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Chapter 43
The royal court was in far more disarray than Windsor had anticipated. He clicked his tongue in disbelief.
“Looks like they’ve all cozied up to Babylon.”
“The Prime Minister leads the political council, but Babylon is the Chancellor. There’s no way the two haven’t colluded. Otherwise, how could they so blatantly ignore the Duke’s authority?”
Urn clenched his fists and fumed, as if he were the one being wronged.
To disregard a high noble like Duke Douglas to this extent… Did Babylon truly believe they had seized the reins of a new world?
Those now rallying behind Babylon were mostly nouveau riche, bourgeois types who had bought their titles with money.
Titles were just names now—money reigned supreme. But to barge in headfirst against Douglas, who held not only a title but unmatched wealth? That was either the height of foolishness or the ignorance of someone completely out of touch with noble society. Either way, Urn clicked his tongue along with Windsor, baffled by their stupidity.
“Either they’ve lost their minds, or they’re begging for a swift death. One or the other,” Windsor said with a lazy drawl.
Despite being silenced by the orchestrated maneuvering of Babylon’s puppets, Windsor’s expression remained calm, even amused. A predator’s smirk, right before the hunt begins.
Urn shuddered.
He was genuinely relieved that Windsor was on their side.
“What happened with the issue regarding Marquis Damian?” he asked.
“There’ll be a public trial in four days. In the royal court.”
“…And the judge is probably a Babylon man too. No doubt the bribery’s already done. Just look at how quickly they’ve seized the palace. And what about Derek, Babylon’s second son? Did you see him at the council—acting like he was already king? Coolly observing everything and then tying up loose ends with that smug final word. Did you see him? He reeked of royalty!”
Urn beat his chest in exasperation.
But unlike Urn’s flustered state, Windsor remained perfectly composed.
“Yes. We’ll keep him in mind as well. Add him to the list of people we’ll be sweeping out.”
“That’s all? Don’t you have something more practical or realistic in mind?”
Urn was struggling to understand Windsor’s constant air of ease.
Though Douglas wielded unmatched prestige and confidence in Nesheld, the monarchy itself ran on the pulse of public opinion.
“The tyrannical, indulgent queen is dead.”
If the people, already weary from the former king’s reign, welcomed the princess’s fiancé as regent with open arms… well, that would explain it.
Why? Because Babylon had seized control of the narrative.
Or more accurately, they were expertly tapping into the kingdom’s growing discontent.
Urn analyzed the situation coldly.
Douglas’s influence was considerable, but reclaiming control over the public’s mind—already ensnared by Babylon’s rhetoric—was going to be no easy task.
Windsor, who had been deep in thought, finally spoke.
“Nesheld…”
There was barely any shift in his expression. Whatever he had concluded, he gave no sign of it.
“This kingdom is already rotten to its core—a crumbling empire. Compared to other empires, its territory is tiny. So how do you think it’s managed to stay strong all these years? With such limited manpower, it couldn’t have built a strong military, could it?”
“That’s obvious. Ask any five-year-old on the street, and they’ll give you the right answer,” Urn snorted. “Because Nesheld has the purse strings.”
“What purse strings?” Windsor asked idly, as if genuinely curious.
“Don’t play dumb. The never-empty magical wallet—your capital, of course. The Douglas family! We’re the ones famous for buying up every bank share in foreign nations. We own the financial sector.”
Urn’s voice swelled with pride.
Windsor let out a soft chuckle and nodded in agreement.
“A purse, huh? A fitting metaphor.”
“Exactly. Nothing else gets the point across so bluntly and accurately.”
‘A magical wallet,’ Windsor mused to himself, arms crossed, chin tilted upward arrogantly.
“Well, yes. That’s the answer. Nesheld doesn’t survive because of its monarchy—but because of Douglas’s capital. The royal vaults may be full of cobwebs, but Nesheld itself hasn’t fallen yet. Only the monarchy has.”
“Why bring this up now?” Urn asked, frowning. He had asked for a practical countermeasure—so why was Windsor boasting about Douglas’s wealth?
Amused by Urn’s reaction, Windsor shrugged nonchalantly.
“Because I’m thinking of doing a bit of a… money splurge.”
His tone was casual—too casual. Urn almost didn’t catch the meaning.
