novelraw Chapter 96 : Triumphal City and Charlotte
Chapter 96 : Triumphal City and Charlotte
In the southern lands of the Rhine Kingdom, where forests ringed the plains, there stood a colossal city embraced by the three ducal domains—majestic, unshakable in the heart of the flatlands.
The city was encircled by three concentric walls of stone. The outer wall rose twenty meters, built of gray-white limestone, its surface etched with scars of past wars and patchwork repairs. A moat, more than ten meters wide, circled it with flowing water, crossed by seven chain-lifted drawbridges.
The main gate lay on the northern side. Its oak doors, reinforced with iron, stood open daily, letting carts and horses stream in and out. Arrow slits and boiling oil ports lined the gatehouse—facilities left from wartime, still maintained today in readiness for future conflicts.
The commercial district boasted more than four thousand shops—jewelers, clockmakers, libraries, and the headquarters of great guilds. Crystal chandeliers lit the opera house, and at night its glow illuminated the entire theater street like day.
In the city’s southeast corner stood the arena, able to seat thousands, with fields nearby for jousts and equestrian contests.
Streets paved in bluish-gray stone had open channels at the sides for drainage. The central plaza stretched over two hundred meters in diameter, paved in black and white marble into the royal crest. Roads radiated outward, with the main avenue wide enough for eight carriages abreast.
At the very center, on the city’s highest ground, towered the royal palace—a domain like unto the heavens.
The palace was built entirely of anti-magic materials, gleaming platinum-white under the sun. Its gardens held over three hundred species of plants, many extinct beyond its walls—an inner sanctum no outsider could glimpse.
This was the capital of the Rhine Kingdom.
Triumphal City.
…
Clatter, clatter—
Carriage wheels rang against cobblestone as a coach rolled through the city gates of Triumphal City.
All who saw the flag raised upon it moved aside without hesitation. It bore the crest of one of the three great ducal houses—the ruling elite of this kingdom—House Charlotte.
The carriage drove straight to the palace and halted before its gates.
Creak—
The door opened. An old man descended, leaning on his cane. His hair and beard were white, his face wrinkled with age, yet his back remained straight, his noble bearing sharp, eyes bright as lightning.
He mounted the stone steps. Guards silently pushed open the heavy doors.
Inside stretched a long corridor, lined with portraits of past kings, flickering dimly in candlelight. His boots echoed against marble with steady cadence, unusually clear in the silence.
Golden candlesticks lined the hall, flames stretching his shadow long.
He passed corridors and stairways, sunlight flashing briefly on the silver embroidery of his coat. Guards stood every ten paces, but none questioned him. Eyes forward, cane tapping, he reached the end of a corridor.
A great door stood there.
The guards before it straightened at once, grounding their halberds in salute.
The doors opened without a word.
The chamber smelled faintly of herbs and beeswax.
The King lay upon a four-poster bed draped in crimson curtains, his gaunt face sunk into feather pillows. A maid wiped his brow with a damp cloth, while another servant held a silver bowl of medicine at his side.
The old man’s arrival drew no comment.
He stood quietly, watching as the King drained his medicine.
“Enough. Leave us,” the King said, raising a trembling hand.
Though weak, his voice carried the weight of command.
The attendants bowed and slipped out, nodding to the old man as they passed.
When the doors closed, the King struggled to sit.
A withered hand pressed his shoulder.
“In this state, must you still pretend at strength? Lie down. There are no outsiders here.”
“Heh…”
The King looked at him with a weary smile.
“I envy you, Brandy Charlotte. So old, yet still so strong… Swordsmen truly are monsters.”
Brandy’s face was hard.
“Forgive my bluntness, but the one thing you should be doing now is writing your will.”
“Cough… that doesn’t concern you.”
With effort and sweat, the King managed to sit upright.
“Fine, you’re right. That’s why I called you here today. I want your help—before I die.”
“You haven’t said that to me in twenty years.”
Brandy’s grip on his cane tightened.
“So. A minister you can’t control? A faction leader? Tell me plainly—who must I kill?”
“My… daughter.”
The King glanced at his bedside cabinet.
Brandy opened the top drawer. Inside lay a portrait of a girl.
Golden hair. Blue eyes. Two tear-shaped moles beneath her left eye.
“The Seventh Princess?”
“Yes.”
The King nodded.
Brandy’s brows knit.
“Wait. Let me confirm. Is the Seventh Princess you want me to kill the real one or an impostor?”
“Would I need you to kill a fake?” the King snapped.
“Of course it’s the real one. I can feel it… even from afar. She still lives, and she’s drawing closer to me.”
“A bond of blood, then…”
Brandy studied the portrait. The girl’s innocent smile lifted the heart.
He tore the picture in two, then looked at the King with a sigh.
“I won’t ask your reasons. But how pitiful—once you were proud and untouchable. And now, you would order your own daughter’s death?”
“It was my mistake in youth,” the King said heavily.
“I cannot leave that sin to my descendants.”
“So long as I live, I will bear the infamy of slaying my own flesh and blood.”
“No need to justify yourself. The Charlotte family has always been the kingdom’s sharpest sword. Each bearer of the 【Sword Saint System】 understands that duty. Besides, when you die, I won’t outlive you.”
Brandy tapped his chest, then turned and left without another word. His footsteps faded down the hall.
The King waited silently.
Before long, the doors opened again.
Another figure entered—a tall man with golden hair and noble bearing, his handsome face faintly resembling Rozelite’s.
The door shut behind him. He knelt before the King.
“Father, please lie back. Sitting up will harm your health.”
“It’s fine… cough, cough… it’s fine…”
The King’s voice was weaker still.
“How are preparations for the succession?”
“Smoothly. No mishaps. Don’t worry, Father. Leave it to me.”
“Good. Good. You’ve worked hard.”
The King beckoned faintly.
“Come closer…”
“Yes.”
The youth rose and approached.
The King seized his wrist. His voice rasped.
“About Rozelite… do not blame me…”
“How could I ever blame you, Father?”
The young man gazed into the King’s clouded eyes.
“You always loved her most. I know the decision pained you more than anyone. But I’ve never understood—why did you do it?”
The King sighed, but offered no explanation.
Instead, he pointed at the cabinet.
The youth opened the first drawer—empty.
Then the second—inside lay a scroll.
Unrolling it, he froze at the gilded letters.
“An invitation… to the Royal Academy?”
“If—only if—by the smallest chance…”
The King drew a long breath.
“After my death, if Rozelite returns alive… send her to the Royal Academy. That will be the last resort.”
“The Royal Academy?”
The youth blinked.
“You mean… Rozelite is still alive?”
“Heh…”
The King smiled faintly.
In truth, he longed to see Rozelite once more. From her birth, he had never stinted in love. But before being Rozelite’s father, he was first the King.
He had no right, no privilege, to let personal affection endanger the realm.
So, he had to choose the kingdom over his daughter.