[Silver Star Tower — Basement
Alden's fingers locked around Geralt's windpipe. Hoisted him. The old man flailed, face purpling. With his free hand, Alden snapped the leather pouch from Geralt's waist. Didn't even glance at it. Just flicked. The bag tumbled into the damp mouth of the sub-basement.
In a steady voice, he ordered as he climbed the stairs, "Take care of it."
From the stagnant air behind the heavy iron trapdoor, a voice broke through the silence. "Understood, Master."
Geralt’s body stiffened. 'Feroz?' He wrenched his head from side to side, a desperate, silent denial.
[Silver Star Tower — Ground Floor Hall
The heavy iron of the basement door groaned open. Alden rose, brushing dust from his sleeve. His legs trembled—barely, for just a heartbeat. Then: steel again. He hauled Geralt forward.
Hundreds of disciples stood frozen beneath the knights’ clinical survey in the vast main hall. Alden’s presence caused the knights to instantly bow.
Alden’s voice pierced through the air, cutting through the rafters. "Look at the Master you sacrificed for," he said. "He was already at the end of the sewers."
A jagged snarl broke the silence. One disciple, knuckles white, clutched his robes. "Did you break him, Your Highness?"
Geralt twisted in Alden’s grip, screaming through shattered teeth, "Helph me!" he shrieked. "Kill him! Look whadh he didh to me!"
With a deafening , Alden swung him like a ragdoll. The man hit the stone pillar so hard the words choked back in his throat.
"I did." Alden's posture remained serene.
No hand was offered. Instead, the disciple lunged, a dagger flashing, but a knight’s gauntlet slammed him back. "Let me go!" he shrieked, foam on his lips. "I’ll carve his heart out myself!"
Geralt’s bloody lips peeled back, exposing the ruin of his gums. "Goodh boy. Shhee, dhish ish whadh I buildh—"
"Geralt! You fucking dog!" the boy spat, thrashing against the knight's hold. "Even a cur knows loyalty. You’re less than the filth you crawled through!"
Geralt’s smile faltered, and his jaw dropped. His gaze ricocheted between the boy’s snarling mouth and the dagger in his hand.
"…You parasitic b#stard! You…"
The disciple strained against the knight, veins bulging in his neck. Profanities tore from his throat until his voice cracked. Alden tightened his grip on Geralt’s collar and turned toward the main staircase.
"Dhish... can'dh be happening..." Geralt’s fingernails left jagged white scores in the stone pillars as he was dragged upward.
On the second floor, students huddled against the wall. Geralt’s fumbling hand reached out. "Adhack him! Dho shhomedhing!"
From the trembling students, a senior disciple emerged. No steel was drawn. Instead, the young man exhaled sharply and spat a glob of thick phlegm onto Geralt’s mouth.
Alden simply held Geralt in place.
By the third floor, the pleas were softer. "Helph me… pleashh…"
"Rot in hell, you coward," a woman hissed, her back turning with the finality of a closing tomb.
The fourth floor was silent, devoid of insults. Instead, there was a suffocating apathy. The disciples watched Geralt, their eyes vacant as they looked through him, treating him like a ghost already.
Then, the fifth landing.
Geralt curled inward, a trembling ball of rags, screwing his lids tight against the crushing weight of the quiet.
Finally, the Sixth Floor. The Executive Suite.
Iron and reagents. The stench was thick enough to taste.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Alden discarded the Tower Master. Geralt hit the polished stone hard, skidding through a slick, widening pool of red that instantly darkened his robes. A grimace twisted Alden’s lips; crimson spray marred the pristine lines of his own coat.
Slaughterhouse.
Where the high-ranking executives had stood, only severed limbs lay scattered across the tiles. And the Velram Circle meant to bind a Prince? Gone. Nothing remained but smeared blood and shattered sigils.
Geralt’s sight darted from one severed limb to another. Ashen now, his face twisted, body stiffening. But no remorse could be found in his quaking stare.