“…A splurge?”
Windsor’s brow twitched, clearly not fond of repeating himself. He wiggled his fingers impatiently.
“A money splurge. Loud, chaotic, excessive—enough to make people wonder what the hell I was thinking. I want headlines so big they need a front page of their own.”
“You’re insane… you’ve gone insane!”
“No. I’m perfectly sane.”
He crossed his legs, composed and calm as ever—like he was asking about the neighbor’s dog.
Urn was on the verge of fainting.
“Shouldn’t you be kicking out that pretentious brat pretending to be the regent—without the princess’s permission, I might add—instead of throwing around money like this?! If the monarchy collapses just because it’s broke—then what? Sure, Douglas will be fine, but the people need a crown. The nobles who bought national bonds—what about them? This will cause chaos!”
Urn clutched the back of his neck in agony, having quickly deciphered Windsor’s dangerous plan.
But Windsor was unfazed. If anything, he looked even more relaxed—his face drawn in a graceful curve of amusement.
“Who do you think doesn’t know that?”
“Then why—”
“Because I will sort it all out. Starting with Marquis Damian.”
His eyes curled into sly crescent moons.
Urn groaned instinctively. He could already feel the storm coming.
Douglas unleashing its capital… that wasn’t just a domestic ripple. It would spark a tsunami across the financial sectors of every empire where Douglas held shares—including entire neighboring kingdoms.
The bloodhounds who sniff out money will come running.
Even the bourgeois who hadn’t yet sided with Babylon.
Just as Urn fell silent, deep in thought, Windsor changed the subject.
“Ah, and that maid—what was her name? Bellie? I heard she used to be close to the princess.”
“A maid?” Urn frowned slightly.
Windsor gazed out at the changing scenery from the carriage, the crimson sunset swallowing the sky.
So it’s already this late, he murmured to himself, before tossing a command over his shoulder.
“Bring her to Douglas. It’s always better to have at least one familiar face in a strange place. Do it soon.”
That was the reason he had spared the maid who had eavesdropped on a state meeting.
Had she not been the princess’s personal maid, she would’ve already been eliminated like a common rat.
But since her loyalty to the princess seemed sincere, Windsor had decided to let her live—and even assign her a post.
If she cares that much for Erné, then better to keep her serving Erné.
He had no idea what chaos this single act would bring.
For now, he was simply excited at the thought of being praised by Erné.
“You’re back?”
The moment Windsor stepped down from the carriage, he froze, dumbfounded.
The sun had not yet fully set. Erné stood with the last rays of the crimson sky haloing her figure like a divine glow.
An angel…? No…
Windsor’s eyes widened, gaze locked on her.
He couldn’t look away. His usual detachment vanished, and he stood transfixed.
Erné’s heart skipped a beat at the uncharacteristic look on his face.
“Did something happen at the palace? Your expression… it doesn’t look good. Don’t tell me something happened to your father?”
Windsor startled out of his trance, realizing how his reaction might worry her. He waved his hands in denial and buried his face in them.
She let out a light sigh, her petite frame shifting slightly—but Windsor barely registered it.
“Windsor? Are you alright?”
Even as she called out, he couldn’t bring himself to lift his head.
As Erné took cautious steps toward him, Windsor instinctively stepped back.
“Are you sick? Let me see your face for a moment—”
Feeling like he was avoiding her, Erné reached out hesitantly, her worry deepening.
Unable to evade her any longer, Windsor abruptly raised his head.
His face was fully revealed—and Erné was struck speechless.
“It’s not that,” he mumbled. “It’s just that…”
She understood. Erné wasn’t a fool.
His face, now flushed as red as a ripe tomato, betrayed everything. He couldn’t string a proper sentence together.
“…It’s because I’m happy. That’s all.”
The honest confession tumbled from his lips.
Erné froze.
Windsor’s entire face, even his ears, was scarlet with embarrassment.
Why am I getting embarrassed, too?
She bit her lip to suppress the fluttering in her chest.
Still unaware of her reaction, Windsor rushed to explain himself, terrified she’d think he’d been avoiding her on purpose.
“It was just… strange. Being greeted like this by both you and Shuknen. I didn’t expect it. I never realized how happy it could make me—being welcomed like this.”
He smiled brightly.
And he truly looked happy.
