Chapter Forty-Three: The Script Soon to Unfold

“What are you doing here? Didn’t I make it clear? For the sake of caution, none of your people should remain in the capital.” Alex regarded the woman before him with heightened vigilance; her beauty was almost unnatural, yet his gaze remained wary.

“Oh, how heartless you are, Crown Prince. Use someone and then turn your back on them,” the alluring woman in the black robe laughed softly, covering her mouth as she settled languidly onto the sofa, crossing her legs in a relaxed pose while watching him.

Her voluminous robe barely concealed her ravishing figure, but Alex felt nothing but revulsion. No matter how tempting her appearance, it could not alter the fact that she was a cultist. Who knew what foul creature lurked beneath that skin?

“When did you arrive?” Alex asked, frowning.

“No need to be so tense. I just got here myself. With all that commotion earlier, I dared not linger in the capital. If that sword suddenly cut me down, it wouldn’t be much fun,” the woman said, helping herself to a bottle of wine on the table and pouring a glass of red. She took a sip, her seductive features showing a hint of satisfaction.

“Nobles—always so adept at enjoying themselves.”

“At present, the Royal Knights are patrolling the city nonstop, especially near the residences of the king’s candidates. I advise you to leave now,” Alex said, gesturing to the window.

“Those little fools won’t notice me,” the woman replied, draining her wine and licking the corner of her lips. “Now, I have a script for you—a plan that could make you king.”

“You failed to kill Olina before; now you come to me with promises of kingship?” Alex’s disbelief was evident as he pointed outside, his tone resolute: “Leave now. I want nothing more to do with you cultists.”

The power struggle was entering its critical phase—forces from every faction converged, countless supernaturals gathering in the capital. More than a dozen high-ranking supernaturals were openly present, and the mighty Sword of Dawn stood guard. He doubted that these cultists, who couldn’t even kill Olina, had the capacity to make him king under such circumstances.

“That was the work of low-level lackeys. Do you really think a bunch of small fry could kill a great knight, especially someone as unique as Olina? Our deal was clear—I provide the poison, you execute the assassination,” the woman protested innocently, then cast a knowing glance over Alex, her smile sly and suggestive.

“Besides, I am no cultist—no lowly servant. And you have no way out. Do you think, once they ascend the throne, they’ll spare you? Among humans, the losers in power struggles always meet a miserable end.”

“Perhaps, soon enough, you’ll be fighting stray dogs for scraps. All you have will vanish, and those you once scorned will look down on you from above. Imagine such a life—death might be the best outcome.”

“Enough!” Alex’s formerly handsome and elegant face twisted, his bloodshot eyes wild with madness. “I accept. If you can make me king, I’ll do anything.”

Now, all he wanted was to become king and force those two arrogant women to kneel at his feet.

“Excellent. Then do exactly as I say.” The woman’s voice was soft, almost magical, drawing him in irresistibly.

“Neither Olina nor Irene is favored by the nobles and lords; none want either to ascend the throne. You must become their opposite to win their support. But first, the king’s selection must descend into chaos, just as it did last time.”

“Chaos?” Alex was puzzled.

“Indeed. The entire selection must teeter on the brink of disorder.” She poured herself another glass, her tone relaxed. “In a few days, the king will die suddenly. The pillar of order will collapse, and everything will erupt into chaos.”

“Irene will rely on her prestige among the Royal Knights to seize the palace and command the Sword of Dawn. But with the selection unfinished, the sword will not recognize her. To prevent Irene from claiming the throne, all the nobles will unite in a frenzied counterattack, culminating in war…”

Her gentle voice drifted through the dim room, weaving a tale as intricate as any chronicled history.

“In the end, most candidates will perish in bloody conflict, and only you—the sole survivor—will be elevated to king.”

In the pitch-black, disordered chamber, the light filtering through the curtains was swallowed by endless darkness. The Crown Prince stood amid shattered fragments, his expression shifting from wild delight to shock, fear ever-present, his face changing as though he wore a thousand masks.

Click!

Suddenly, the door opened. A maid entered cautiously, surveying the chaotic, empty room. “Your Highness, forgive me for interrupting, but Duke Carter’s steward requests your presence.”

Alex glared coldly at the maid. “Why didn’t you knock?”

This maid knew too much—she had seen his secrets and discovered his dealings with the cult.

He glanced at the woman on the sofa; she sat as before, lazily sipping her wine, a faint smile curling her lips.

At his question, the maid turned pale, bowing her head and speaking with utmost humility. “I’m terribly sorry. I knocked over ten times, but you didn’t respond. Duke Carter’s steward has been waiting nearly half an hour. I didn’t want you to be delayed, so…”

Before she could finish, Alex’s large hands closed around her throat and hoisted her into the air.

“Why didn’t you knock? Do you think I’ll lose the king’s selection, so you look down on me?” His face contorted, hands tightening on her neck.

“Please… please…” The maid whispered her pleas, eyes wide with terror, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“You filthy, contemptible wretch! Who are you to look down on me? Die! Die!”

With a crack, Alex snapped the maid’s neck.

“The prince is truly volatile—he nearly frightened me,” the seductive woman murmured, turning her head as if unwilling to witness the gruesome scene.

“Poor thing, dying so senselessly.”

…

In the palace, a temporarily requisitioned hall was abuzz. All manner of equipment had been quickly assembled; the massive central radio station was activated, connecting to transmitters scattered across the capital.

Royal Knights sat at the long table, faces filled with confusion and curiosity, donning headphones at the direction of nearby black-haired officers.

A uniformed soldier from Xuanlu spoke the common tongue in a strange accent: “Please, write down everything you hear.”

Xuanlu now had some linguists with a talent for the common language, though their mastery was far from perfect. Monitoring required absolute precision, the recording of every word, so natives of the new world were essential.