"Twenty-eight lives," Alden sneered, stepping over a mangled torso. "You fed them ‘Will-Sapper’, turning your council into meat to buy a minute in the dark."
Geralt's face was ashen. "Dha name... how dho you..." He choked the words back.
Alden didn’t wait for the confession. Iron fingers closed around the nape of his neck, driving Geralt toward the jagged ruin of the front window. Wind howled through the jagged hole in the wall, carrying the chill of a six-story drop.
"No..."
The empty sky flooded Geralt’s vision, his eyes rounded in shock. Clamping his lids tight, he clawed blindly at the sleeves restraining him.
"No... waidh! You can'dh! We'll bodh dhie!"
No hesitation. Just a single step into the void.
Alden dragged the Tower Master down into the air with him.
[Silver Star Tower — Courtyard
By the hitching post, Limon froze. He threw his head back, craning upward until the tendons in his neck burned.
Six stories up, a silhouette darkened the jagged wound in the masonry. Limon squinted, fighting the glare to identify the shape, but he didn't have to wait long. The figure moved.
The silhouette stepped into the void, casual as a man walking off his front porch.
"Your Highness!" Limon’s lungs burned with the shout, his legs churning toward the drop zone.
He didn't even cover three paces before the impact.
The cobblestones groaned under a concentrated force that sent a ring of dust and pulverized mortar billowing outward.
The grey cloud settled. Alden rose, brushing dust from his sleeve.
A collective exhale rippled through the Flame Feather ranks.
Then Theodore grinned. "I want to try that."
The Expert knights instinctively recoiled, while the Swordsmasters’ eyes gleamed. Their boots grinding against the grit as hands hovered over their hilts.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
"And where are you finding a six-story ledge, Theodore?" the Flame Feather Knight next to him grunted.
Another voice, in a serious tone, commanded, "Shh! We are on duty. Don’t ruin our reputation before His Highness."
"What image?" Freya, the Red Gale, approached them with a sigh. "Once he gets to know you troublemakers, he’ll curse his luck."
"Poor Elric," A sigh from the Radiant Sun’s side. "Imagine missing this to guard a gate."
Stifled chuckles rippled through the ranks.
Limon, rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on the bloodstains on his Prince’s clothes, took tentative steps forward, trembling. Ignoring the knights’ banter, he spoke, "Your Highness, those blood stains…"
"Not mine," Alden replied curtly, stepping through the lingering haze as if nothing had happened.
Limon's sight leapt from the prince, standing unharmed in the settling dust, to the relaxed, grinning knights, before snagging on the dizzying height of the broken window.
He swallowed hard, his throat parched, his focus sharpening on Alden as a hazy knowledge finally crystallized into truth.
'Aura user, only a Swordsmaster could survive that drop without sustaining any injuries.'
Despite the rumors of him being the youngest Swordmaster, His Highness had never displayed his power in public before.
Alden held a limp figure by the back of the collar, dragging him like a sack of grain. With a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled the man onto the dirt at Commander Devon’s feet.
Geralt curled into a fetal ball on the dirt, a pink, frothy bubble of blood popping at his nostrils with every ragged breath.
Commander Devon gaped at the prisoner.
"Why's the old man looking like he's seen a ghost?" a rookie whispered, leaning toward a veteran. "Can't he make that jump too?"
The veteran rapped his gauntlet against the boy's helmet. "Look closer, you idiot. The traitor is still breathing."
"So?"
The veteran pointed toward a grisly, unrecognizable heap further down the wall—the remains of the Tower guard who had fallen earlier. "That’s what gravity does. What His Highness did... that was perfect displacement." His finger shifted to Geralt. "To land from that height without turning his passenger into meat paste? The Prince absorbed the entire shock for both of them."
The rookie's gaze snapped back to Alden, who was busy rubbing at a smear of grease on his glove.
At their feet, Geralt wheezed, fingers clawing uselessly at the dry earth. He looked up at Alden through a haze of pain and disbelief.
