Chapter Seven: The Soirée, the Rose Prince, and the Bait

Even before the soirée officially began that night, both the host and the guests were uneasily chatting among themselves. All along the spiral staircase in the main hall, the ladies and gentlemen in attendance, dressed to the nines, kept glancing at the door with anticipation. They were all waiting for a guest who occupied the pinnacle of the high society hierarchy and whose attendance had been in doubt until the last minute.

All of this had started when a friend of the host had told him that a certain someone was insisting upon attending the function. The host was ready to refuse this additional guest, as the number of invitees had already reached capacity, when he asked his friend for the name of this would-be guest, just to be safe. As soon as he did, the host completely changed his tune—and ran himself ragged to prepare the soirée down to the tiniest detail.

Said eleventh-hour guest was someone who had mostly stayed away from high society after he’d come of age. Up until his withdrawal, however, this person had been the center of everyone’s attention and the star of all kinds of lavish gossip. Among the elite, he was a celebrity. In fact, newborns and toddlers might have been the only people in the entirety of Gracis to not know his name.

The soirée attendees were all eagerly awaiting the return of this individual, who would outrank every guest and even the host himself, after a far-too-long hiatus from the party scene.

“There he is!” a lady closest to the entrance whispered to her friend beside her, covering her mouth with her fan to make this quiet yet unmistakably elated announcement.

The much-awaited guest had finally appeared. He elegantly descended the spiral staircase, accompanied by a friend; his red hair and eyes flared in the light like melted rubies. His face was almost too alluring for a man, and he was graceful down to the tiniest gesture. His indigo outfit, adorned all over with ornate embroidery which was clearly the result of supreme artistic dedication, further accentuated his beauty.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the Rose Prince in the flesh.”

“The Royal Rose... How captivating.”

The extravagantly dressed ladies gazed up at him, enchanted. Meanwhile, the other male guests of the soirée were ambitiously eying the ladies.

The host welcomed the guest as he reached the end of the spiral staircase. “Welcome, Prince Marx. I’ve been looking forward to your arrival.”

“I apologize for the last-minute request. My thanks,” the prince answered. The host couldn’t help but find even the prince’s apologetic expression to be picturesque.

This guest was none other than Marx Gracis, the First Prince, below only the king himself in status. Marx had stayed away from high society ever since graduating the academy, but now the handsome royal had lit up the entire soirée with his mere presence. The beauty bestowed upon him by his parents, the king and queen, as well as his signature billowing red hair, had earned him the monikers of “Rose Prince” and “Royal Rose”... unbeknownst to him, of course.

The host was brimming with pride that such a high-profile person had chosen his soirée as the stage for his rare venture into high society. “Such an honor, Your Highness. Please, enjoy our humble party.” The host had enough life experience to conceal his urge to jump for joy. Instead, he delivered a floor-sweeping bow and excused himself.

That served to announce the official commencement of the soirée. Some of the best musicians in the nation began to play their compositions, and the guests engaged in dancing or conversation in order to enjoy their night.

Enjoy it on the surface, at least. In truth, soirées were the battlegrounds of high society. Some nobles traded information, while others played mind games between their pleasant lines of conversation. Amidst the bladeless and bloodless battles being fought in the ballroom that night, every well-dressed guest was following the biggest prize with glittering gazes.

Sensing the stinging looks, Marx let out a chuckle. High society hadn’t changed a bit, after all this time. Marx had attended his fair number of functions before he came of age and began to work for National Defense, but never for his own enjoyment. As a member of the royal family, he always required the latest rumors being circulated among the nobility. Drinks led to complacency, and complacency loosened tongues.

Besides, in an attempt to enter the good graces of the First Prince, the nobles had rushed to entertain Marx with all sorts of gossip. The chirping of noble ladies could carry more weight than anyone realized. Innocuous gossip occasionally turned out to be important information. The ladies always came prepared with a variety of stories to draw Marx’s attention, so he always knew to play nice. The nobles saw him as their prey, but Marx saw them as his prey, which he chased down to plunder for their spoils of information.

That being said, it wasn’t that Marx didn’t enjoy attending soirées. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have been able to maintain his charming smile, even with an ulterior motive.

“Always a battlefield. I better watch my step,” Marx muttered.

“Says the undefeated master of high society,” the young man, who appeared to Marx’s friend, snarkily countered.

