-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: The Prince, the Flower, and the Resistance
-----------------------------------------------------------------
You opened your eyes in a remote forest.
"...Did the dimensional transfer succeed?"
You weren't entirely sure. This was just a forest, and you couldn't spot any meaningful differences from the world you knew. Perhaps the magic had failed, and you'd simply been hit with a long-distance teleport.
But whether the magic had succeeded or not...
The fact that you were standing in the middle of this forest remained unchanged.
You seemed to realize something. Was there anything special around you?
"This tree species only grows near the imperial capital. It was created by order of the alchemists to commemorate the fifth emperor's birthday."
That's right. According to the knowledge you possessed—
This forest wasn't far from the Empire's capital.
Luckily enough. If you'd landed in some remote jungle, survival would have been your immediate concern.
But even this small forest was plenty large enough to get lost in. A quick look around revealed no signposts or man-made paths—just the occasional chirp of birds.
Then, a noise you'd never heard before echoed through the air.
Bwooooooom—!
"..."
You lowered your stance and scanned for the source of the sound.
It was coming from the sky. The vibrating rumble was reverberating from above.
An oddly shaped oval "something" crossing the heavens was producing the noise.
That "something" resembled a building more than a living creature. Gears ticked away inside, and it belched steam powerfully. It flew toward the setting sun, carrying a crowd of passengers.
"...People riding in it?"
A structure flying through the sky.
Ancient civilizations were said to have left behind such relics, but this one's design had a modern sleekness that didn't fit the "ancient" label. It even featured the railing styles currently popular in the Empire.
You'd learn later that this was an airship, the pinnacle of magitech engineering.
"Better to follow that... flying golem with people on board than wander the forest aimlessly. It'll raise my chances of running into someone."
You pushed through the woods after the airship. It wasn't moving all that fast, and its deafening roar made it easy enough to track.
About an hour later, towering walls came into view.
The walls of the Empire's capital, Crownhold. But they looked nothing like the ones you remembered.
Cracks spiderwebbed everywhere, and one section had even collapsed. There were signs of hasty repairs. Damage to Crownhold's walls—the ones once called impregnable—was shocking enough on its own.
But the real surprise was something else. The flags.
The banners hanging from the central keep bore no imperial crest. They were patterns you'd never seen before.
As you knew, the imperial crest hadn't changed since the Empire's founding.
"..."
You sensed something was deeply wrong.
A long line snaked toward the gates, where guards bustled about conducting inspections. Even their armor styles felt unfamiliar. Something was off about this Empire compared to the one you knew.
But you couldn't exactly live like a wild man in the woods forever.
You were the type to charge into danger rather than back away from it—and this time was no different.
You slipped quietly into the queue without drawing attention. Immediately, eyes turned your way.
Especially toward your hair.
Once their gazes landed on your proud golden locks—the mark of imperial blood—they filled with contempt, mockery, anger, and the like. As if they might hurl insults at any moment.
The only reason they held back was probably the intimidating aura you exuded.
Your blood boiled under the unfamiliar glares of disdain.
Born of noble blood and respected your whole life—how dare they scorn you? It was unacceptable.
To figure out why, you observed your surroundings.
Those with dull golden hair were being treated like slaves. It was bizarre. Pale or dark blondes were proof of imperial lineage mixed in—most blondes were Empire nobles, after all.
Why were heirs to such noble blood being enslaved?
You got your answer from a conversation at the gates.
"Halt. State your identity. Where's your master?"
"I'm no slave."
The guard snorted loud enough for all to hear.
"Not a slave? What, some plaything then? A filthy blonde still strutting around with your head held high."
"Mind your manners. My patience has limits..."
"Insolent slave shit... You think your master's authority is yours? Whoever they are, no matter how high up, you're just a lucky slave bastard. Got it?"
Poke. Poke.
He jabbed your forehead with his gauntleted hand, and you couldn't hold back any longer.
"Mind your manners, guard! I am the Empire's second prince, Irid Crown—!"
Silence.
An eerie silence descended.
You assumed they'd been cowed into silence by your status... but no.
It was the calm before the storm—the prelude to humiliations beyond imagining.
Crack—!
Stars exploded in your vision. You crumpled from the slap.
As your mind blanked from the horrific insult and you gathered mana to rip that damned guard's head from his shoulders...
You heard the unbelievable.
"Even impersonating that fool. Have you lost your mind?"
"What...?"
