Chapter 42: The Hostility of the Old Guard
The atmosphere in the hall shifted the moment the First Prince, Alphonse, appeared.
The nobles seemed to part before him instinctively, as if drawn to the sun’s gravity. Their eyes brimmed with admiration and loyalty. Without question, he was the radiant light that would one day lead this kingdom.
And now, that light advanced straight toward the shadow it sought to banish.
Alphonse, flanked by several young nobles—trusted knights from his personal retinue—came to a stop before Zenon, who stood alone at the edge of the hall.
“So, you’re Zenon von Arkwright?”
His voice was young but carried the weight of authority—and the confidence of one well-trained.
“An honor to meet you, Prince Alphonse. I’ve long heard of your reputation.”
Zenon’s expression did not change. He performed the bare minimum gesture of courtesy, executed perfectly but with mechanical precision.
Alphonse studied him intently.
“Reputation, is it? There are many rumors about you in the capital. Some call you a savior of the realm; others, a heartless devil. Tell me— which is true?”
It was a probing question, meant to test him.
The nobles around them held their breath, eager to witness the exchange.
“Neither.”
Zenon’s reply was so concise—and so utterly deflating—that it caught Alphonse off guard.
“I merely replace inefficiency with reason. The judgment of that process differs depending on who observes it. It’s not my concern how they interpret the results.”
“…I see.”
Alphonse’s brow twitched slightly.
“Then everything happening in your territory—the forceful dismantling of merchant guilds that exploited the people, the rejection of traditions passed down for generations—those were all rational decisions?”
“Yes. The old systems had become a cancer hindering growth. It was only logical to excise them surgically.”
At that, one noble behind Alphonse snapped in outrage.
“Such arrogance! Tradition is the very foundation of our kingdom, built by the sweat and blood of our ancestors! You call it a cancer?”
“If the foundation has rotted, it must be replaced. Any structure that clings to past glory and rejects change is doomed to collapse. History proves that.”
Zenon’s words carried no hesitation—only conviction, as if stating an immutable truth.
That unshakable calmness grated on Alphonse’s nerves. The prince’s ideal ruler was one who cherished the people and upheld noble tradition; Zenon’s cold pragmatism was its antithesis.
“Perhaps your reasoning is sound,”
Alphonse said, his tone dropping a pitch lower.
“But your methods lack the most vital element of all—‘heart.’”
He locked eyes with Zenon’s icy blue gaze.
“Governance is not a numbers game! It is a sacred duty—to stand with one’s people, to wish for their happiness, and to build a future together! You see your citizens only as laborers, as data points! A nation built that way can never know true prosperity!”
It was a declaration of belief—Alphonse’s righteous conviction made manifest.
Around them, nobles nodded with fervent admiration.
Zenon, meanwhile, listened to the prince’s speech with a detached calm, as if it were a distant conversation in another land.
(“Heart,” is it? Another vague, irrational concept.)
His mind broke down Alphonse’s rhetoric into analyzable fragments.
(The term “people’s happiness” is undefined. To quantify it objectively, one would measure disposable income and average life expectancy. In both metrics, the people of my territory have improved dramatically in the past year. Therefore, his argument has already been invalidated by data.)
He concluded that a rebuttal was a waste of effort.
This discussion would never converge—merely parallel lines. A waste of time.
He let out a faint, nearly inaudible sigh, turned his back on Alphonse, and began to walk away.
“…Stop right there.”
The prince’s voice, trembling with restrained anger, pierced Zenon’s back.
“Why say nothing? Do you mean to claim my words are wrong?”
“No.”
Zenon replied without turning around.
“Your words aren’t wrong. They’re simply too idealistic. Ideals don’t fill bellies. They don’t save the starving. That’s all.”
“You—!”
The words struck directly at Alphonse’s pride.
His noble vision of ruling for the people had been dismissed—like the naive dream of a child. His face flushed crimson with humiliation.
“Zenon-sama! Please, that tone before His Highness—!”
Gray tried to intervene, but it was too late.
At that very moment, Zenon’s reputation among the capital’s traditionalists solidified into fact: he was an arrogant heretic.
“Enough.”
Alphonse forced his voice steady, his expression cold.
“Now I understand you. You possess neither a knight’s honor, nor a noble’s duty, nor even a human heart—only the chill precision of a machine. But remember this: your warped ways will not be tolerated forever in the Kingdom of Belstein.”
It was a clear declaration of war.
Zenon finally turned to face him—slowly.
“I appreciate the warning, Your Highness. But allow me one correction.”
“What is it?”
“It isn’t my methods that are warped. What’s warped is this kingdom itself—clinging to inefficient traditions and meaningless pride while it slowly sinks into decay.”
The entire hall gasped.
A frontier-born duke’s son had just denounced the kingdom itself—and its heir apparent—to his face.
This was no mere insolence or arrogance.
It was tantamount to rebellion.
Alphonse stood speechless, his anger beyond words.
Zenon gave him a small, courteous bow—then walked away without hesitation, as if brushing dust from his path.
He left behind a hall heavy with silence and naked hostility.
That night, Zenon von Arkwright had made enemies of nearly every conservative noble in the capital.
He had chosen, by his own will, the hardest and most perilous road.
On the carriage ride home, Gray felt as though he could barely breathe.
“Zenon-sama… why did you say those things? We’ve isolated ourselves completely now…”
“It’s fine,”
Zenon replied calmly, watching the royal capital’s lights drift past the window.
“Now the lines are clear—enemy and ally alike. It’s efficient. We know exactly who to eliminate first.”
The chilling calmness of those words made Gray’s blood run cold.
His master had just, with perfect clarity, locked onto the royal prince and his circle as targets for removal.
That single night in the den of high society had quietly, but decisively, lit the fuse of war.