"Dha Will-Shhapper..." he rasped, spitting a shard of tooth into the dirt. "You should be... a puppedh..." He broke into a wet, hacking cough. "How are you... shtandhing?"
Alden didn't look at him. He was busy wiping a stray drop of blood from his cheek.
"You... monshther," Geralt choked out. "You arr fooling everyone. You arr no weak princhh."
Alden finally turned to Devon. "Secure him. And guard him well."
"Guard him, Sire?" Devon asked, his brow furrowed.
Alden glanced back at the towering spire, "He must be alive to be executed in public. I can’t let him die before then."
Devon slammed a fist against his breastplate, the metal ringing out. "Understood!" At his signal, soldiers swarmed forward, pinning the broken Tower Master and snapping heavy iron shackles around his wrists.
Alden turned to his waiting destrier. Without using the stirrups, he gripped the pommel and vaulted into the saddle in one fluid motion. He stared down at his leather gloves, his lip curling at the dark stains of dirt and neck-grease.
The disciples were led out, their gazes anchored to the man who had rewritten the very rules of their world in a single day.
"The Silver Star has fallen," Alden’s voice echoed across the courtyard, declaring, "However, it shall be reformed. Once you are proven innocent, you may return and resume your role as a disciple here."
Limon looked at the sky; the sun was nearing its peak. Not a single ally had fallen today. Yet, the air was heavy with the scent of a slaughterhouse. He looked at the earth beneath the Prince's horse—the dry dirt was turning black, drinking the blood dripping from Alden's tunic.
'A flawless victory.'
"Return to the Palace," Alden commanded, turning his mount.
As the column began to move, Alden looked back up at the shattered window of the Executive Suite without pausing. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. He raised his left hand, his index finger twitching in a sharp, silent signal to the empty air.
Limon blinked, following the gesture, but only found the empty window frame and the howling wind. When he glanced back, Alden was already riding away.
"What was that?" Limon wondered, but he quickly dismissed the thought and urged his horse to continue.
[The Imperial Court
Velvet-gloved hands flew to mouths as fans snapped shut, the court a sea of sidelong glances and leaned-in whispers.
"...leaped from the sixth story," a count murmured back.
"... dragged Tower Master Geralt out by the collar," another voice hissed. "The sinner... reduced to livestock."
"…the title ‘Youngest Swordsmaster’ wasn’t empty. Count Devon must be gloating now…" said a young noble in envy.
The heavy oak doors groaned.
The gossip died instantly.
A step. The crimson drops echoed against marble.
Another step. A noble's hand flew to her mouth.
Prince Alden strode across the threshold, blood dripping from his tunic. Each step left a crimson footprint on the floor.
He had not changed.
The pristine court was filled with the scent of copper. His red-black tunic was stiff with dried blood and some wet. Dark, crusty smears stained his sleeves and gloves, and a spray of crimson speckled his high cheekbone.
He stepped along the center aisle, the heavy of his boots echoing against the stone. Some were physically repulsed as he passed by, while others’ faces paled.
Alden stopped before the dais, kneeling like a soldier.
"I bring victory and the sinner, Your Majesty." His voice was low, yet it rolled through the cavernous hall.
Emperor Caelus IV sat motionless on the throne. He raised a single hand.
"Well done, Crown Prince," the Emperor said, surveying the blood on his son’s chest. "As promised, your reward will be substantial."
Grand Master Magnus rose from his seat beside the throne. Kneeling down, he whispered into the Emperor’s ear. The court strained forward, eager to catch a word, but could only see the corner of the Emperor’s mouth twitch.
"The Silver Star shall be reformed," the Emperor declared. "However, its independence is forfeited. It now answers to the Crown. As the one who lanced this boil, Crown Prince Alden shall receive one-fourth of the tower’s liquid wealth."
A collective gasp rippled through the hall. Countess Alderton fanned herself frantically, trying to cool the sudden sweat on her chin.
