RYH 08

CHAPTER 08

The migraine came to him without warning, at any time. Whenever he suffered a seizure from the pain, rumors began spreading throughout the imperial court—that the crown prince had been cursed, or struck by plague.

To suppress the rumors, the imperial palace restricted access to his northern palace wing to an extremely small number of people.

Even so, the stories kept circulating. Eventually, the crown prince deliberately brought in a crown princess, as if to show them all, in order to solidify his position. Of course, even that had all turned to dust after his divorce from Rosennelli.

Three years earlier, after the crown princess requested a divorce and left the palace—

the Emperor began to openly ostracize Leonhardt.

One of those actions was sending him to the battlefield.

On the surface, there was a justification. Vassals whispered that the Emperor’s only son seemed afflicted by plague, or cursed, and was unfit to be the heir of the Robea Empire. So the Emperor claimed it was to demonstrate how strong and capable his son truly was, and how fit he was to be the successor.

Of course, that was only the public excuse. In truth, the Emperor may have wished his son would never return from the battlefield. And it wasn’t just the Emperor. The ministers who had long disliked Leonhardt surely seized the opportunity and pushed for it. The new Empress Perla and her faction were likely at the forefront.

The year Leonhardt divorced Rosennelli, his stepmother Empress Perla gave birth to a son.

What kind of strength did the Emperor—who was supposedly confined to his sickbed—still possess to sow such seed? It was almost comical.

“We cannot ignore the eyes of the vassals and servants, Your Highness. What if even our Milo contracts the illness? If you truly do not resent Prince Milo, then prove it yourself.”

What kind of madman would be jealous of a half-brother nineteen years younger? Yet in the end, Leonhardt was forced to join the war alongside Sir Rosalyn Hartmann, the first knight of the Robea Empire and his maternal uncle.

Surprisingly, the battlefield suited him well.

His unexplained migraines and full-body rashes only worsened with time, but on the blood-soaked battlefield, there was no room to feel such pain. The calm that came after battle—the rest others called relief—was, for Leonhardt, closer to hell.

Two years passed like that.

In the end, they achieved victory, but Leonhardt had no desire to return to the empire. In truth, perhaps he had hoped to die on the battlefield. It wasn’t as if he had fought because he wanted to live.

By then, the nobility already whispered that Leonhardt was a warmonger, a tyrant in the making, a cursed crown prince. He knew well that palace life would not be peaceful.

How laughable humans were. Lose a war, and you are incompetent. Win one, and you are a tyrant. The hypocrisy was enough to make him sick.

The crown princess position had been vacant for some time. No doubt the palace would soon throw a grand celebration and an endless parade of nonsense to introduce a new crown princess.

“Leo. You are the one who will become the Emperor of Robea. Do not waste your life here. Return to your place. Claim what is yours. You are Leila’s son—her wise, strong, and brave son. I believe in you. You are not a cursed child.”

These were Sir Hartmann’s last words before his death. He had been one of the heroes who, despite his aged body, fought alongside the crown prince to achieve victory. Now he lay inside a coffin.

“Promise me. Fulfill the ideal Robea that Leila dreamed of. The current Emperor is not the man he once was. He is lethargic, lazy, and indifferent to his people, clinging only to his throne. Soon, Robea itself may disappear. When the Emperor weakens, the nation collapses.”

“……”

“So, Leonhardt. You must become Emperor. Your father will never acknowledge you as successor. You must choose your own people. You must show those who despise and ignore you who truly rules this place.”

With that, Hartmann handed him a small, old, worn key.

Placing it on Leonhardt’s palm, he whispered softly:

“One day, you will need this—this is—”

But he died before he could finish the sentence.

Leonhardt never learned what the key was for, what it locked, or what it was meant to open.

In truth, he had lost the only ally he had in the imperial palace—his last remaining supporter and relative.

Even after receiving the key, he still did not know its purpose. Yet, whenever he unconsciously held it, it helped him organize his thoughts.

Now, as always, Leonhardt stared at the key, lost in thought, recalling Hartmann’s last words.

His migraine still lingered, but perhaps due to the alcohol, the pain had lessened somewhat.

At that moment, Dalton, who had been outside, entered and whispered:

“Your Highness, the King of the Kingdom of Pantrion has arrived.”

“Leonhardt! It’s good to see you!”

Without waiting for permission, the man pulled aside the tent curtain and strode in—it was Terius, the newly crowned King of Pantrion. He had only just been crowned yesterday after earning recognition for his abilities in this war. He was also Leonhardt’s longtime friend.

“You could’ve stayed comfortably in the palace until the end. Why insist on suffering like this?”

“It’s uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable? You still hate people as much as ever. So, are you really going back like this? The queen is disappointed. She says she couldn’t properly host the hero who helped us win.”

“Enough. If that’s all you came to say, leave.”

“How cold. I came all this way to talk to my friend in peace, and this is how you treat me? No wonder you got divorced.”

“Hey.”

“Oh? Even as crown prince of an empire, you shouldn’t speak so casually to a king. Mind your tone.”

Leonhardt glared at him, and Terius grinned mischievously.

Though they were both twenty-two, Terius—already a married man with a child—still acted like a boy.

“You’re probably thinking I’m being childish right now. But I’m strict when I need to be, you know.”

“Sure you are. So strict that you should hurry home before curfew.”

“I came because I was worried about you. Your condition seems to be getting worse. If you have an attack while sailing, what then? I’ll send you a royal physician from our court. He studied medicine in the East and knows all sorts of treatments.”

Terius looked at him with concern. In his mind, they were close friends—closer than before after the war. He was sure Leonhardt felt the same.

“What will you do when you return to Robea?”

“What changes?”

“Will you just go back to the palace and handle the backlog of state affairs?”

“Then why not just take the Emperor’s throne?”

“My father won’t give it up so easily.”

“Is it because of the newborn prince and the new Empress?”

“They could be eliminated easily enough.”

“Then what’s the problem? Don’t tell me you suddenly want your father’s approval. That’s disgusting.”

Leonhardt let out a faint laugh.

It was not that he wanted approval.

Terius exhaled in relief and continued:

“There is no one more suited to be the heir of Robea than you. And as your friend, I must say—I hate your father, the Emperor. Sorry if that sounds disrespectful. But he did send you here to die, didn’t he? I understand your position better than most. I survived a battlefield my own father sent me to die in.”

They were, in truth, in similar circumstances.

In myths, it was always the same story: sons killing fathers and inheriting their power. Perhaps some people were obsessed with that idea. Some old men could not bring themselves to be proud of sons who surpassed them—they only grew jealous instead.

Terius himself had felt a strange satisfaction when he took the throne, watching his father tremble as he handed over the crown.

He wanted Leonhardt to feel that too.

In truth, the Robea Empire would not function without Leonhardt. A useless emperor, a greedy empress, and corrupt ministers—it would all collapse.

“That’s why you should remarry a crown princess soon and secure absolute support. Like me and Kenneth. Having in-laws isn’t always a bad thing. If they’re on your side, they become a tremendous asset.”

“Stop lecturing me.”

“It’s not a lecture. I’m worried about you. Who else worries about you like I do? Dalton would be offended if he heard that. Anyway, for Robea’s sake, you must become Emperor.”