The Villainous Male Supporting Character Courts Death Every Day : Chapter 38

The wind was gentle and the sun was bright, the sky clear for miles.

On the square before the main gate of the royal palace, horns blared in unison, the music grand and powerful. A hundred members of the royal military band stood ramrod straight, their white uniforms decorated with gold thread and tassels, glittering brilliantly in the sunlight, magnificent and solemn.

The silver drums were painted with the imperial crest, and every strike made the square echo with thunderous resonance. The trombones raised high, the horns dazzling with golden light, the flood of music enveloped the entire venue in imperial order and glory.

In the viewing stands, red velvet seats were lined up in rows, and the nobles sat with dignified grace. Zabert, dressed in full ceremonial attire, raised his arm and spoke with vigor from the high platform, his movements crisp and elegant, his voice high yet maintaining his poise:

“Snowbrown shall no longer lie barren! Mothers in the blizzards shall weep no more! Children driven from their homes shall suffer no more from hunger and cold!” The old gentleman swept his arm across, as if brushing away unseen gloom.

Among the viewing stands, the ladies held feather fans and swayed them gently, the jewels on their wide-brimmed hats sparkling, brilliant and eye-catching.

“They shall stand on their own two feet and be self-sufficient. Men shall no longer resort to violence; they shall mine and farm, working hard and diligently. Women shall weave and craft, children shall attend school and grow up healthy, becoming vital forces of the empire.” His lips moved exaggeratedly, opening and closing, spittle flying.

Several gentlemen who looked like guild representatives maintained calm expressions, their hands resting on exquisitely carved walking sticks, rubbing them slightly, their gazes sharp and shrewd.

“They are, like us, parents and children, subjects of the empire, humble sons under the protection of the Platinum Light.” Zabert placed his hand over his heart, his expression compassionate, then suddenly raised his hand in a fist, his tone impassioned: “They shall break free from savage strife and learn order and discipline. They shall cast off ignorance and learn diligence and honor!”

A row of officers in splendid uniforms stood with straight backs, expressions haughty, as if representing discipline and honor, models of civilized order.

Zabert suddenly spread his arms wide, raising them to the sky, looking up at the blue heavens, as if bathing in the sunlight, his voice like thunder: “The dark wasteland shall finally be illuminated by the Platinum Light.”

Thunderous applause filled the venue, and the military music swelled once more.

Amid the surging music and applause, Prince Lucian walked forward slowly, his platinum hair flowing in the sunlight, as if holy light were scattering upon the earth. Wherever his steps fell, heaven and earth seemed to shine with new brilliance. The nobles all rose to pay their respects, applause surging like a tide, continuous and overwhelming.

A pair of young children, a boy and a girl, came forward bearing flowers. Their skin was iron black, their royal capital attire splendid, like a pair of exquisite dolls from a foreign land, representing the North in offering sincere respect.

The prince leaned down slightly, as if he could not hear the thunderous applause echoing around him, smiling as he spoke to the children. His expression was kind, his platinum eyes full of gentleness and care. When he accepted the bouquet, he even leaned down graciously to smell the flowers.

The applause did not cease. The prince walked slowly toward the long table prepared at the front of the stage, where the association and major representatives were already waiting respectfully. After the prince took his seat, the applause gradually subsided, and the audience settled back into their seats.

The table was covered in deep red velvet, the official scroll placed upon a gilded stand, held down by an imperial crest paperweight, like a solemn painting. Two attendants stood by the table, their movements perfectly synchronized.

A servant presented a gilded quill pen. Lucian’s face still wore a kind and peaceful smile as he gracefully and smoothly laid down an elegant signature.

The moment the ink was dry, an attendant immediately brought the great seal and wax. Platinum wax dripped down, sparkling like stars. The prince took up the gilded great seal, paused for a moment, then pressed it down steadily. The platinum crest emerged brilliantly, a halo rippling outward, like holy light.

Zabert stood attending at his side. He extended both hands and carefully lifted the official scroll, his fingers trembling, as if he were holding gospel sent from heaven. Then he raised it high to show the crowd:

“Thanks to the benevolence of Her Majesty the Queen, thanks to the wisdom of His Highness Lucian. Mother and son share the same virtue, high and low united as one. From this day forth, the glory of the empire shall shine upon every piece of land.”

Zabert’s voice was impassioned, his eyes welling with tears: “The Lucian Plan is officially launched!”

As his words fell, like a conductor’s baton rising, the military drums thundered. Applause erupted once more. Excited people began to shout:

“Platinum Light! Osei shines forever!”

“Mother and son share the same virtue! High and low united as one!”

The voices were scattered and overlapping, mixing together in noisy chaos. Amid the confusion, from somewhere came a heaven-shaking roar that sliced through the clamor:

“The North is not worthy!”