One-fourth of Silver Star Tower's wealth dwarfed the treasury of most counties. Alden's expression didn't shift.
'Foundation. Security. Leverage.'
The words ticked through his mind like items on a ledger. He had already taken everything he needed, and anything requiring destruction had been burned to ashes when Feroz received his last signal.
But the Emperor was not done.
He declared in a loud voice to the court, "The Crimson Veil Tower is also awarded to the Crown Prince. To use, or to raze, as he sees fit."
"And," the Emperor added, the words falling like lead weights, "Crown Prince Alden will assume the authority and responsibilities of the Late Empress until a new one is installed. Along with the full duties of the Heir Apparent. Effective immediately."
A sharp echoed through the silence. Duke Helbart’s grip had shattered his own armrest, a splinter of wood piercing his forearm. Blood seeped through his sleeve as several nobles sneered openly.
Duke Ashvale let out a dry, short chuckle. "You should see a physician, Helbart. Wood rot is a terrible thing once it sets in."
Helbart’s teeth were audibly grinding. "My hand slipped," he forced out, bowing low to the throne. "Forgive me, Your Majesty."
"See that it doesn't happen again," Ashvale quipped. "Or who knows what else might fail you?"
"Silence!" the Emperor commanded. The amusement vanished. "Rise, Crown Prince. Are you satisfied?"
Alden stood, holding his father's stare. "I am, Your Majesty. But I request one additional reward."
The court held its breath. Helbart’s face contorted into a mask of pure loathing. To have the Inner Court, the armies, and the towers was not enough?
"Speak," a wrinkle appeared between the Emperor’s brows.
"I wish to personally oversee the interrogations and punishments," Alden responded, "I am deeply unsettled by the possibility of innocent individuals being unjustly punished while some possible co-conspirators remain undetected."
A young Viscount muttered, "Just that?" before wilting under the frigid scrutiny of the aged nobles around him.
The Emperor’s lips curved into a sharp smile. "Permission granted."
Subsequently, the Chamberlain stepped forward, unrolling a scroll, commanding in a resonant voice, "Kneel, Crown Prince, and receive the Imperial Decree."
Alden kneeled without question.
"Crown Prince Alden Alger de Leonhelm, you now take command of the five Knight Orders held in trust since your birth: Flame Feather, Iron Guard, Silver Shield, Radiant Sun, and Frost Blade. You are further charged with the restitution of the Rosewick Incident. Take your seal upon your departure. Your presence in this court is henceforth mandatory."
Alden reached out. His blood-stained glove gripped the parchment, his thumb pressing down directly over the Emperor's seal—leaving a dark, smeared print that mingled with the royal insignia.
"I will meet your expectations," Alden said.
The Emperor's gaze swept the room, his hard stare pinning the restless nobles in place. "Crown Prince Alden has passed his test. Either object now, or obey."
No one moved. Helbart stared at the floor. Duke Viremont offered a shallow, respectful nod.
"Dismissal." With a flick of his wrist, the Emperor was gone.
Alden stood alone in the center of the hall, the parchment gripped in his red-stained hand. He looked down at the blood on his gloves, then up at the empty throne. Across the floor, Duke Ashvale raised a brow and offered a subtle, mocking toast with an empty hand. Duke Varik’s expression stayed pinched and focused.
Duke Helbart approached Alden, placing a brief hand on his shoulder, voice rasped. "You have proven capable... nephew," he said, his voice tight. "Brother seemed genuinely proud today."
Alden didn't move. He didn't acknowledge the touch or the title. He simply stared until Helbart’s hand slipped away.
Duke Varik stepped forward next, his bow deep and flawlessly formal. "Congratulations, Your Imperial Highness. It is... an honor."
Alden offered a single, sharp nod. He turned on his heel, the blood on his tunic flaking off in small, dark scales as he walked toward the exit. Limon fell in behind him, his own back straighter than it had ever been.
The murmurs began to rise again behind them, but they didn't sound like gossip. They sounded like prayer.
