The annual grand celebration of the Fairy Tale Kingdom was about to begin.

Though the little princess, kidnapped by the evil dragon, remained unrecovered—it hardly mattered.

To most citizens, she was little more than a legend. No one had ever seen her; only the lone tower standing tall within the palace grounds hinted she might exist.

She’d never attended a single celebration. One less face made no difference.

Besides, rumor claimed the king would unveil a garment hailed as the most beautiful in the world. That alone captivated every woman who cherished elegance.

And even if the robe disappointed? A foreign prince—unmarried, graceful, courteous, and masterfully skilled—graced the event. His renown spanned half the Fairy Tale Continent. To wed him would be bliss.

Long before festivities commenced, every street and alley of the capital swelled with crowds.

Youth wore their finest; elders looked sharp. Vendors hawked crowns glittering with seven-colored feathers. Stalls offered fresh juice and chilled water. Wandering bards sang epics; musicians played flutes and lutes.

All buzzed with joyful chaos.

Then, as excitement peaked, the king emerged under the public gaze.

Palace servants beat gongs and drums. Silent guards held back the eager crowd. At the end of Royal Avenue, a massive screen stood onstage.

Before it stood two merchants—one tall, one short, shifty-eyed—dressed impeccably, faces calm beneath the spotlight, gazing at the sea of onlookers.

“Silence!”

The shorter one spoke.

The crowd hushed instantly. In a city of nearly a hundred thousand, only faint whispers lingered.

The tall merchant stiffened his face and spoke through a magic amplifier:

“On this joyous day, His Majesty presents the world’s most beautiful garment! He shares it freely for all to admire!”

“But heed this: only the wise may see it. Fools see nothing.”

“Now—welcome His Majesty with thunderous applause!”

A tsunami of clapping erupted.

As the screen shifted, the king was revealed: a mountain of pale, flabby flesh standing proudly.

Applause died at the front. Like a ripple, silence spread backward. Only a few distant, short spectators clapped alone—until they, too, sensed the shift and fell quiet.

Whispers fluttered. No one dared point and say:

“Look—the king wears nothing!”

Unwilling to brand themselves fools, all stayed mute.

The roaring capital plunged into eerie stillness—so quiet a pin drop would echo.

Eyes darted, seeking answers in neighbors’ stares.

The king spread his arms, escorted down the stage by guards, parading down Royal Avenue. Servants mimed holding an invisible cloak behind him, “protecting” the legendary garment from earthly dust.

Absurdity bloomed.

Adults swiftly covered children’s eyes—and mouths—to silence innocent truths.

Stiff-faced, the crowd watched the naked king amble past.

He walked with pride, utterly convinced of his finery—until a hesitant young voice cut through:

“Why… isn’t the king wearing clothes?”

Like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spread.

A second voice: “Yeah—why *isn’t* he dressed?”

A third: “He really *is* naked!”

Then a cacophony of voices swelled.

Someone had voiced the unspoken. The first to speak broke the spell—and others followed without fear.

A single spark ignited a wildfire.

Chaos returned. Confusion and laughter swirled. Waves of mockery flushed the king’s face pale.

*Scum!*

He raged inwardly, whirling to find the merchants—but both had vanished.

Like actors after a flawless scene, they’d slipped backstage, leaving him alone.

His fury, targetless, became impotent rage.

The script demanded a humiliated king fleeing in shame… but no one knew the king was more than a king.

A beastly roar tore from the crowd.

Shrill. Agonized. Burning with fury.

The Mad Sovereign shattered the cowardly king’s shell and descended.

A spider’s body. Eight legs woven from human arms, thick with black hair. A soft head crowned with octopus-like tentacles.

Chaotic. Twisted. Unnameable horror.

Jaw unhinging like a python, it opened a maw stretching ear to ear and shrieked. Pitch-black shadows erupted beneath it, swallowing half the capital in seconds.

Those engulfed fell into eternal slumber before fear could form. The Mad Sovereign ensnared their sweet dreams with silken threads, pulled them free, and emotionlessly stuffed them into the mouth of its eerily king-like face—*crunch, crunch*.

Bodies stiffened. Faces went blank. Human… turned to puppet.

This was the Mad Sovereign—a monster that feasted on fairy tales and dreams.

But this world *was* a fairy tale. And in fairy tales, where monsters rise, heroes follow.

Before the Mad Sovereign stood the prince.

He activated every blessing from the Lady of the Lake. Ignited the Sword of Virtue with his blood. Charged forth in radiant glory.

Light flared—soft, yet sharp enough to slice the darkness.

Bathed in radiance, he gripped the Sword of Virtue and surged forward. Faster. Faster.

A flash—

The blade arrived.

Both hands on the hilt, fire in his eyes, he swung downward with all his might toward the monster’s head!

The Mad Sovereign shrieked, spewing resilient silk. Two forelimbs tensed, meeting steel head-on.

*Twang!*

A sharp ring echoed.

Supple silk, yet hard as forged iron.

Blocked, the prince stomped the ground—shattering stone—spun the Sword of Virtue ablaze, and slashed upward.

But two arms couldn’t match eight limbs. The creature reared, two more legs weaving silk to deflect the strike.

Then—venom.

Madness distilled over eons. Death given form.

He dodged—but webs snagged his feet. Stumbling, he shattered pavement with his sword and leaped back.

Too late.

The venom pierced the Lady’s blessings, seeping into his left hand, racing toward his heart.

He frowned. Swung. Severed his own hand cleanly. Sealed the wound with a healing spell.

Pain paled his face—but his expression never wavered.

Still… he was only human. Thoughts crept in.

*This time… I really will die.*

He shifted into a defensive stance.

In his vibrant yet brief life, he’d never faced such terror. Merely gazing at it frayed courage. Fear threatened to drown resolve.

*A pity.*

He sighed inwardly.

Never confessing to the little princess. Unfulfilled wishes. His teacher never witnessing her theory proven.

No matter now. His duty: wound the monster before she returned.

He tightened his grip on the Sword of Virtue.

Then—a gust.

Swift. Roaring. Overwhelming. Like a beast diving from the sky.

He looked up.

A dragon.

Majestic, spiraling down with the little princess astride. A familiar voice whispered in his ear:

“Not bad… my good student.”

At last, the story’s tardy princess and dragon had arrived.