That voice was deep and rich, sharp as a knife, carrying thunderous anger, piercing through the surging waves, tearing through the sky, echoing endlessly across the square. For a moment, the scene froze, the noise abruptly stopped, the whole venue holding its breath, looking around in all directions.

Zabert’s face went pale. Just as he was about to speak, the prince raised his hand first, his tone leisurely, like clear water flowing:

“No subject of the empire is unworthy. If anyone is unworthy, it is the empire itself.” Lucian’s eyelids lifted halfway, his platinum gaze like morning light piercing through clouds: “The empire’s responsibility is beyond question. Since I am here, the empire is here.”

As his words fell, the clock tower suddenly rang out, echoing across the heavens, startling flocks of white pigeons into flight. Snow-white wings surged and churned, covering the sky, exactly like holy light descending gracefully. The clouds parted, and a ray of sunlight fell, illuminating the prince’s shoulder.

In an instant, as if guided by divine will, the crowd rose to their feet, applauding fiercely, the sound piercing the clouds. Thousands upon thousands of hands formed an overwhelming flood, layer upon layer, like waves continuously crashing against stone shores, without gaps, without pause.

From front to back, every corner of the square, from nobles to servants, without exception, without omission. Some were red-faced and ears burning, speaking with passionate fervor. Some were expressionless, calm and composed. Some looked around in all directions, as if observing, or like drifting spray following the current. All manner of forms, they created the wave while also drowning in this surging tide.

The people shouted Lucian’s name, cried out for the Lucian Plan, the compassionate, the profit-seekers, the fanatics, the bystanders, all converging like rivers pouring into the sea into a resounding rhythm:

“Lucian! Lucian!”

“Lucian! Lucian!”

The wave of sound spread rapidly, like sparks falling into dry hay, swallowing up all the scattered chaos, becoming a uniform chant as orderly as an army, as if carving these three characters into the sky, illuminating the earth.

Lucian stood quietly on the platform, waving with a calm expression. Applause and chants thundered and intertwined, his platinum eyes shining in the sunlight. He calmly accepted the adoration of thousands, as if his heart held the nation and home, unconcerned with the crowd’s admiration. Or like a saint who saves the world, unmoved by honor or disgrace amid the noisy clamor.

The duke sat motionless, submerged in a wave of fanatical sound. His hands still clapped, but his movements were restrained and measured, his expression gloomy.

That final chant made him vaguely uneasy. He did not know whether this incident was related to the queen’s absence, whether it was a pure accident or had been arranged long in advance.

His gaze passed over the boiling crowd, and the duke looked at the queen’s empty red velvet chair. Beside the chair sat a lady-in-waiting representing the queen. At this moment, her eyelids were lowered, her hands folded upon her lap, her posture dignified and indifferent, as if she had nothing to do with this grand ceremony.

In the dark mass of people, Ryan smiled warmly, applauding along with the sound. He who should have been the sole winning bidder now sat merely as one of the contracting manufacturers among the merchant guild representatives.

The Lucian Plan was actually the original Northern support plan, but with Prince Lucian’s name attached, the entire scale and scope became completely different.

More dazzling and brilliant, more plump and juicy, and more dangerously eye-catching.

Many projects were divided into separate contracts. Shelters and orphanages were undertaken by the monasteries of the temple. Medical stations were undertaken by the Royal Medical Academy. Other crafts, transportation, and livelihood projects were also assigned to various major guilds and associations, all of them old and respected establishments with close ties to the royal family.

The infrastructure for supply roads to the North was also changed from the originally most efficient water and land transport to more visible all-land transport. Winding through countless towns large and small to reach the North, the momentum was grand, even encompassing projects like the “Platinum Great Bridge” and “Lucian Boulevard.”

These had all exceeded Ryan’s familiar paths and scope. He could not bid for them, nor was it his turn to bid.

Perhaps Prince Lucian only wanted the fame of having his name widely known, but the pack of wolves and tigers behind him were not vegetarians either. Being left with even a bit of meat scraps would be an act of mercy.

But fortunately, the raw ore project was still in his hands.

Now the entire team had moved to a shipyard located on a lake island, some distance from both the royal capital and the North, sparsely populated, with strict entry and exit controls.

Andre and a group of researchers were focused on ice iron refining within it, and Valke had also rolled onto the island, actively participating in the forging project.

It was not that he had any prejudice against Valke. Those were Kyle’s exact words in his letter.

“Get him on the island. Get him out of the royal capital.” The brushstrokes even carried the sharp cut of ice, the ink shining black upon the paper.

Although he did not know what mess Valke had stirred up, it happened to let everything fall into order amid the chaos.

Ryan still smiled. His heart was clear as a mirror. Compared to those glamorous and visible projects, the only thing that could truly let him cross the chasm was ice iron.

That name, he and Andre had personally delivered before Kyle. They had smelled the fire and ignited the spark. Once the ice iron was refined, wealth and privilege could be set aside. They would become a force that the empire could not ignore.

