—————————————————————–
Translated By Arcane Translations
Translator: Cyno
—————————————————————–
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
Staring at the grimy ceiling of the underground prison, I let out a long sigh. The weight of the world felt crushing. Humanity’s future could sort itself out, but my current predicament was far more pressing.
Of course, if I groveled before Father, I could be released in an instant. But what self-respecting man would admit fault when he’d done nothing wrong? Absolutely not.
Yet I couldn’t stay here forever. With barely two weeks left until Saint Proxia Day, lingering in this cell would mean losing my chance to reunite with Yozo forever.
The Hall of Divinity, where Yozo was enshrined, only opened for three days a year—including Saint Proxia Day—sealed by divine magic the rest of the time.
Sure, I could try next year, but that was too risky. I later learned that most divine weapons—aside from the Seven Sacred Arms—chose their wielders through selective randomness. Yozo might pick some random fool instead of me.
“Fine. Only one option left, then. If nothing else works, what choice do I have? Exactly.”
A wicked grin spread across my face.
The solution was simple: escape. Some might ask how a prisoner could possibly flee, but who did they think I was? Yan Sergio Karl—master of survival, king of escapes.
If I put my mind to it, this prison was nothing.
‘Gotta move fast. Time’s running out.’
With two weeks until Saint Proxia Day and a month’s journey to the temple on foot, I’d need at least a week to make it—and that’s without accounting for the manhunt.
And of course, I couldn’t use the magic portals. The moment I escaped, my description would be plastered everywhere.
Damn this noble blood—useless when needed, a burden when least convenient.
‘Which route, then? The Dwain Mountains, probably.’
The Dwain Mountains, east of Karl Duchy, formed part of the border with the rogue state of Caligo—home to dark elves, bloodkin, and werewolves. The terrain was treacherous and sparsely populated.
Sure, monsters lurked there, but at least I wouldn’t have to duge patrols or checkpoints.
‘Just cross the northern tributary of the Rumenox River, and the temple’s within reach. Perfect.’
I stood up and “accidentally” kicked over the chamber pot. With the plan set, all that remained was breaking out.
“Excuse me, Count?”
Count Maier approached.
“What is it?”
“I really need to go, but the pot’s broken.”
He frowned at the shattered pieces between the bars.
“I’ll have a new one brought.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Hold it in.”
“And if I soil myself? Will you take responsibility for my humiliation?”
“That’s—”
“If I shit my pants, everyone here dies. The future Archduke, a pants-pisser? Unthinkable. I’ll silence every witness.”
The guards shot desperate looks at Maier. They knew I’d do it.
With a sigh, he unlocked the cell.
“I’ll escort you to the latrine. Follow me.”
Two guards flanked me, gripping my arms. Pointless.
Playing along, I walked the dungeon corridor until I spotted the iron-barred exit. Then—I grabbed the nearest guard and slammed him down.
“Ghk—!”
The other guard instinctively reached for his sword.
“Oh? Drawing steel on me?”
He froze. Raising a blade against his future lord was suicide—especially against me.
But Maier wasn’t so hesitant.
“Your Grace! What are you doing?!”
Ugh, no flexibility at all.
I snatched a sword from a guard’s sheath and parried Maier’s strike. Though a mid-tier Master, his half-hearted attack was easy to deflect.
Not that a real fight would’ve deterred me.
I was a battle-hardened survivalist. Even outclassed, I wouldn’t fall easily.
After trading blows, I shoved Maier back and bolted for the exit.
The gate guards leveled their spears, but Maier’s shout backfired:
“The Archduke’s heir is escaping! Stop him!”
At the word “heir,” their spear tips drooped visibly.
“Move!”
I channeled an aura blade—a technique only 150 people on the continent could wield—and shattered the gate in one swing.
“Y-Your Grace…?”
Maier froze in shock. The guards had fled, but he’d seen it—my aura blade. No wonder he’d struggled earlier. Despite the gap in skill, I’d held my own.
Waving, I slipped through the wreckage.
“Bye-bye, Count.”
Infusing my legs with mana, I sprinted up the stairs. A few guards hesitated, but my roar scattered them:
“I am Yan of House Karl! Anyone in my way dies! If not now, then when I return!”
Horton Prison was famed for its security, but my escape went smoothly. At the sound of my name, soldiers and knights alike scrambled aside. Soon, I burst through the main gates.
“Freedom!”
“Your Grace!”
But freedom was short-lived. Maier was hot on my heels.
Leaning forward, I kicked off the ground—using an assassin’s technique blended with my survival footwork. Few in the world could outrun me. Putting distance between us, I raced for the southern gate.
The towering southern walls loomed under the crimson sunset. Though crowded, the foot traffic hindered Maier as much as me. Weaving through pedestrians, I neared the gate—
‘Huh? That bastard Donovan.’
Donovan, the knight guarding the gate, was a prodigy—already an upper-tier Expert in his late twenties. I’d spent years bribing him with gifts and favors, only for him to betray me first when the capital fell, taking half my retainers with him.
Because of him, only a dozen—including Helen and Josef—remained when I reached Tyben’s lands.
“Hey! Donovan, you bastard!”
He dismounted and knelt.
“Your Grace! You’ve… come out?”
The picture of loyalty. How had I fallen for this act?
Using his head as a springboard, I landed on his prized horse and galloped through the gate, bellowing:
“Donovan! Pray you never see me again. The day you do will be your last!”
“Huh?”
Rubbing his head, he stared in confusion as I rode off.
It might’ve seemed unfair to him now, but I was the wronged one. Without his betrayal, I wouldn’t have fallen so far. No one knew the despair I’d felt then.
Flipping off the distant Karl Castle, I made my final farewell.
‘See if I ever come back. Good riddance!’
I had no intention of returning.
I wasn’t some starving vagabond. With my skills—a Master swordsman, one of only 150 on the continent—I could easily claim lands and titles elsewhere.
But I didn’t want them. No need to chain myself to servitude.
I had barely a decade left to live. I’d spend it enjoying myself.
Soon, I “negotiated” with a passing lumberjack—trading my exhausted horse for work clothes, an axe, a carrying frame, and a pruning knife. Fair exchange.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
[Your Text Here]