“You never had trouble stirring the pot, Octa.”

Octavian—Octa for short—frowned at Marx’s reply. He was dressed in all-white knight’s garb that resembled a royal guard’s uniform. It was an outfit that instantly signified his status to those around him, which drew almost as much attention onto himself as Marx did. Of course, his handsome face was a significant contributing factor.

“I told you, I came out here just to...” Oran protested. “She was often invited to this sort of thing, thanks to her family name.”

Oran recalled what had happened back then. His fiancée’s family, while noble, did business on numerous fronts. Per her family’s wishes, their only daughter was often invited to parties just like this one. Her reserved demeanor had drawn attention at these functions for the opposite reason as Marx, much to Oran’s dismay. If Oran hadn’t stood by her side like a guard dog, he was convinced that she would have been harassed through the night by the more unreserved men. To an objective observer, that was only half true, though—Oran’s jealousy supplied the rest of the narrative.

“The bait’s been set. Let’s see if they bite.” Marx snickered.

“They’d better,” Oran grumbled. This was the whole reason they’d come to this cacophonous soirée in the first place.

“They will,” an inappropriately young voice called from behind them. This voice belonged to another prince of Gracis, albeit one who was completely overshadowed by the First Prince, Marx.

Herscherik poked his head out from behind the two tall men, maintaining a smile as he scrupulously observed the ballroom. Once he spotted his target, his smile turned positively angelic. Anyone who was familiar with Herscherik behind closed doors would have shuddered at this. His sight had been fixed on his target, who was undoubtedly looking back at them in return—although Herscherik remained concealed behind his brother and knight of service.

“I won’t let this one slip away,” Herscherik muttered. Despite his smile, his eyes gleamed like that of a wild beast that had spotted its prey. He looked away from the target,and looked to his brother and knight. “Let’s begin.” ...The hunt, his calm blue eyes added.

Ignac Naivey was the son of a low-ranking noble, Baron Naivey. The Naivey’s were “new money,” so to speak. The previous Baron Naivey had bought his title. That Baron Naivey, Ignac’s grandfather, was an exceptional businessman. In a single generation, he had elevated his upper-middle-class family business into one of the biggest in the country. By offering an exorbitant dowry, he had acquired a wife from a family of nobles that was on the verge of collapse. Using his wife’s family name to its fullest potential, he stacked coins on the table until he had acquired a barony. To traditional nobles, he was nouveau riche. That being said, obtaining any title of nobility, even the lowest ranking one, was a testament to his business prowess.

Alas, his talent for business was never passed down to his son. That became apparent once the first Baron Naivey passed and Ignac’s father took over the business. While the current Baron Naivey was skilled enough to run a company of average size, it wasn’t enough to handle the family business after his father had massively expanded it. As a result, House Naivey had been in the red since Ignac started attending the academy.

Ignac, faced with this family emergency, had started independently working to dig them out of their hole. Ignac was not a particularly good-looking man, with average height and slightly above average intelligence, lacking any exceptional talents. Still, he was eloquent and friendly, which made him unthreatening. He used that as his weapon, making friends with nobles of higher ranks during social gatherings. Even the elite nobles who’d looked down on Ignac as mere nouveau riche were eventually swayed to improve their impression of him. Then, Ignac would slide a deal their way. Before they knew it, there was a business arrangement between them.

With this tactic, Ignac was just starting to drag his family out of the mire. Perhaps he did have a shred of talent for running a business himself, albeit not as prominently as his grandfather. The other difference between the two of them was that Ignac had no intention of simply inheriting the barony. On the contrary, he was already planning his political debut. Improving his family name, while part of that agenda, was simply an added bonus.

This soirée was another part of his plan, another night of making nice with powerful nobles. And tonight, a particularly attractive target had entered the familiar hunting ground: Marx Gracis, the First Prince and next in line for the throne.

This was a huge opportunity for Ignac. However, he also loathed the man who accompanied the prince: Octavian Aldis, the third son of Marquis Aldis, one of the nation’s most famous generals. Octavian had everything that Ignac wanted. Born into a reputable noble family, his father was a former general, and his brothers were all royal knights. He was blessed with talent and appearance but was still friendly and approachable. Betrothed to a daughter of a prominent family on top of all that, it seemed to Ignac that Octavian had been granted a rosy life that was exactly the opposite of his. Back in the academy, Ignac had tried to manipulate Octavian, but he was never affected by Ignac’s tricks. That had aggravated Ignac’s inferiority complex, which led him to approach Octavian’s fiancée in order to rob him of someone dear to him. But that endeavor had also ended in failure.