A flash of fanaticism crossed his warm smile, his hands clapping faster and louder, every clap seeming to praise himself. He knew that the Lucian Plan was the prince’s glory, but ice iron was their future.

In a corner to one side of the high platform, a tall man wearing a monocle stood in the shadows, his palms clapping steadily and slowly, as regular as a pendulum. His gaze swept over every noble, gentleman, celebrity, the prince, the duke, the lady-in-waiting, Zabert, Ryan…

He was the current executive director of the association, Benjamin. He had been poached by Kyle from the Ministry of Commerce to come to the Music Association, knowing there would be big business, but never expecting it to be this big.

His long experience in the official system let him sensitively catch a whiff of restlessness. In the wrestling of power and tactics, undercurrents surging was the norm, but restlessness represented changes beyond expectations.

This made him rather worried, because in this plan, Zabert was the stormy wave, Ryan was the undercurrent, and he was the anchor stone. He did not need to shout loudly or show off, because Kyle had left him with only one mission:

Ensure everything stays under control.

Reflected in his lens were the restless crowd, their cries thunderous. Benjamin was expressionless, but his forehead ached faintly. For the first time, he had the feeling of having boarded a pirate ship by mistake, and this ship was sailing toward an unknown loss of control.

In the practice field, long swords clashed, sparks flying. Kyle moved with steady form, his swordplay crisp, trading blows back and forth with his opponent. To onlookers, he was clearly the superior fighter.

His opponent, however, was drenched in sweat, his breathing chaotic. Only he knew in his heart that Butler Kyle was mountains above him. Every attack he made was predicted and pressed down with a single sword stroke. Every dodge was perilously close. Every exchange felt like chopping at a boulder, his arms going numb from the vibration, his tiger’s mouth tingling.

Kyle did not rush or chase, only advancing step by step within a measured rhythm, as if preserving the guard captain’s dignity, or like a cat playing with a mouse, completely at ease.

The guard captain’s swordplay gradually fell apart, his steps staggering. Just as he was about to open his mouth to concede, Kyle sheathed his sword and withdrew first, his tone steady: “Wait a moment.”

He saw that a servant had been waiting nearby at some point. The guard captain let out a huge sigh of relief and drove away all the onlookers who had gathered to watch the excitement.

Kyle casually wiped his sweat, turned and walked into the rest room at the edge of the field. The servant followed him in, presented a letter, then bowed and withdrew.

Kyle unfolded the letter. After reading Benjamin’s report, he casually touched the paper to a candle flame and dropped it into the incense burner.

The final chant was actually not the “Platinum Light” that had been set for the plan?

Watching the sparks dance, Kyle fell into quiet thought. He understood Benjamin’s worry. The young prince was too impulsive, very likely to stir up unnecessary political storms.

From the prince’s perspective, he probably believed that the queen had broken the political balance first, buying people’s hearts, and she had even moved the royal foundation’s funds. He was simply returning the courtesy.

Originally, the Northern matter had been started by the queen. Whatever the prince did was following the queen’s path. Whatever dissatisfaction the queen’s faction had, they had to swallow it like a mute eating bitter melon. Only this plan reached deep and wide, and if the start was not good, the aftermath would be even more turbulent.

The banner of “Platinum Light,” though it struck hard at the queen’s weak point, the queen could not say anything against the legitimacy of the royal bloodline. Moreover, behind this slogan was also the conservative faction of the temple and academy.

But now it had become Prince Lucian’s personal show, which was very abrupt. Was it venting dissatisfaction? Or a political declaration of war? How many chips did the prince have to give him the confidence to pull this off?

Whichever it was, the association had probably become the frontline battlefield of the mother-son power struggle, a piece that could catch fire and burn itself to ashes at any moment.

From the association’s standpoint, at least the queen had given money. Prince Lucian only moved his mouth and took the whole bowl away, bringing a heap of attention and risk with it.

The association had long been sponsored by the queen and had plenty of room to maneuver with the queen’s faction, but he, Kyle, could not. The prince held a short knife to his neck, ready to cut his connection to the young master at any moment.

Kyle’s eyes narrowed slightly. The firelight in his black pupils shifted from red to blue, then suddenly flared bright before extinguishing, leaving only a wisp of white smoke rising quietly.

He smiled with sudden understanding. No wonder the prince was jumping about so joyfully. From the prince’s perspective, it’s all about using your people to do your things. Whatever happened, he lost nothing.

He lifted the incense burner and gave it a light shake. Ash scattered, blending with the old ash as one.

“Got careless…” Kyle wiped the sweat from his forehead, raised his sword and walked back to the practice field, his gaze dark and fierce, yet the corner of his mouth turned upward, carrying an unfathomable curve.

The guard captain saw Kyle walking over with a normal expression from afar, his heart skipping a beat. He hurriedly put on a stern face and shouted to those around him: “Come, come, all of you, come spar with Butler Kyle!”