Braska made no effort to halt the marriage. Instead, he gave a slow nod and asked, "If that's the case, then I have no objections. And don't worry—our people aren't interested in a throne or a crown. You won't find any trouble from our side. But tell me, where are you heading now?"
A faint, knowing smile curved Christopher's lips.
"To get married," he said simply.
Braska, to his credit, didn't press for more. He knew his boundaries well enough. "Return within three days," he reminded him, "The competition will be nearly over by then, and it cannot conclude without you."
Christopher inclined his head in agreement.
"By the time I return," he added, voice colder now, "you'll have answers. That man over there"—he gestured toward the unconscious traitor—"he'll reveal who orchestrated everything. Why it happened. But until I say otherwise… do nothing."
Braska narrowed his eyes. "And why is that?"
"Because that bastard is important to me," Christopher said flatly. "If you want him, I'll hand him over myself. But only after I've extracted what I need. So if you care about your survival—don't make a move. Not without my signal."
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise. And Braska recognized it.
Christopher was not someone who bluffed. Especially not now, with the fate of his plan hanging by a thread. A reckless move from Braska could spiral into chaos, and chaos invited attention—something Christopher could not afford. Not yet.
Braska's brows furrowed. "What makes him so important?"
Christopher's voice dropped a shade colder. "Because he has something I want. Something I need. And in case you haven't noticed, that man holds far more power than he lets on. Accuse him without evidence, act out of turn—and you won't just doom yourself, you'll drag your entire clan into hell with you."
Braska went still.
His sharp mind worked quickly, parsing what Christopher hadn't said aloud.
So… if we move against that man carelessly, we risk war, he thought grimly.
He gave a single nod. "Then I'll wait. For your signal."
Christopher wasn't surprised at how quickly Braska complied.
"Good," he said, eyes hard. "Because he's planning something big. And to stop him, we need patience—something your tribeswomen clearly lack. Keep everything secret. Including my identity."
Braska understood the deeper message behind those words: Wait. I'll carve the path for your strike—without drawing the Empire's wrath.
Their hands met in a brief but firm handshake.
Then, without another word, Christopher turned and walked away.
---
The desert stretched endlessly behind him, but Christopher pressed on, walking for over an hour. The first part of the journey was for appearances—he had to look like a lost traveler. But now, he wasn't acting anymore.
He paused, scanning his surroundings. No one in sight.
From his ring, he withdrew a small, folded paper. Etched on its surface was a complex magical circle—intricate, ancient, powerful. He didn't need to decipher it. He already knew its purpose.
A long-distance teleportation sigil.
He scribbled a single name in the center, then tore the parchment in half.
Light erupted around him—soft and pale—and in the blink of an eye, the sands were gone.
When he opened his eyes, he stood in the middle of a narrow, fog-choked street. The southern region. Wet. Cold. Cloudy.
The perfect contrast to the desert's blaze.
The air was thick with moisture, and the abandoned district whispered with silence. He didn't linger.
Moving quickly, he reached a modest inn tucked between aging buildings. The sign creaked as it swayed, the faint glow of lanterns casting shadows against weathered stone.
The Prince disapproved.
You want to stay in a place like this? Really?
Christopher ignored the voice and stepped inside.
A young man—probably a few years older than him—greeted him from behind the counter.
"Welcome, sir. How can we help you?"
"This is my ID," Christopher said, placing a forged adventurer's badge on the table. "Name's Cale. Passing through on business. I'll need a room—spacious, private, single occupancy for three days. Room service when I ask, and preferably, no one disturbs me. I want an attached washroom, not a shared one. As for meals… I'll come down if I'm in the mood. Don't wait."
His tone was clear: privacy was non-negotiable.
The innkeeper inspected the ID, his eyes scanning the finely crafted sigil. Wellesley's forgeries were flawless—nothing about the badge screamed fake.
He smiled. "That'll be fifteen silver for three days, sir."
Christopher handed over the coins. Soon, he was led to a modest but clean room. Once alone, he set his bag down.
But peace didn't last long.
The Prince's voice echoed in his mind.
"Alright. What's the plan?"
Christopher bit into a sandwich he'd conjured from his ring.
"No plan."
The Prince sounded stunned. "No plan? Then what are we doing here?"
"I've been following the novel's events until now," Christopher said, chewing slowly. "But from this point forward… we're off the map."
A long pause. Then the Prince grumbled, "So why here? Why this dump?"
Christopher rolled his eyes. "Let me ask you something, Your Highness. Since I arrived in this world, what do you think I've been doing?"
The Prince didn't hesitate.
"What have you done? Let's see… you flirted with Wellesley, stalked a commoner woman and her child, stole from their house, coerced a half-fairy into promising herself to you, and—oh, yes—you completely destroyed my reputation. Shamed me beyond words. That's the list so far."
Christopher stared at the wall, deadpan. "If you keep talking like that, I might just ruin your future too. In fact, I can make sure your worst nightmare comes true—watching your brother take the throne."
The Prince's rage flared.
"You dare threaten me with him? Do you honestly think you'd survive if he claims the crown?"