It was quite entertaining to watch him fall like that... Ignac silently mocked Octavian without letting a smidgen of it show. After the death of his fiancée two years ago, Octavian’s marks in the academy fell like a landslide. Even his friends and teachers who were concerned with the sudden change eventually gave up on him. Octavian used to be the top of his class, but in the end he only barely passed. Ignac had never enjoyed watching anything as much as he did that.

However, recent news about Octavian had ignited Ignac’s inferiority complex all over again. He had purposefully approached the man he loathed in order to confirm the rumor, wearing the perfectly innocuous mask of a friendly smile.

“It’s been too long, Octavian,” Ignac said, approaching.

“Yes... It has, hasn’t it.”

Ignac felt a sense of victory at how Octavian had stared in surprise for a moment before his expression twitched slightly in annoyance. It was a wonderful sensation to see the man who had made being top of the class look so easy turn toward him in annoyance now.

“Since graduation, right? It’s not every day you show up to a soirée...” Ignac observed Octavian. The other man’s curly, sunset-colored hair was shot through with golden highlights and neatly combed back. He noticed that Octavian’s outfit was not particularly suited for a soirée, but instead looked like a knight’s uniform worn by the royal guards. Ignac had never seen this particular outfit, which seemed to add credence to the rumors he’d heard. With another glance, he became convinced of their validity.

Ignac spotted what was attached at Octavian’s waist: a non-decorative, functional sword. As a general rule, no one but the guards on duty were allowed to carry any weapons at soirées, with one exception: knights of service who guarded royalty or knights who were themselves descended from royal bloodlines. Knights of service were allowed to keep their weapons at any place and any time since they were permitted by the king to serve their master above all else.

The shred of superiority Ignac felt had already dissipated. “So you really are a knight of service.”

“Yeah... It feels like it happened before I realized.” Octavian chuckled.

Ignac’s envy was reignited. Before you realized...!? Anyone with a title like that was a trusted right-hand man to the royal they served. It was a highly coveted title for most. Yet, Octavian didn’t brag about his position or show any humility; he acted like he deserved the position. That thought made Ignac see red.

Just when he was about to give in to his emotions and begin shouting, a jarringly young voice interrupted their conversation. “Oránge, what’s wrong?”

Ignac turned toward the interruption to find a boy who could pass for a girl looking up at him and Octavian with a quizzical expression. Ignac could only tell he was a boy because he was dressed like one; otherwise, the child was adorably androgynous and frail enough that his gender was easy to mistake. Ignac observed his silky, light blond hair; his eyes like pure jade; his immaculate, fair skin; and his emerald-colored outfit decorated with intricate embroidery of gold and silver—most likely chosen to highlight his golden hair.

“I was just speaking with an acquaintance of mine, Prince.”

“Really? Will you introduce him to me?” The boy met Ignac’s gaze and flashed a smile.

Ignac immediately recognized him. He’s the Seventh Prince, Herscherik... He remembered that the prince had just turned five this year. It was rumored that he was not as striking in appearance as the older princes and princesses. True, Herscherik wasn’t as stunning as Marx, but they were both children of the king, who had a sort of everlasting beauty. Even though Herscherik might have seemed unremarkable in the royal family, he clearly rose above the average of ordinary people. On the other hand, the little prince was still five.

The youngest prince, who seemed unfamiliar with the party scene, trotted up to Octavian and tugged at the knight’s garb as he nervously looked up at Ignac.

Ignac immediately knelt and met the prince’s eyes wearing his friendly smile. “It is an honor to behold Your Highness, Prince Herscherik. I am Ignac Naivey, son of Baron Naivey. My family also has a business that deals in various industries. I humbly request your acquaintance.” Ignac ceremoniously bowed. I’ve heard that the Seventh Prince is the king’s favorite. No harm in making a good impression. He grinned as he kept his head down.

Unaware of Ignac’s scheming, Herscherik smiled at the greeting and urged him to stand. “Thank you. My name is Herscherik. So you and Oránge—Octavian know each other?”

