“So the culprit is the king. Got it?”
“Understood.”
“Then do you understand what freedom the little princess truly needs?”
“…Is it to kill the king?”
“Naive. It’s not a bad option, sure—but he’s the ruler of the Fairy Tale Kingdom. Forget whether assassination is even possible. Even if you succeeded… what then? What becomes of the kingdom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Foolish. Without a ruler to hold power in check, the ministers—already hungry for the throne—would tear the court apart. War would follow. At worst, the Fairy Tale Kingdom could fracture. Even the *best* outcome means bloodshed. Death.”
“That serious?”
“That’s the *mild* scenario. Civil unrest invites invasion. Neighboring nations would pounce. The fallout wouldn’t stop at our borders—it could swallow the world.”
“…”
The prince fell silent.
He’d witnessed coup-born horrors firsthand. Abroad, he’d been dragged into royal infighting—only to rise as a foreign prince by twisted fortune. But he hadn’t forgotten the scars.
Seeing his genuine reflection, the wicked woman let out a soft chuckle.
She’d assumed him a single-minded hothead, fixated only on the princess. If she’d died, he might’ve collapsed mid-scream: *“I’ll remake the world with her in it!”*
But he was sharper than she thought. A relief.
Still…
Standing atop the tower, recalling the princess’s decade-long imprisonment, the wicked woman smirked. A joke surfaced:
*Servant: “My lord, your lady’s been in the Soviet Union three years.”
Lord: “Has she repented?”
Servant: “No. She demands you call her ‘Comrade.’ Joined the Bolsheviks. Now commander of a tank infantry regiment. Preparing to overthrow you—a rotten feudal landlord’s whelp.”*
Wasn’t it the same now?
The princess, locked away ten years without yielding. And *she*—here, in this tower—ready to thoroughly win over the prince who’d passed the Lady of the Lake’s trial… and topple the king.
“Therefore,” the wicked woman said, “first identify friends from foes.”
“Use your head. Don’t draw your sword at every shadow. You’re a prince of justice—not a brute of war. Solve with mind, not steel. Understood?”
The prince nodded. “Understood.”
She taught him *minxin*—popular will. *“Water carries the boat… and drowns it.”*
He listened intently, pausing her to clarify concepts. Day after day, he slipped into the palace at dawn, climbing the tower for lessons.
At first, reluctant. Then captivated. His world widened. The princess was no longer his entire sky. He cared for the nation. For society. For the poor trapped where he once stood.
The fairy-tale prince was becoming a steadfast materialist warrior.
Thoroughly “won over”—and loving it.
He’d found purpose. Direction.
Even began calling her *Comrade*.
“Teacher… what next?” he asked.
She’d rejected *Comrade*, so they compromised: *Teacher*.
Strange, being called that. She never felt qualified to teach life lessons—her expertise was fists. *“Ate yet? No? Eat my punch.”*
So she just smiled and shook her head.
“How would *I* know the next step? I only share what I know. *You* must adapt it to reality.”
She rose, walked to the window, and slightly narrowed her eyes toward the horizon.
The prince followed respectfully, gaze lifting where she looked.
The Fairy Tale Kingdom’s myriad lights.
Late evening. From the tower—the kingdom’s highest point—the sun bled below the horizon. Twilight faded. Lights twinkled like scattered stars.
The palace blazed brightest: arcane lamps and oil lamps weaving golden threads through darkness, outlining every spire and hall. Daylight mimicked in night.
Dreamlike. Resplendent. Kaleidoscopic.
Every word for “beauty” fit.
But the old prince would’ve lingered here.
The new one did not.
His eyes leapt beyond the glow—to mountains, seas, fields. To crumbling huts beneath the glitter.
What hid there?
The poor who rationed oil. Servants crushed under boots. The sick with no coin for healers.
Yes, the kingdom was lovely: gentle weather, ever-smiling faces.
But also ugly. Twisted. A world of heroes and magic, where commoners existed only to *be* the palace lights. An unquestioned truth. A “natural law” centuries deep.
*But just because it’s always been… does that make it right?*
*Should the world belong to the few?*
Silent, the prince pondered. Palace light carved his furrowed brow, his hardening expression—steel and flame entwined.
His hand found the Sword of Virtue at his waist. Thumb traced the crossguard’s fairy-script:
*Loyalty. Hope. Generosity. Justice. Fortitude. Temperance. Frugality.*
The Lady of the Lake had said: *“You are virtue incarnate. The sword chose you for these qualities.”*
*“Because you embody virtue, you became prince.”*
Only he knew the truth: he passed the trial not for virtue—but for love.
*Love conquered all. Love commanded the sword.*
He never believed he held those virtues. Never saw himself as “virtue walking.”
His sole drive had been the princess’s freedom.
Now… it widened. His care now held others—those born poor, exploited, voiceless.
The dragon-slayer stood atop hoarded gold. Silent. No scales grew on his skin.
He turned. Gave all to the poor. Then marched toward the next dragon.
Heat seared his palm from the wrought-iron hilt—faint pain, deep resolve. He gripped tighter.
*This pain is mine to bear.*
*I am fortunate. Others suffer more. Only by feeling their weight can I walk forward.*
True happiness for the princess required happiness for *all*. The enemy wasn’t the king—it was the ideology buried deep in every mind.
He recalled a line the wicked woman once murmured—a verse from another world’s great soul. Obscure tongue, yet it stuck:
*“The long road is iron-hard… yet today, we stride anew.”*
He whispered it. Turned.
She still gazed at the kingdom’s lights, solemn, thoughtful.
To him, her silence spoke: *Go deeper. Live among them. Learn their hearts.*
He exhaled.
Drew the Sword of Virtue. Knelt. Raised the crossguard level with his nose. Bowed.
“This student understands, Teacher.”
She blinked, startled—then smiled.
“Oh? What do you understand?”
Head low, voice forged like hammer on steel:
“*We shall renew the world… with flame!*”
[To be continued]