"Some folks live in delusions. Listen up, slave scum. The Empire you lot were so proud of? The one that crumbled, leaving you imperial dogs crawling like slaves? That was all because of Fallen Emperor Irid!"
Empire folk. Slaves. Fallen. And Fallen Emperor.
Sparks flew in your mind.
The reason blondes with imperial blood were enslaved.
The crumbling, sloppily repaired capital walls and absent imperial flags.
And that cutting-edge tech you'd never seen: the airship.
This was the future.
You—the one who became emperor—had destroyed the Empire.
You stood there dumbfounded, like a soul-lost fool. Even as a mob of guards swarmed and beat you with clubs, your mind echoed not with pain, but countless "whys."
Why had the mighty Empire fallen?
Why was he the cause of its downfall?
Why was "Fallen Emperor" tacked onto your name—a title that made you want to bite your tongue off?
Why, why, why...
Beat and battered, you entered what had once been the Empire's capital, Crownhold.
Staggering along, you gazed at this future Crownhold, brimming with gears and steam.
Citizens strolled the streets laughing, but the blonde-mixed slaves looked utterly wretched.
Civilization had advanced: roads were pristine, streetlamps lit everything brightly.
But the shadows hid dark deeds.
Your sole comfort amid the shock was the faint glow of the clock-shaped purple tattoo on your wrist. Just as the mage had promised... when time was up, you'd return to your original world.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
The past three days had been the most hellish of Second Prince Irid's life—the one born of noble blood.
In this future Crownhold, his status was the lowest of the low. Everyone saw him not as a noble, but a slave, and beatings were routine.
So when venturing out, he had to wrap his blonde hair in sacking. He couldn't even afford a simple cloth, so he picked up a stinking rag from the gutter.
Finding work was impossible. Flaunting his literacy—a premium skill—earned only pitiful offers from merchants.
But the three days weren't entirely wasted. Irid had gleaned plenty of info from eavesdropping.
The Empire had been defeated and occupied by the "Kingdom Alliance," a coalition of three kingdoms.
Captured royals and nobles were enslaved, along with their children.
This "now" was 100 years after Irid's era.
The Kingdom Alliance's tyranny had soured public sentiment. Among the lower classes, many longed for the Empire, and its remnants waged guerrilla resistance.
And...
"..."
Irid rolled up his sleeve to his elbow. The purple clock tattoo glowed softly.
The clock had markings from 0 to 3, ticking down slowly.
Irid recalled the mage's words. Only three days ago, yet it felt like ancient history.
"In real-world time, three hours from now, I'll summon you back, Your Highness. I'll leave this mark on your wrist so you can track the return time. And as I said repeatedly, this is all fiction..."
Real-world time: three hours from now.
Time flowed differently between future and present. The tattoo needle hovered just past 2.
That meant... six days. Survive six more days in this hellish future, and he'd return.
"...Damn it all."
Irid slumped against an alley wall, clutching his face with both hands.
Hunger and bodily pain paled against the agony in his heart.
It hurt too much knowing he had ruined the Empire. Knowing the people who'd served it loyally now lived as slaves.
To aim for the throne, he needed valuable intel from this future Crownhold: national trends, climate shifts, anything. Snagging airship blueprints would be ideal.
Return with 100 years of tech advancement, and no matter how his sister or brother schemed, the throne was his. But what would that even mean?
If he became emperor, the Empire would fall anyway.
He'd live quietly like a church mouse. Once back, no more throne-chasing—just fade into the background.
So...
Splashhhh!
"—Mmph!"
A bucket of water dumped over Irid's head. Looking up, he saw a girl tilting a pail from a third-floor window, her sky-blue eyes wide in shock.
"S-Sorry! I didn't know anyone was there..."
"..."
"Wait a sec!"
Irid pulled his sacking low over his face and stood. Getting drenched barely sparked anger anymore. Better to slip out of the alley than get tangled in trouble.
But then.
"Hup!"
Splashhh—!
The girl grabbed a wall pipe with one hand and slid down!
Her skirt and black hair fluttered in the air resistance.
"...?!"
She landed in the alley in an instant, brushed off her flipped skirt, and scanned Irid up and down. Her movements had a bouncy, elastic vitality.
"Whoa, you're soaked. Come dry off inside real quick. I'll throw in a bowl of stew too!"
"No, I'm fine..."
"It's chilly out—staying wet will get you sick. Come on!"
The girl grabbed Irid's hand and pulled him along.
He could have resisted, surely. But he couldn't shake her off—probably because it was the first "kindness" he'd received in three days, leaving his mind frozen.