Ignac realized that Herscherik had called Octavian by a nickname, which showed that he had already gained the prince’s trust. Ignac’s envy for Octavian burned brighter, but he didn’t show any sign of it. “Yes, since the academy. I’ve also spoken to Prince Marx on a few occasions while we were in attendance together.”

“Really?!” Herscherik looked shocked, glancing at Marx who stood nearby, smiling amidst a pool of ladies. Then, Herscherik stared at Ignac intently, as if he was dying to say something.

“Shall I bring you something to eat, Prince...?” Octavian offered, looking like he wanted to escape for a moment. Herscherik nodded and asked for something sweet.

Ignac smirked at the interaction. It felt validating that the prince had prioritized speaking with him over his own knight.

Once his knight was gone, Herscherik reluctantly spoke. “Lord Ignac...”

“Please, Your Highness. Call me Ignac,” he offered with a smile.

Herscherik seemed relieved. “Ignac. Given your friendship with Oránge, I want to ask your help with something,” he said with a dire expression. He led Ignac to a quiet area behind a pillar, dropping his voice so no one else could hear. “My brother Marx seems sad lately.” Herscherik added that Marx had begun working for National Defense after graduating the academy and that he seemed a little withdrawn. Then, he gave his brother another concerned look.

Ignac followed the prince’s gaze to find Marx still surrounded by the ladies of the soirée, but with a slightly depressed air about him somehow. Now that Herscherik had mentioned it, Ignac recalled hearing that the First Prince seemed depressed lately. But, he was the Rose Prince, after all. Ignac had dismissed all of that out of hand...

“He told me he’s feeling the pressure of being the oldest prince, now that he’s come of age... confidentially, of course. So, I wanted to bring my brother out here to cheer him up. It just seems like he’s always so tense...” Herscherik added, showing his deep concern for his brother. “But this turned out to be a stupid idea. Ignac, is there something I can do for my brother that will help him lighten up and ease his burden a bit? You said that your family runs a business. Do you have any good ideas?”

“Let me see...” Ignac put on a façade of contemplation, all the while jumping with joy under the surface. This is my chance! An extremely important chance, at that. If he could curry favor with the king now, his ambitions could very well become a reality. In fact, if he played his cards right, he might even open a path to becoming a minister one day, allowing him to run the nation to his liking.

With that thought, Ignac consciously suppressed his emotions, as they threatened to twist his concerned frown into a wicked grimace. “I do have a particular product that we usually reserve for our most important business partners. But I am sincerely moved by Your Highness’s love for your brother, so it would be my pleasure to provide it.”

“Really?!” Herscherik showed a genuine smile of gratitude.

Ignac responded with a smile that stemmed from an entirely different emotion than Herscherik’s. “I do have one condition. I’ll need to meet you both in a particular room in the manor, with only Your Highness and Prince Marx in attendance.”

“Wait, without Oránge?” Herscherik nervously asked.

Ignac made his smile reassuring and continued. “Yes, Your Highness. It is very exclusive merchandise.”

“Okay,” the prince answered after a beat.

As Ignac designated the time and place to meet, Herscherik checked the time on his silver pocket watch (an unusual affectation for such a young boy) and nodded in agreement. Then, Octavian called for Herscherik, holding a cake that would have made any child ecstatic. “See you later, Ignac!” As his concern turned to excitement, Herscherik trotted away.

After watching the prince leave, Ignac turned around to find the host so he could set aside a room. He had already given the host a good amount of money, which would make this an easy task. He also thanked his lucky stars that he’d brought along an extra supply of that merchandise. The only thing he had to do now was make sure they truly had the room to themselves.

Everything’s been going my way since I got my hand on that stuff. A secret line of merchandise he had acquired that spring and never made public... Thanks to it, Ignac had earned many connections and information—in addition to money, of course. I’m far from done. I’m going to keep climbing... That’s what I was born to do! Secretly lit up with determination, Ignac hurried his steps.

Meanwhile, Herscherik had accepted the slices of cake from Oran after finding a seat in a corner of the ballroom away from the crowd. Oran had brought him square-cut slices of three different cakes: a chocolate one, a seasonal fruit tart, and a chiffon cake. They were small pieces, only about three bites for an adult, but Herscherik took more than double that to finish them off. After cutting the cakes into smaller pieces, he took a bite of chiffon cake. The fluffy texture was followed by the delicate aroma of tea. He combined the next bite with the side of whipped cream, which drew a smile out of him. While the cakes were not quite as good as Kuro’s, they were all tasty and intricately decorated.

