Chapter 7 Why Do These Damned Commoners Keep Scheming Against Your Boy?
1157 Words
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the hall—their logic seemed watertight.
August's reputation as an infamous good-for-nothing preceded him. That masterpiece of a poem? No way it came from his own head.
He must've cheated—there's no other way!
"Your Majesty, Minister Cranmer's words ring true. This humble official finds it deeply puzzling!"
"Your Majesty, if every candidate cheats like the third prince, what purpose does the Lumina Culturae serve in selecting talent?"
"This humble official concurs!"
"As does this one!"
The throne room erupted in hushed debates, sleeves rustling as officials knelt in clusters.
One heartbeat, Alaric had been dazzled by August's unexpected brilliance—the next, his mood curdled as the court's venomous accusations poured forth.
How dare they accuse his boy of cheating?!
Had they learned nothing about August?!
The lad wouldn't recognize a poetry manual if it hit him, and the throne interested him less than a night at the tavern—why in hell would he cheat?!
These ministers loved wagging their treacherous tongues.
His imperial gaze turned glacial as it swept over them. A subtle flick summoned the aged eunuch lurking behind his throne.
"Root out which snakes belong to which nest."
Beyond August, two others schemed for the crown prince's seat—Samuel, the second prince, and Andy, the sixth.
Their daggers had been drawn in secret for years.
Alaric had pretended not to notice—until now. But their poisonous influence had seeped into the court's very marrow.
Let them overstep—and learn why his mercy had limits.
Why did he favor August?
True, the boy raised hell wherever he went, but his heart remained untainted. Power held less appeal to him than cheap wine. Yet after that "accident" left him floating half-dead in the palace moat, suspicion coiled like a viper in Alaric's gut.
August was guarded by elite Havenward Guards—how could he have possibly "slipped into the lake"? The emperor's own throne had been forged in bloodshed, claimed through brutal fratricide. He vowed such c*****e would never plague his sons.
"Understood!" The old eunuch's hawk-like eyes swept across the assembly, scrutinizing each official like a falcon spotting prey. Decades at court had taught him—aside from August—every soul here schemed.
The Lumina Culturae was more than a poetry contest—it was the battleground for succession. Should August fail today, the crown prince race would narrow to two: Samuel, the second prince with his silver tongue and polished smiles, and Andy, the sixth prince who wove schemes like a spider. Though neither held the emperor's favor, both were formidable. The seventh prince? Still a child, irrelevant to this game of thrones.
August lounged carelessly, *crunch*ing into a sun-ripened apple, juice bursting with each crisp bite. The uproar over *Thoughts on a Quiet Night* made his lip twitch. *By the ancestors, has Krythoria gone so starved for decent verse they're frothing over this?* An entire court now ganged up on the emperor, who sat stiffly on the throne, caught between authority and helplessness.
Not that he blamed them—his past self had been the court-wide laughingstock: a good-for-nothing wastrel who'd slithered worms into his tutors' tea. August dragged a hand down his face at the memory.
Then—a voice like rolling thunder cut through the murmurs.
A man in a robe as dark as spilled ink rose to his feet, offering a respectful bow of his hands. This was one of the examiners, Rafael, a distinguished academician who had achieved the esteemed jinshi rank just last year. Rumor had it he was a staunch neutral—pledging fealty to neither the third prince nor the sixth prince. An unyielding figure indeed!
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice measured, "since opinions are divided, perhaps we should hear directly from the third prince himself."
August's lips curled into a faint smirk. Well, well! So this man was playing peacemaker now? Even the Emperor had found this situation thorny, yet Rafael had thrust the dilemma squarely onto August. Sure enough, the next moment, Emperor Alaric's voice boomed across the hall.
"August!"
Fine. If they wanted a spectacle, he’d give them one. These schemers thought they could frame him? Let them dare try.
"Father," August said, voice steady, "I have a proposal. Since my answers have raised doubts, why not have you personally set a new challenge? I’ll compose a response on the spot. That should silence any objections, yes?" He paused deliberately, then turned his gaze to Gavin, his eyes sharp as daggers. "And you, Mr. Cranmer—mark my words well."
This so-called chief examiner was nothing more than Samuel’s lackey. The moment the competition began, he’d tried to smear August’s name. Well, this time, August would teach him a lesson—one that would diminish Samuel's standing too. Otherwise, they’d keep thinking he was some easily cowed weakling.
"You—" Gavin’s finger trembled as he pointed, his lips quivering. He drew a shuddering breath before speaking. "Very well, Your Highness. If you insist, I shall observe most attentively. But if you fail to claim the top honor, you must honor your word."
"And if I win," August countered without hesitation, "you’ll resign as chief examiner and retire to the countryside."
Faced with such audacious provocation, August wasn’t about to grant him quarter. His rejoinder came swift as an arrow, his tone icy. A heartbeat passed.
"Deal."
At this point, Gavin cast aside years of bureaucratic decorum. The third prince's defeat seemed inevitable—a perfect chance for him to earn favor. If Andy secured the crown prince position, the rewards would far outweigh any temporary losses. He knew when to sacrifice small gains for bigger rewards.
Their voices carried across the hall, sharp and unmistakable. "That fool August dares challenge the chief examiner? He's doomed!" one official sneered.
"Cross Mr. Cranmer, and you'll pay dearly!" another mocked.
Whispers spread like wildfire. "Did you hear? The third prince once 'displayed' his poetic genius at an inn with this gem: 'Fair maiden so fair, skin white and rare; Pretty lass so bright, she'd dazzle hounds with sight!'"
Laughter erupted. "Hah! And he thinks he can compete at the Lumina Culturae? This is like waving a blade before a master swordsman—pure farce!"
Amid the jeers, August stood impassive, waiting for Alaric's judgment.
The emperor's eyes narrowed. This brat became ever more audacious! "Thoughts on a Quiet Night" had already defied expectations—yet here he was, demanding to compose on the spot before the entire court? Did he crave more humiliation?
Alaric couldn't grasp how his son had suddenly produced such brilliance, yet a thread of anticipation stirred within him. What trick did August have up his sleeve? How would he salvage the imperial dignity at this critical hour?
"Very well," Alaric's voice boomed. "Guards! Place the third prince's desk three paces from my throne. Let the trial begin."
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