"..."
The villainess suddenly had no idea what to say next.
Silence seemed her only option.
The outcome was fine—but the process felt slightly off.
She’d only meant to admire the Fairy Tale Kingdom’s night view by the window. Yet somehow, after the prince joined her for a quiet moment, his face lit with sudden clarity. "Teacher," he said, "I understand."
Just seconds ago, she’d nearly snapped, "You brute—*what* exactly do you understand?"
But now… he truly *had* understood. Not just grasped it—he’d resolved to strive for it, even burn himself out for it.
The little princess’s prince had become the people’s prince.
What kind of wild plot twist was *this*?
The villainess didn’t get it—but she was deeply shaken.
A mechanic carrying a wrench made sense. Maybe… just maybe… a prince born in poverty, swayed by the villainess’s words, choosing a path of fiery revolution also made a twisted kind of sense?
Still… wasn’t this rather interesting?
What changes would the people’s prince bring? How would he reshape this already chaotic world?
She didn’t know.
But she’d wait with hopeful anticipation.
To her, the Witch’s Dream was like a visual novel with countless bad endings and only one good path. Before, she’d been a character with no control over choices. Now? She was the player, fingers on fate’s dial.
So why not spice things up?
A stew should taste like a stew: sugar, salt, star anise, cassia, bay leaves—the base notes, like prince, princess, and dragon. Then, when inspiration strikes: a pinch of industrial saccharin, a can of "all-natural" nuclear wastewater, a deep-sea octopus tentacle simmering slowly…
What monstrous dish would emerge?
No one knew.
But honestly… it should be fun, right?
The villainess thought with a faint smile.
...
While the villainess and prince plotted their scheme, the king of the Fairy Tale Kingdom entertained two guests in his bedchamber.
Both had sharp, weaselly faces and frail frames, eyes darting greedily over every glittering object since stepping inside. Thoroughly untrustworthy.
Yet the king trusted them.
Seated on his throne, he glanced down. Instantly, they knelt with perfect reverence, kowtowing deeply.
"No need for ceremony. Rise," the king said casually.
They sprang up, grinning obsequiously. "Thank you, Your Majesty!"
But His Majesty cared only for *what* they carried. His expression tightened. "Well? Is it ready? I provided all materials, all time… the deadline draws near."
He cleared his throat abruptly, forcing regal composure. "Three days. Final deadline."
The taller man bowed low. "No need to worry, Your Majesty! The treasure nears completion. Three days is ample. We *will* deliver satisfaction!"
"Good!" The king laughed, waving grandly. "Guards! Reward them with gold!"
Ecstatic, the pair dropped to their knees, kowtowing frantically in gratitude.
Satisfied, the king dismissed them and sipped tea alone.
Today’s news delighted him. Palace troubles had piled up lately—especially that elusive thief. But the thief had vanished, fading into silence.
Double blessing.
Thief gone. Treasure nearly his. The prophesied princess—destined to overthrow him—still locked in the tower. A bright future ahead!
The corpulent king smiled contentedly.
*Why couldn’t guards catch that thief?*
*An inside job?*
*The queen (who lost the antique mirror)? A disloyal guard? A servant with a death wish?*
Suspicion curdled his mood. He hurled his teacup down. It shattered. Twitching, he raged—calling the thief a shameless maggot, a worthless ant, a conscienceless fool.
His voice boomed like thunder… then softened to drunken murmurs. Slumped on the throne, eyes vacant, he repeated a name of tangled syllables.
Servants huddled in corners, trembling.
Then—darkness swallowed all light.
Shadows bled from behind the throne, wrapping everything tight. The king’s whispers twisted into a beast’s roar… unheard.
Only darkness. Only nameless despair.
Faint sobs. A choked wail. Then—two eyes of molten gold glowed softly.
In the Fairy Tale Kingdom’s bedchamber, the Mad Sovereign perched on the throne, expressionlessly chewing sweet dreams.
His former name was Arthur.
...
Night fell unnoticed.
Moonlight silvered the palace—no lamps needed. Yet the queen carried one: brass, flame red and murky, pulsing like a clot of blood.
Guards and servants watched numbly as her black gown trailed behind her like a silent river.
She reached the throne room door. Pushed it open.
Blood-red light tore the dark, flooding the hall.
The mad king sat rigid on the throne, tearing and chewing dreams. Servants lay stiff on the floor, faces blank, lost in slumber.
The queen gasped. Lamp in one hand, skirts lifted with the other, she rushed to him. Teeth gritted, she sliced her wrist with a ritual dagger and pressed it to his lips.
The Witch’s blood stirred the Mad Sovereign. He clamped onto her wrist, drinking deeply.
Shadows receded. The mad will controlling the king sank back into slumber—like a sedated patient in restraints.
The king’s jowls trembled. Eyes closed, then opened. Pale, he offered the queen a wretched smile.
"It came again?" he whispered.
Bleeding, she pinched the wound shut, nodded sorrowfully.
No words needed. He understood.
For a rare moment, clarity pierced years of erosion. He struggled up; she steadied him.
Bathed in crimson lamplight, they walked slowly to the tower.
He gazed up at its moonlit silhouette—holy, serene—a bitter smile on his lips.
"How… old is she now?"
Polluted by an alien will, stripped of his own body… memories shattered into dust.
*How tragic*, he thought. *A father who forgets his daughter’s age.*
The queen squeezed his hand, sharing warmth.
"Sixteen," she murmured. "The most beautiful girl in our Fairy Tale Kingdom."
"Good," he breathed, fingers intertwining with hers.
She leaned into his chest, eyes closed.
Moonlight wrapped them—a quiet, tender painting.
But time flows. No pause button exists.
He exhaled slowly, eyes lifting to the tower window. "How goes the plan?"
"Steady," she whispered. "The seed is planted in the dragon’s mind. Soon it will come… and take…"
Her voice cracked. She covered her mouth, tears thickening her words. "Take *our* daughter."
He patted her back gently. "It’s alright. The plan is foolproof. She’ll be safe."
"...Mm." A fragile nod—then she shattered into sobs.
He held her, stroking her hair. His gaze lifted, pupils sharpening.
From his heavy frame rose a lion’s aura.
For a heartbeat, he was Prince Arthur again—young, noble, valiant.
"It’s alright, Guinevere," he smiled softly. "Everything will be alright."