As he continued to eat his cakes, Herscherik gave his knight of service beside him the stink eye. “Stick with the plan, please.”

“Sorry...”

Even as he glared at the rueful Oran, Herscherik continued to chow down on the cakes. He thanked Oran as the knight handed him a cup of tea at just the perfect moment. Herscherik downed the cup, settling down. It looked like you were going to slice him up with your sword if I hadn’t grabbed your shirt to stop you. Herscherik let out a sigh, recalling the interaction.

According to their original plan, Herscherik wasn’t supposed to show himself until a little later on. Oran was supposed to guide the conversation to lure Ignac in deeper. Upon actually seeing their target, however, Oran had even kept a hand on his sword where Ignac couldn’t see. Scared the crap out of me... But I can’t blame him too much. Ignac was the noble who had approached Oran’s fiancée, according to her diary. If Herscherik’s deduction was correct, Ignac was very likely to be involved with the drug circulation. When Herscherik grabbed the hem of Oran’s garb, he did understand how his knight felt. Oran had been squeezing his fist tight, hiding how badly he was shaking and any sign of his emotions from their target, desperately trying to keep himself under control.

Knowing how much Oran usually acted on reason, Herscherik saw how much his fiancée had meant to him. At the same time, Herscherik believed that Oran would have kept himself under control even without the interruption. While he had only known Oran for a short while, Herscherik already trusted his knight fully. The prince had interrupted him early mostly to lower the chances of Ignac growing suspicious.

“Is the black dog ever coming back?” Oran whispered to Herscherik.

That’s what Oran always called Kuro. In turn, Kuro called Oran a delinquent knight, and neither of them called the other by name. While Herscherik had been worried that they weren’t getting along, they were at least comfortable enough with each other to exchange trash talk and jokes. Herscherik wanted to ask them why they didn’t call each other by name—at some point, at least.

“Not yet,” he answered Oran.

Kuro was busy sneaking into the Naivey manor at the moment to search for more evidence of the drug. He was their back-up plan in case Ignac didn’t take the bait, but it seemed like that wouldn’t be necessary. Our quarry is already caught in our trap. It’s up to us how we cook it. Herscherik finished the last bite of his chocolate cake and stood up.

Herscherik approached his brother, still surrounded by a swarm of ladies. He couldn’t help but be impressed by Marx’s behavior, While his status as First Prince undoubtedly made him used to social interaction, he was relaxed, enjoying his conversations with the women around him. Perhaps he was a natural flirt.

Herscherik did wonder what reaction his brother would have to the nicknames that had been bestowed upon him, like the Rose Prince and Royal Rose. Accordingly, the rose of high society had only stayed away from the party scene because he was simply too busy. Herscherik knew that anyone would be busy during their first year on the job.

However, it was time to wrap up the soirée for Marx. Wearing an innocent expression, Herscherik dove into that field of flowers surrounding a single rose, with Oran in tow. Why? Because even Herscherik was scared of charging through a battleground packed with women, all alone. He knew from his previous life that a woman’s battlefield could be the greatest danger to one’s mental health.

Ignac had selected an extravagantly decorated room, filled to the brim with gilded furniture, taxidermy, and an abstract painting ceremoniously hung above the mantle. Herscherik and Marx had just gotten here, and they were already sick of the interior. As they lived their lives surrounded by the well-crafted masterpieces of the castle, the aggressively expensive-looking furniture in this particular room just seemed gaudy.

That being said, Herscherik didn’t really know how much the furniture in his own room cost. It had been prepared by the manager of the outer quarters under Herscherik’s request for “simple and functional” pieces. When he’d first seen how his room was decorated, he’d been quite satisfied with its tastefulness—that is, until Kuro did his precautionary inspection. The butler’s face had stiffened for a moment, and Herscherik called him out on it.

After some hesitation, Kuro had replied, “All of this furniture is really expensive.”

“What?!” Herscherik froze at the comment, looking all around the room. Everything looked like simple, mass-produced furniture, the kind of thing one might find at a Swedish furniture chain in his previous life.

