Editor 50

Divinely Bestowed Kingship (2)

The Royal Advisory Committee was held in the best-viewed conference room in the House of Lords building.

Though it shared only a wall with the crown prince’s office, the two rooms differed drastically in decor.

The walls were hung with red silk and adorned with gold, and a large table was placed at the center of the meeting room.

Along the broad sides of the oval table, there were ten committee seats per side, totaling twenty on both sides.

The twenty Royal Advisory Committee members were chosen: ten from the House of Lords, ten from the House of Commons.

According to the manuscript, this committee existed to add objectivity to the king’s one-third veto power alongside the Commons and the Lords.

‘What a strange country. Most of the taxation rights have gone to parliament, so in some ways it’s modern—but even now, the king still retains political power.’

At the narrow end of the table, at the very inside head seat, was the king’s chair, upholstered in velvet and adorned with gold lion carvings.

But Crown Prince Melchior, not yet king, sat in the chair to the right of the head seat.

Yet no one could doubt that the king’s throne was prepared for Melchior alone.

‘It really looks like a stage crafted just for Melchior.’

Led by the parliamentary attendant, Clayeo waited on the bench along the wall, prepared for temporary attendees.

The first seat on the left side of the table, the designated seat of the Speaker of the House of Commons, was soon occupied.

“Chairman Beaton, you hurried again today.”

“Hope you’ve been well, Your Highness. It is only the duty of a committee member.”

The white-haired man who leaned a cane beside his chair seemed to be Benjamin Beaton.

His plain appearance exuded an impression of uprightness and integrity.

‘That’s the politician who’s been Speaker of the Commons for sixteen years. He’s also the second son of Beaton & Co., who’ve amassed wealth over three generations in steel… and later, he’ll be one of Arthur’s supporters.’

Of course, the Speaker of the House of Commons was also privileged.

Although it sounded like the House of Commons, the 100 elected seats were mostly occupied by bourgeois upstarts.

In sheer wealth, the 100 lords in the House of Lords weren’t necessarily richer than the bourgeois who dominated the Commons.

Rents from fiefdoms were shrinking, and commercial profits were increasing. Yet since both noble and bourgeois paid similar taxes to the central government, that was a source of conflict.

While Clayeo recalled what she’d learned about Albion’s world affairs from newspapers, the meeting’s start time passed by.

The Chairman of the Royal Advisory Committee and Speaker of the House of Lords, Duke Cruel, arrived at his leisure, well past the appointed time.

Still, as soon as he arrived, he shamelessly brought up an aggressive agenda.

“The construction period for the Oreilles railway station is being extended. The funds required have risen far above original estimates. Is there really value in such investment for a railway to serve the Teflaum mine?”

Clayeo pricked up her ears to listen carefully.

‘In Albion, all products and taxes from royal land go to the royal family. Cruel doesn’t like that.’

Profits from royal land were only pocket money for the royal family—the funds weren’t politically significant, but…

‘If the continent’s only Teflaum mine becomes royal property, the balance between the royal family and the Lords gets shaken. Cruel can’t stand Melchior monopolizing the rights to that mine.’

It was obvious they were struggling to get a slice of the pie.

“Exactly right. There are still unsolved challenges to refining Teflaum, yet excessive resources from the National Railway Corporation are already being poured in.”

Like Cruel, Count Aslan Pine Ramsdale nodded his bald head in agreement.

Benjamin Beaton, with a cold expression, glared at them.

“Well, Duke Cruel. Compared to the extra defense expenditures for the Southeast Army last quarter, the wage increases due to the railway construction delays aren’t such a waste. Why do we even need steamboats that go upstream?”

“To monitor unrest among Carolingian Kingdom rebels beyond the Clotho River. You don’t know the military, yet speak carelessly.”

As Cruel and Chairman Beaton’s debate grew heated, the committee secretary at the back table hurried to keep up with the meeting minutes.

While the bickering continued, Melchior simply wore a faint smile and listened.

So-called Royal Advisory Committee, but clearly this table was a battlefield between the Lords and the Commons.

‘The manuscript said the Lords were especially powerful because King Philip had been ill for so long… Even in front of the King’s Regent, they make a mess. Tsk tsk.’

“Now, both chairmen, please calm down.”

The crown prince stood and gazed at the room. It looked casual, but his true intent was elsewhere.

A sudden surge of overwhelming force made Clayeo’s shoulders tense.

Melchior’s ‘innate skill’ began to reign over the whole chamber.

‘Promise’s “Understanding” triggered automatically.

[Innate Skill: ‘□□□’s Allure’]

[—Grants the user powerful allure. Elicits love and admiration from others.

—Imbues the user’s voice with persuasive force.

User: Melchior Rioghnan]

At the same time, Promise’s “Separation” function, which nullified others’ skills, activated at maximum.

“Promise” on Clayeo’s left index finger heated up as if it was overloaded. Clayeo had to grit her teeth not to show the pain as her hand clenched tight.

Even this seemingly almighty “Promise” had limits before Melchior’s power.

“If we can maintain the aether activation state, Teflaum will be a mineral to change Albion’s future.”

The moment Melchior spoke, every previously noisy councillor fell silent like lambs.

“Our investments so far are not at all excessive. Here are the documents from the Ministry of Mines. I’ve placed copies at each of your seats—please check them and see for yourselves.”

Though it was mere information, Melchior’s voice made his words sound as sweet as poetry.

“I see, indeed.”

