A thought arrived, not spoken aloud but as clear as breath: Did you just say "accepting"? Does that make any sense? If the Magic Department truly welcomed them—or you, who hold the Department in your hand—then why… why did you never share a single meal with Wellesley in two years?
Christopher felt the words like a prod. Hurt more than anger threaded them, and they lodged in his chest.
Prince answered inside him, colder, sharp with intent: Focus. This isn't about Wellesley.
The first thought persisted, probing.
> "And for your information, we are more accepting than the others. Don't believe me? Go through the public records. Out of all the ministers in this entire empire, the only one who's a commoner is Wellesley—head of the Magic Department."
He let that hang for a second, then continued.
"The Administrative Department is a different beast entirely—completely dominated by the nobility. They don't give way. Not to commoners. Not to new ideas. Nothing."
He paused, gauging if I was truly listening.
"I don't know how things worked in your world. But here? The department that deals with the people the most—that touches the lives of commoners every day—is the Administrative Department. They're the ones responsible for handling local issues, district matters, grievances, logistics. That makes them the bridge between the classes. And when the conservative elite are forced to face the reality of frustrated, liberal-minded commoners? Conflict is inevitable".
His voice was growing colder now, more calculating.
"That friction—the result of years of arrogance and indifference—has made the people distrustful. The nobles neglect requests, delay reforms, and treat petitions like trash. So tell me, Christopher… what happens when a real crisis hits them?"
He paused again, but I already understood the scenario he intended to paint.
"The people will blame the Administrative Department," Christopher said.
Prince nodded once. "Exactly. Not the system. Not the emperor. Not even the policies. Just… the department in front of them. The one they can see."
Inside him, the prince leaned in, not with gesture but with the weight of a hundred calculations, "So what do you think the plan should be?"
Clear and immediate, Christopher's reply formed, "Dismantle the Administrative Department."
For a beat Christopher churned, doubtful. "If we attack them, don't we risk breaking the empire's function? Long-term, that could backfire. When we need trust rather than fear, could we have destroyed our own bridge?"
Prince as if reading Christopher's thoughts approved the caution. "You read too literally. I never asked for collapse. I want distrust—outrage, scandal, a toppled reputation. Let the people believe they've been betrayed. Not destruction; humiliation. When the dust settles and I take the throne, we rebuild—stronger, smarter. Shake that pillar and my brother loses his support. No blood need be shed."
The plan settled in Christopher like a cold flame. Then "I'll craft the ideal outrage for the people, he thought, letting the gears of strategy begin to turn."
Silence answered, but it was the kind that hummed—the shared, private silence inside a mind .
---
The Next Day
I spent the morning poring over the geography of the region. The southern lands of the empire were divided from the western provinces by the vast Ebu Mountain Range—its towering peaks so high that moisture-heavy clouds smashed into them, unleashing heavy rainfall on the windward side.
But the leeward side? Dry. Parched. Perpetually drought-stricken.
It was ironic—one side overflowed with water, while the other starved for it.
But on the southern side, where rain was a constant blessing, the people had built their lives around it. Water was their lifeline. Their crops were thirsty, high-yielding varieties that couldn't survive without it. They had reservoirs, canals, dams—all finely tuned to handle the abundance.
So I thought: What if that abundance turned into a curse?
"What the hell should I even do here?" I muttered aloud, frowning. "I don't want to create irreversible damage."
The prince chuckled, amused by my hesitation. But when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of experience.
"Christopher," he said, "building something takes decades. Destroying it? Just a few moments. If you can think like that—without concern for how much others lose—you'll find your answer."
"Thinking like a villain, huh?"
I let the words sit for a moment. It wasn't something I liked. But maybe it was something I had to become.
Being a hero was exhausting. Upholding values in a broken world? That was a fantasy. But being a villain... was easy. Practical. Effective.
"Breaking something…" I murmured. "Breaking... Wait. What if I don't target the people—but the infrastructure?"
My eyes lit up.
"The water systems. Dams. Reservoirs. If cracks were to appear in them—especially now, in peak monsoon season—they'd trigger massive floods. Crops destroyed. Homes washed away. Supply chains severed."
I was thinking faster now, the plan shaping itself.
"Factories would drown. Livestock lost. Food shortages would follow. People would protest—not quietly, but desperately. Because desperation turns questions into accusations. Accusations into movements."
I looked at the prince, my expression unreadable.
"And when that happens... they won't blame the weather. They'll blame the system. The negligence. The administration."
The prince smiled slightly, a glint of pride in his eyes.
"And those peaceful protests?" I added. "They'll spiral. One spark, and it becomes something far more dangerous. Something that can bring the entire Administrative Department crashing down."
He nodded, satisfied.
"Exactly."