“This desk, for example. While the structure is simple, it’s made with top-quality lumber. And here’s the mark of a carpenter regarded as the best in the whole country. I think there’s a five-year waitlist for his work right now. I don’t even know how many gold coins this would cost. And this couch—”

“I’m sorry, Kuro. If you keep going, I won’t feel right using any of this.” Herscherik was devastated that he’d unknowingly contributed to wasting tax money on luxuries. That being said, not using the things that had already been given to him would have been an even worse waste. So, Herscherik had been timid about using his furniture until he got used to the idea.

Still thinking about his own furniture, Herscherik sat down on the gaudy sofa and looked up at his brother beside him. Marx seemed elated, peacefully humming some tune. Herscherik was concerned for a moment about the upcoming interaction, but one thought about how he’d handled the scene at the party wiped all his concerns away.

At that moment, Herscherik realized that this was the first time he’d spent any extended amount of time with his brother alone, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was on the edge of his seat with excitement over the prospect. Although Herscherik had spent much time with his father since his reincarnation, he had met his brothers almost exclusively in passing. Of course, Herscherik being wrapped up in his own schemes had a great deal to do with that.

He looked up at his brother again, and their eyes met. Herscherik felt a little awkward now that his brother knew that he’d been secretly observing him. Brushing it off with a chuckle, Herscherik remembered that he had yet to express his gratitude to his brother.

“Thank you, Brother Marx.”

Marx smiled in return. It was a natural smile, unlike the one he had been showing the ladies of the soirée. “No need for formalities—just call me Marx. No need to thank me, either. I just wanted to help in any way I could.” Sorrow crept into Marx’s expression. Herscherik thought for a moment before he sussed out that his brother was talking about Oran. “After all, I couldn’t help him two years ago.” Herscherik asking for this favor was like a lifeline to Marx.

A week before the trap set in the middle of a soirée, around the time when the cover of night was just starting to creep in on its tiptoes, the Seventh Prince and his two men held a conference in the prince’s chambers in the outer quarters. After the Oracle’s riddle illuminated the possibility of the Research department’s under-the-table trade and leaking of classified information regarding their experimental drug two years ago, Kuro had gathered a list of relevant government officials.

Oran recognized one particular name on the list. It was the name of a nobleman who had served as the assistant to the Magical Chemistry lab director. However, he had been listed as dead by illness, dated just around the same time when the drug circulation had stopped two years ago. The nobleman in question had preferred glamorous gatherings like soirées and had spoken with Oran’s fiancée on a few occasions, which made him stick out in the knight’s memory. Herscherik immediately ordered Kuro to dig up everything he could on that man. The investigation revealed that he was neck-deep in debt—that is, until he paid everything off in one lump sum.

“He’s got to be the one.” There was no doubt about it in Herscherik’s mind. The noble was a big spender and an avid gambler. His finances were so bad that he was constantly pestering his peers for loans. Herscherik assumed that he never managed to get his spending or gambling under control, so he resorted to selling the castle’s research findings. His debt was so large that Herscherik couldn’t think of any other way he could have paid it off. As the assistant to the lab director, the man would have had access to the locked archives where the data was kept, and no one would think twice about him accessing it.

It was easy to imagine that he’d roped in the person who handled auditing at the treasury, since they shared the same vices. He, too, had died in an accident during the same time frame. The businesses listed on the invoice—the ones that must have bought the leak—had already gone under, leaving no trace behind. Finally, the incident was obviously tied to the drug.

Even so, since it seemed like all traces of the matter had been wiped cleanly away, Herscherik wondered if someone had already followed the exact train of thought he was on.

“But, Prince,” Oran asked, “they’re dead. Who’s selling the drug now?”

Herscherik nodded, setting aside his drop of suspicion about the whole affair. It was a valid question, and Herscherik already had a guess. “The list I asked you for, Kuro?”

“Right here.” Kuro handed over another document. It was the list of guests for soirées and tea parties that took place in the capital during the spring and summer two years ago.

“How did you put that together?” Oran asked, dumbfounded.

“You expect me to tell you?” Kuro smirked.

While Herscherik had the urge to demand an answer himself, Kuro was a former spy who had earned a reputation in the underground. Any form of reconnaissance was a piece of cake to him.