Duke Cruel, who’d been sharp just moments before, sat meekly down.

He acted as deferential as a student as he studied the Ministry documents.

The twenty councillors began ruffling through their reports, obedient to Melchior’s words as if they were the words of God.

Only Clayeo, sweating against the wall, properly understood what was happening.

‘No joke. With a skill like that, who could resist his persuasion?’

She’d thought as much before—if this weren’t a monarchy, if there were radio or television broadcasts here, no one could ever challenge Melchior’s power.

He wouldn’t even need to worry about the throne—he could become the nation’s elected leader.

‘…Or a dictator.’

At the start of the meeting, Count Cruel was determined to trip up Melchior, but ended up closing with, “Indeed, His Highness Crown Prince Melchior has an excellent plan.”

Those who faced Melchior so easily lost their senses and failed to assert their own wills.

Clayeo’s heart shrank with fear at the terrifying power the crown prince wielded.

‘Knowing his skill doesn’t work on me, is he showing this display as intimidation? Or probing for my true identity? In any case, Melchior’s deviousness almost matches Aslan’s. Sigh.’

After the meeting ended, the secretary spoke up.

“Next, we’ll have testimony from magician Clayeo Asser, who recently defeated a monster. This is reference testimony for security measures at Mnemosyne’s Gate.”

Clayeo shuffled forward to the table.

With the councillors addled, only the secretary faithfully transcribed her account of how great and threatening the monster had been.

When the testimony was done, she headed on foot for the ‘Hall of Kings’ to be awarded her medal.

A royal attendant offered to escort Clayeo, but the crown prince waved him off and volunteered to do it himself.

Morose-faced, Clayeo couldn’t refuse and followed awkwardly behind the crown prince.

The palace and parliament were connected by a long corridor.

The crown prince apparently often traveled on foot, greeting every official, clerk, and secretary he passed by name.

“Miss Emily, thank you for your hard work today as always.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Clayeo, following behind, triggered “Understanding” out of suspicion.

Amazingly, it wasn’t a skill at all. Melchior really had memorized the names of even the youngest stenographers.

‘He has an incredible memory. As a swordsman, his aether is level four, right? Really, he’s the real deal.’

If not for “that event” in the last draft, Melchior would have become a great monarch.

‘But the author doesn’t choose Melchior.’

Jeongjin had never believed in a god in her previous world, but she knew this world held a real god. The one who declared every word, the author who created the world with text.

So here, to be the protagonist of the narrative was to be chosen by god. Such a fate had a force that surpassed all logic and reason.

‘Be they hero or villain, the world exists to fulfill that main character’s fate.’

In , Melchior’s role was to give up the succession and disappear.

No other interpretation or reading of this scenario was allowed; the foundational text of this world was not to be rewritten by a reader.

Seeing Melchior’s excessive charisma and overpowered “innate skill,” Clayeo’s mind grew turbulent.

After living through eight lives as the same character, did knowing who he really was or where he came from even matter?

Aside from meta questions, even as just a fictional character, Melchior was a problem.

‘Having developed such complexity over eight cycles, will this character really exit as the author intends? Even if he does, will it happen the way the author wants?’

It didn’t seem likely.

And it seemed it would be Clayeo’s fate to clean up the mess.

A deep sigh slipped out of her.

He even seemed suspicious rather than friendly toward her, so the road ahead felt anything but smooth.

“Clayeo?”

“Ah, yes! Your Highness!”

“Are you not fully recovered, or are you tired?”

“No….”

“I thought we might pause since your steps were slowing.”

“Not at all! The medal ceremony has a set time; how could I be late?”

“Don’t take it so seriously. For someone Arthur’s age, you really talk like a seasoned minister.”

“…I hear that a lot.”

To any observer, she must have looked like a prince speaking gently to a boy hero. But beneath that smile lay nothing but persistent scrutiny.

Even though she hadn’t shut off “Separation” for a moment, her head felt as if it were pried open alive, giving her goosebumps.

‘Why is this hallway so long?’

The awkward walk finally ended.

At least, instead of the usual entrance, Melchior used an inner passage to shorten the distance, as he explained.

The “Hall of Kings,” where the coronation of the Rioghnan royal family took place, was not at all as grand as Clayeo had imagined.

The oldest part of Albion’s palace, the floor worn by centuries of footsteps, the wall’s bas-reliefs crumbling with age.

It was here that Arthur’s hardship began years ago.

Here, the boy once claimed his right to the crown, and here would someday end.

Having read the manuscript so many times, Clayeo almost felt sentimental about the Hall of Kings described near the end of the story.

“First time seeing the Hall of Kings?”

“Yes.”

“How is it?”

“Uh, it’s… simpler than I thought.”

“Haha, since it’s a coronation site, people imagine something more grand. Even now, no photographers or illustrators are allowed here. Do you know why?”

“Because it’s holy ground where the tomb of Leonid I the Conqueror lies.”

“Indeed. I heard you’re an outstanding student. Seems you know history well.”

Like an older brother praising a cherished sibling, Melchior gently patted Clayeo’s back. It felt like being jabbed with an icicle, making all her hair stand on end.

‘No, it’s just that I had to read the manuscript thoroughly to survive… Whatever. Why explain?’

The royal usher came to Clayeo’s rescue as she wiped cold sweat.

“Your Highness Crown Prince, Magician Clayeo Asser. The award ceremony is ready. Magician, please step to the front of the dais and stand on the spot marked with black stone as I instruct you.”