Time rewound to over a month ago, in the Imperial Capital.
The Imperial Capital of Vankarel stood as the empire’s most vibrant heart.
Not a trade hub—but its political core.
Day after day, galas and assemblies filled its halls.
Sometimes weekly, sometimes every three days; at peak, even daily.
No phrase like “debauchery” or “glitter” could fully capture the upper crust’s lifestyle.
A chasm separated the high and the low.
The lower class formed the bricks of this vast empire—essential, yet treated as insignificant.
Truly, the luxuries of the wealthy were beyond imagination.
Leona, though only fifteen, was already accustomed to this extravagance as a royal.
She rarely attended such events, but under the Emperor’s orders, she sometimes had to.
Nobles swirled around her—earls, archdukes, their heirs. Adults clinked glasses, boasting loudly.
Children, barely out of infancy, wore masks of flattery and arrogance.
Leona stood amid it all, occasionally approached by boys seeking favor.
Everyone knew she was the little princess.
Winning her hand meant glory—and profit—for any house.
Cultivate affection young; marry at sixteen.
Such was Vankarel in this strange Fourth Epoch.
Magitech flourished: machine guns chattered *rat-a-tat*, devices scanned small worlds beyond the Capulas starfield.
Yet debates raged over endorsing slavery, praising twisted “hobbies.”
Most nobles saw nothing wrong. *This is how nobles should think. Without extravagance, you’re not noble. Without power, you’re nothing.*
The imperial family was no exception—sometimes worse.
But Leona loathed it all.
Perhaps a book, or a whispered word, had awakened her.
She’d offer a faint, cold laugh at the chatter around her.
At the gala, she was icy aloofness itself—gaze sharp with disdain, a stark contrast to her usual lively self.
Tonight, the hypocrisy felt especially raw.
Even the coldest soul might smile when cheerful… but not tonight.
“Your Highness Leona,” a boy grinned, “may I stand with you?”
“Apologies. I was just heading over there,” she said, nodding toward the refreshment table.
“Ah… alright,” he muttered, retreating with a sheepish smile.
Leona offered a polite smile and walked away—not for the food, but to escape him.
Then she overheard whispers she wished she hadn’t.
Not about her. Just topics that made her stomach turn.
“Haha, the smuggled goods turned out well?”
“Yes. Very.”
Her sharp hearing caught every word.
The conversation twisted darker. Elsewhere, others echoed the same vile theme.
Twisted phrases slithered into her ears.
She barely recalled the details—perhaps she refused to.
Eyes fixed on the azure liquid in her glass, she fell into silent thought.
A heavy weight pressed against her chest.
Then—a hushed, cruel description of suffering.
Her fists clenched. A vein pulsed on her temple. A strange, seething anger boiled within.
Weapons were forbidden at galas. Even for a princess.
So—
Leona drove her iron fist straight into the noble discussing slavery.
An adult. Not a child.
She was no fragile lady trained in etiquette.
Her punch sent the soft noble sprawling, teeth scattering.
The solid *thud* of hitting that scum snapped something inside her.
“AAAAH!!!” A shriek cut through the music.
“Princess Leona!”
“Please stop!”
“Help… the princess has gone mad!!!”
Leona ignored them all, relentlessly pummeling only those who deserved it.
She knew they’d resent her. Fantasize about putting her in lewd doujin scenarios.
Rhode had mentioned the market overflowed with princess-themed doujin—many craved it.
If they dared enslave commoners, why not dream of enslaving a princess?
Disgusting. Revolting.
Her punches grew fiercer.
Suddenly, fists felt more *impactful* than any sword.
Blood from her victim’s nose splattered her cheek. Her eyes stayed ice-cold.
The “elegant” gala had shattered into chaos.
And the instigator? The empire’s little princess.
She targeted specific nobles—not random violence.
Still, the court called it caprice.
Dragged away at last, her face unreadable, her gaze lingered on the ceiling.
*Next time… I’ll do it again.*
Because it felt—
*So. Damn. Refreshing.*
Later, schemers twisted the tale, painting Leona as unhinged.
Even the Emperor reprimanded her, though she explained her reasons.
The scolding was inevitable.
Yet across Vankarel, a new title spread: *Ironfist Princess*.
It meant nothing to her.
Next time… she *would* do it again.