Herscherik began marking up the list with a few colors of fountain pen. First, he noted the noble that leaked the drug, followed by a few more names in a different color. “Look,” he said. “The people involved in those unsolved cases two years ago have, at some point, all attended the same soirée or tea party as the people involved in the leaks... Including your fiancée, Oran.” It was possible that drug deals were occurring at the social gatherings, and that was where Oran’s fiancée had crossed paths with those involved.

Oran’s brows twisted at Herscherik’s remark. “I’ve gone with her to these things... It didn’t look like she bought anything there.”

“You didn’t have an eye on her the whole time, did you? It’s also possible that there were other accomplices.” Herscherik assumed that Oran’s fiancée wouldn’t openly buy drugs while he was watching. It was also plausible that there was more than one dealer.

Oran had no retort. In fact, he hadn’t kept an eye on her constantly.

“Then fetch me the guest lists for parties that took place, from the beginning of the drug’s resurgence until very recently. And the list of questionable deaths, both by sickness and accident,” Herscherik said.

At this point, Oran caught on. “You think the drug is being trafficked at parties, just like it was two years ago?”

“I think it’s very likely.” Herscherik had been wondering how the drug had stayed exclusively among the rich and powerful. If it was available in the underground, commoners would have also gotten their hands on it. Even though they’d heard of rumors about the drug, almost no commoner had ever actually taken it, and none of them had died in suspicious circumstances.

“This drug targets the rich and noble... People who can afford to pay premium prices.” In addition, nobles were sensitive about appearances. Most would not go public about losing a relative to addiction. That being said, they wouldn’t want the constabulary to investigate too far and discover the truth. Herscherik guessed that their refusal to cooperate with investigations contributed to the lackluster reports, in addition to pressure on the constabulary itself from higher up. Oran might have been the exception to the culture of secrecy, but even his fiancée’s family had acted like she’d simply died of illness. They’d even packed up their business and fled to the countryside to avoid suspicion.

“A higher price per transaction means making more with little product. And a quick debt repayment.” Herscherik assumed that circulation had been halted because the main dealer had died of illness... Of course, it was doubtful that was the actual cause of death. Like a match touched to a fuse, his death had set off a chain reaction of disappearances among everyone else involved in the leak... almost as if that had been the plan all along.

Herscherik was confident that someone with a particular purpose was behind the drug’s resurgence. They gave it two years... deliberately. He had a bad feeling about it, but the young prince shook his head to chase the thought away. For now, he had to focus on the mystery at hand.

Herscherik and his men immediately began cross-referencing the victims of the strange incidents with each party’s guest list, looking for someone who had attended a gathering with each and every victim. As it turned out, someone fit the bill.

“That’s—!” Oran snarled, having spotted the man’s name. He grew visibly angry.

“Someone you know, Oran?”

“A friend from my academy days. A noble who tried to put the moves on my fiancée.”

The man’s name was Ignac Naivey. The heir to Baron Naivey, Ignac did well in school, told good stories, and was a fun person to have around. Oran, who attended the knight’s curriculum, and Ignac, who attended the exclusively noble scholastic curriculum, had been friends of a sort... or, so Oran had thought.

Oran had trusted him and eventually introduced his fiancée to him. However, Oran’s trust in his friend was shattered the day he read his fiancée’s diary. When he learned that Ignac had cornered and harassed her, Oran confronted him about it. Ignac feigned ignorance, claiming that he had spoken to Oran’s fiancée but had not made any untoward advances nor done anything to pressure her. As long as Ignac maintained that story, Oran had no way to pursue the matter any further. As far Oran knew, Ignac hadn’t actually committed a crime, and making a scene about it would only damage his fiancée’s honor.

He’s the one who... Oran reached for the hilt of his sword without even knowing it. He would have torn Ignac limb from limb, if he could.

Herscherik noticed Oran’s state of mind and shook his head. “No, Oran. There’s no proof, yet.”

“But...!”

“I know. But we can’t charge him with a crime without proof.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?! Just let him go, again?!” Oran shouted.

Herscherik coolly answered. “Calm down, Oran. I have no intention of letting him go.” Herscherik knew that Oran was right. They couldn’t let this slide—they had to make a move. Herscherik wasn’t going to let the culprits go unpunished. “So what if we don’t have proof? Let’s go make some.” Herscherik grinned a very evil grin.

