Raising the Princess to Overcome Death

Chapter 370

Hamlet Oldenburg: A Side Story

Ophelia had left.

Hamlet inhaled the billowing dust stirred by the wagon wheels as they disappeared into the distance.

The heat of last night’s passion, the love they shared, now felt like jagged shards of ice piercing his chest. He hadn’t stopped her. He hadn’t told her the truth: that he was, in fact, a noble.

He returned to the mansion, burdened with regret. His father didn’t rebuke him for staying out all night. After all, his son carried the heavy weight of tasks for the family’s benefit.

Before the wounds of heartbreak could even fully form, Hamlet departed Oldenburg—heading in the exact opposite direction of where Ophelia had gone.

***

“Did you say the name was Benar Tatian?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“What kind of person is he?”Hamlet posed the question to the steward sent by the Tatian family. The steward sat with impeccable poise despite the carriage’s jarring movements.

“A kind and beautiful young lord. He’s the same age as you, Lord Hamlet Oldenburg.”

“A kind person, you say? That’s a relief. They’ve asked me to be his friend. Do you think I’ll manage?”

The steward answered warmly, assuring him he could, and even recommended a few books to read during the journey, knowing Benar loved literature.

However, when they arrived, the Tatian estate was drenched in blood.

The eldest and second sons, who had vied for succession, lay scattered like minced meat. The Marquis himself had died in what was described as a carriage accident.

The steward turned pale, stammering. The supposedly kind and beautiful third son was nowhere to be found.

Only a boy with cold, piercing blue eyes stood before them. The Marquis of Tatian fixed his gaze on Hamlet and spoke.

“A friend, you say… Ha! Hahaha! Very well. Let’s honor my late second brother’s wishes. But not now. I’m tired. Leave me.”

Hamlet bowed respectfully and withdrew. Glancing at the steward, who was still frozen stiff, he thought:

Had we arrived just one day earlier, I would surely be dead. One night with Ophelia saved my life.

And thus, Hamlet’s first meeting with the Marquis of Tatian concluded.

Of course, Marquis Benar Tatian had no need for a friend.

Yet Hamlet wasn’t sent back to Oldenburg—not because the Marquis held him in any special regard, but simply because he forgot.

No one dared question the Marquis about such a trivial matter. After claiming power through bloodshed, he surrounded himself only with those who could not challenge him.

Hamlet spent three years assigned to a small guest room in the enormous Tatian mansion. The steward who had brought him there eventually rose to the rank of general manager and finally mentioned Hamlet to the Marquis.

When they met again after three years, the Marquis seemed noticeably softer—likely because he had married in the interim.

The Marquis said, “Hamlet Oldenburg.”

“Yes.”

“I hear you’re skilled with a sword. There’s something I need you to do.”

“Give the order.”

The Marquis studied him closely, eyes sharp.

“Aren’t you going to ask about the reward?”

Hamlet understood the question’s intent. Though technically a subordinate, he was still a noble. However, his perception of his status had significantly diminished during his time at the Tatian estate. His family, the Oldenburgs, merely ruled a subordinate fiefdom under the Tatian domain.

Understanding his position, Hamlet calmly replied that he would accept any reward the Marquis deemed fit. The Marquis smirked faintly.

“In a few weeks, there will be an entrance exam for the Royal Guard. Participate.”

“As you command.”

Hamlet didn’t ask why, and the Marquis offered no explanation.

A few weeks later, Hamlet joined the Royal Guard on his own merit. After that, he never saw the Marquis again.

***

The First Year of King Karoman de Tatalia’s Reign.

As a new member of the Royal Guard, Hamlet faced suffocating days. The immense pressure of serving high-ranking royals was part of it, but his discomfort stemmed largely from the secret task assigned by Marquis Tatian.

The Marquis wanted him to monitor the inner workings of the palace, especially the king’s movements.

“The king has hired a blacksmith. He’s replacing the royal crown with an identical replica.”

“The king used the palace’s secret northern passage late at night. I don’t know where he went.”

Hamlet would encode such reports and slip them into the laundry to be sent out.

He wasn’t the only informant. Over time, the job became so routine it felt almost dull. The palace staff had been replaced en masse with people loyal to the Tatian family, making surveillance easier.

The king withdrew further into isolation, reducing Hamlet’s tasks. Instead, Princess Chloe de Tatalia became more active, though the Marquis showed little interest in her. Hamlet saw no reason to investigate further.

Eventually, Hamlet rose to the position of Captain of the Royal Guard.

Under his command, the Guard became filled with knights aligned with the Tatian Marquis, leaving no corner of the palace untouched by his influence.

Only one place seemed safe from the Marquis’s gaze: the drawer of Hamlet’s desk.

Avoiding the administrative knight’s watchful eye, Hamlet pulled open the drawer.

Inside lay a letter, dust-covered and forgotten.

Ophelia.

It was a letter he had written long ago, during his time at the Tatian estate. Written, erased, and rewritten countless times, yet never sent.

He should have married. Anyone would have sufficed.

But three years of neglect at the Tatian estate had cost him his prime. Even if it hadn’t, he had no desire to meet anyone back then—or even now.

Is she doing well? Does she ever think of me?

Am I pathetic for still holding onto her memory?

Hamlet returned the unsent letter to the drawer and rose from his seat.

“Go ahead and leave for the day,” he told the administrative knight.

“Yes, sir. I’ll finish this and head out shortly.”

The knight was finalizing preparations for the arrival of Prince Lean de Yeriel’s entourage.

Hamlet nodded and left the office. He planned to go straight home but was reminded of something he’d heard that morning.

“Ellen’s exhibition is open again. Perhaps this year, I’ll manage to buy a painting.”

Last year, a painter had taken Orville by storm with nostalgic depictions of childhood, often featuring a woman and a child believed to be his wife and child.

Looking at those paintings had made Hamlet feel as though he were meeting Ophelia again.

At the exhibition, Hamlet caught sight of her.

“...Hamlet.”

“Ophelia.”

At first, he thought it was a hallucination. But when she smiled and let him take her hand, he realized she was real.

“Ophelia!”

“Hamlet. It’s been a while. Have you… been well?”

There were words he had longed to say if they ever met again, but they evaporated. Instead, he managed to ask something foolish:

“Have you become a priest?”

Deceived by her modest attire, he had revealed half his heart.

Ophelia smiled faintly, nodded, and said nothing more.

Hamlet vaguely recalled congratulating her, though it felt utterly empty.