor, watching from the seat of honor, release a hollow little laugh and speak.
"...The victory goes to the Thirteenth Prince."
The instant the declaration fell, a slow, deliberate clapping echoed across the arena.
The Emperor rose from his seat at an unhurried pace and came down toward Leoneld. His footsteps, descending from the dais a tier above, rang out with peculiar weight.
"Remarkable. Either Our eyes have failed Us... or you have been deceiving Us all this time."
He walked past the crown prince — still frozen in place with a sword at his throat — and stopped before Leoneld, who was lowering his blade into a formal bow.
"Leoneld le Aurelian. A victor must have his due reward. As We confided to Duke Valois alone a moment ago — today's champion shall receive an Imperial Wish Grant. Whatever he asks, We shall grant."
At the Emperor's words, the stands erupted into fresh murmurs. A Wish Grant, guaranteed under the Emperor's own name. The nobles swallowed dryly. The crown prince, meanwhile, had gone the color of dirt.
"Speak, Leoneld. What is it you wish for? A title, perhaps? Or a beautiful bride? Whatever it may be, you shall have it."
Every gaze in the arena converged on Leoneld. Cesare, too, watched him with chin propped on his hand, eyes gleaming with interest.
...A development that never existed in the original. Leoneld, who by every right should have lost, had won. ...Because of his own meddling.
How curious. Strange feelings welled up in him — and at the same time, his heart was beginning to pound. Would he get to watch the original story unfold ahead of schedule?
Now, a Wish Grant like this, generally speaking... doesn't grant literally 'everything' you ask for. Even if you stood up right here and demanded the throne itself, no Emperor alive would actually step aside.
In cases like this, something romantic is usually the safe bet. An official date with a woman he'd long admired, or the right to name his own political betrothal — that sort of thing.
But the Leoneld I know is a different beast entirely. A vengeful spirit steeped in grudges deeper than anyone alive. If it were him, he'd spend the Wish Grant laying the first stone of his revenge, no question about it.
And so, with every soul in the hall holding its breath, waiting only on the movement of Leoneld's lips—
"I..."
Leoneld's mouth opened. He raised his head, slowly, and his gaze shot like an arrow to a single point in the crowd. The man watching from the high nobles' dais — Cesare von Valois.