“What do you mean...? We’re going to manufacture evidence?” Kuro asked.

“That’s not exactly the case,” Herscherik answered, resting his chin in his hand. He had a plan in mind and knew that he and his two men could prepare everything they needed. “But I’m not good enough to be...”

They needed bait. It was doubtful that Herscherik would serve to lure their prey. In fact, he probably wouldn’t. “What to do...? Ah, I think I’ve got it.”

A certain person popped into his mind at that moment. It was a gamble, and this might very well obliterate the illusion of being an innocent five-year-old he had maintained in front of his family. ...In fact, there’s no way it won’t.

Herscherik knew full well how inconceivable his existence was. Secretly, he was a woman in her thirties in the body of a five-year-old. If that five-year-old began doing or saying things that didn’t fit with his age, Herscherik imagined that any sane person would throw him straight into an asylum. That’s why Herscherik had always played his innocent child role with utmost care in front of his family and strangers alike. As a result, only a very select few in this world knew how Herscherik really was.

Of course, he hadn’t realized yet that more people saw through his act than he thought. But... Herscherik looked to Oran. There was only one strategy he could think of that could save his knight with the sunset-colored hair and resolve the drug-trafficking incidents at the same time. “Guess I better get to it,” Herscherik muttered and stood up from his favorite sofa.

Marx welcomed a surprise guest into his room in the outer quarters, late at night. As a member of the military, Marx’s only free time in the day was between having dinner and going to sleep. He was enjoying a relaxing read on the sofa when his servant in the room announced the guest.

“Herscherik?” Marx repeated incredulously, looking up from his book. He checked the time to find that it was already close to midnight. While Marx was surprised that his youngest brother was awake this late, this was also the first time that Herscherik had ever visited him in his room like this.

When the servant showed Herscherik in, the young prince was completely devoid of his usual childlike demeanor. After watching the servant bring in some tea and leave the room, he turned to Marx.

What’s the matter? Marx wondered. Herscherik was gazing up at him as if searching for the right words, without a sign of his usual gentle air about him. Is this about...?! Marx recalled his youngest brother’s bizarre misunderstanding the other day. Something about him having feelings for Octavian... Was that the topic he was trying to broach? Marx felt himself break out in a cold sweat.

Meanwhile, Herscherik finally mustered the courage to speak up. “I have a favor to ask of you, Brother Marx.”

He’s not going to ask me to “give up my feelings” for Octavian, is he!? If his little brother were to utter such horrifying words, Marx would be absolutely lost.

“I need your help,” Herscherik said.

There was a beat before Marx reacted. “With what...?” He was pleasantly surprised that Herscherik hadn’t brought up that unthinkable topic. At the same time, Herscherik’s tone had completely changed. Marx sat up straight. The difference in Herscherik’s demeanor was unmistakable, but Marx chose to keep quiet and let his brother finish.

Herscherik explained everything: the string of drug-related incidents that had occurred two years ago, the recent possibility of someone leaking research from the castle laboratories, and all the information he had gathered so far. While it was difficult for Marx to imagine that a five-year-old had done all of that himself, he didn’t doubt the validity of Herscherik’s findings. Herscherik had explained his conclusions so logically that Marx hardly entertained the idea of refuting him.

“I wanted to take care of this on my own...” Herscherik bit his lip. “But I can’t.”

Marx understood why. If they were to enact Herscherik’s plan, it was crucial for them to choose the right person as bait. As a child, and the Seventh Prince, Herscherik simply didn’t have enough pull in this case. Marx figured that Herscherik had come to him, the oldest prince, for that exact reason.

“All right.” Marx nodded. It was an easy decision if this could help him atone for what happened two years ago in any way. Besides, as the crown prince, Marx had more responsibility to take care of all this than Herscherik. Not only did he want to help his youngest brother see this through, but he just wanted to do something about the situation.

Marx saw Herscherik smile happily at the answer. For the first time, Herscherik’s expression seemed completely genuine. And if we solve this case, maybe I can finally... Marx thought that he might finally make up his mind about something he had carried with him since the day he failed to help Octavian two years ago.

“Then, Marx... Please call me Hersch.” Herscherik smiled and turned to the door before them. As Marx followed his gaze, the door slowly began to open.

“Show time, Hersch.” Marx was wearing a terribly alluring smile.