The Unrivaled Playboy of Great Krythoria

Chapter 2 "Your Highness, Do I Please You?"

Samuel's brow furrowed as he poured tea with deliberate slowness, his voice icy. "Gawain, explain. What transpired?"

His younger brother August had, for reasons unknown, fallen into the water and remained unconscious for fifteen days. They'd all assumed the wretch had met his end—beyond saving. Yet against all odds, the fool had returned from death's door. Now there stood another contender for the crown prince's seat.

Gawain, Samuel's trusted aide and personal guard, glanced up briefly before bowing again. The second prince exuded authority without raising his voice—his mere presence demanded obedience. Sweat beaded on Gawain's brow, his heart pounding like a war drum as he clasped his fists. "Your Highness, they say... it was that eunuch by his side. Two needle pricks, and he awoke."

Clatter!

The teacup slipped from Samuel's fingers, shattering on the floor. "Needles?!" Disbelief thickened his voice. "When imperial physicians failed, some lowly eunuch succeeded?"

After a measured pause, Samuel's eyes narrowed. "What do we know of this eunuch?"

"Your Highness, the eunuch's parents died long ago. Raised as an orphan in the palace, he idles about, thriving on August's borrowed authority. No remarkable skills beyond that."

"Send word to Benedict. The third prince wakes—have him come immediately."

"At once!" Gawain saluted and withdrew.

Before long, a man swept in—sapphire robes flowing, white sash cinched at his waist. A folded fan rested in his grip, his lips curled in a knowing smirk.

With his striking features, slender frame, and dashing ensemble, he would have been every woman's fantasy in Yuxiur—were it not for the cold aloofness in his eyes.

The newcomer bowed to Samuel. "Your Highness."

"No need for formalities, my teacher. Please, sit." With a wave, Samuel had a gold-trimmed chair brought for his guest.

This was Benedict, Samuel's mentor. Once tutor to the Crown Prince, he'd risen through careful strategy to become Left Chancellor. Despite his rank, he was only five years Samuel's senior, their relationship blending mentorship and friendship.

"Master, what do you make of the third prince's recovery?"

Snapping his fan shut, Benedict took his seat, his narrowed eyes calculating. "Your Highness needn't worry. I've prepared countermeasures."

Though now Left Chancellor, his growing influence had drawn the Emperor's suspicion. Among the princes, Samuel stood preeminent—talented, favored, the natural successor.

August, the third prince, was a good-for-nothing who bullied others under his brother's name, wallowing in drink and debauchery while neglecting governance. The sixth prince? A cunning plotter, his motives inscrutable. The seventh remained a child, content with toys in the gardens.

Thus for years, Benedict had focused his efforts on Samuel as his chosen protégé.

"Ah, so Master has everything in hand." Samuel poured tea himself, leaning back with relaxed confidence. A loose strand of hair fell across his brow; he brushed it aside absently.

"Now that August is awake, he's entitled to compete."

"Granted, he's incompetent—but Father dotes on him. That's what troubles me..."

"Your Highness, I have a plan," Benedict said lightly, snapping his folding fan open. "Prince August is nothing but a wastrel. What can he possibly do now that he's awake?"

"Not a shred of talent in letters or arms—nothing worthy of the throne."

"If we focus our efforts here, we can remove him from the running for succession."

Samuel leaned forward. "Are you referring to the Lumina Culturae in two days?"

Every year on the ninth of July, Krythoria held its grand talent selection—an event where skilled youths from every corner of the kingdom flocked to Yuxiur. This year, tensions with Vespera had moved the event up by two days, drawing an even larger crowd eager to prove their worth.

The competition had two trials: poetry and statecraft.

That useless third prince would stand there like a dumbstruck fool, stammering before the assembled nobles. Even if the Emperor tried to shield him, no one would accept a fool like August overseeing flood control. The thought made Samuel’s lips curl into a smirk.

"Masterful strategy, Teacher. With this, August ceases to be a threat. He’s always avoided the event to spare himself the humiliation—this year will be no different. Once he withdraws from the succession race, our path will be clear."

"Hahaha!"

They shared a laugh, full of satisfaction.

——

After August awoke, Theodore had wasted no time—fine wine and even finer women now sprawled before him. The prince sprawled in his chair, gaze locked ahead.

Sinuous dancers moved in translucent silks, their flowing sleeves leaving perfume in their wake. With every dip, every bend—they gave August an eyeful.

August's throat tightened as desire coiled low in his belly.

A courtesan swayed toward him with featherlight steps, deliberately tumbling into his lap with a coy giggle. "Your Highness," she purred, batting her lashes, "am I not beautiful?"

"Devastating," he growled.

His large hand found the ripe curve of her backside, kneading the warm silk of her flesh—soft, supple, utterly perfect.

The woman gasped, cheeks flushing pink as she squirmed free. August flexed his now-empty fingers, already missing the heat. *Now this*, he thought with a grin, *is how a prince ought to live—drowning in perfume and sin.*

A reedy voice like a cracked bell pierced the air:

"His Imperial Majesty arrives!"

August jerked his head up as a looming figure stormed through the arched doorway—a bear of a man clad in five-clawed golden dragons, his twin-dragon pearl crown glinting with every furious stride. The air itself seemed to thicken under his glare.

This was his father. Alaric, Emperor of Krythoria.

The man had inherited a kingdom at war—victorious in one battle, only to have Vespera's forces slither in and seize the capital. The price of surrender? Fifty thousand taels of silver annually, endless grain and horses, carts overflowing with weeping girls. Decades had bled under that humiliation.

Now, with Bountia swamped by the Yangtze's swollen banks, even those meager tributes had dwindled. The Lumina Culturae competition had been moved up, a desperate bid to rally solutions from the realm's brightest minds.

And yet—

Alaric had dropped everything, racing here the moment he heard his son had awoken. Only to find the brat already neck-deep in debauchery.

Relief soured to vinegar in his chest.

A heartbeat of silence. Then—

"You spineless cur!" the Emperor thundered. "Still the same shameless dog, I see!"