I Became the Youngest Prince in the Novel

Deep in the heart of the Agnes Imperial Palace lay a private training chamber.

Sssss-

The hall was enveloped in a churning sea of black mist.

It ebbed and flowed like a sentient being, creeping outwards to fill every nook and cranny.

In certain respects, it echoed the canvas of the night sky.

The billowing mist was studded with infinite, twinkling stars, each outshining the other.

Amongst these celestial bodies, a black star carved out its own orbit.

This black star whirled, greedily swallowing up the light shed by the surrounding stars. Its form might be nebulous, yet its domineering aura was unparalleled.

Sssss-

All at once, the stars, the black one inclusive, and the accompanying black mist, began coalescing towards a singular locus.

At this epicenter sat Zion, legs folded in a cross-legged posture, eyes sealed shut.

'Soon, the first star shall be within my grasp.'

Gradually parting his eyes, Zion hoisted himself up from the pool of sweat he was established in and flexed his fist.

Black Star River.

A power anomaly that rejected all else, an ability exclusive to Zion in this realm.

Had all gone according to the script, he should have ascended earlier. But the surprise attack on him, shortly after he woke up in the shell of Zion Agnes, had thrown his timeline askew.

Regardless of how much the Black Star River was reliant more on spirit than the physical form, it was no mean feat to ward off assailants with a body devoid of any form of training.

Moreover, his recuperation period was elongated due to skirmishes with treasonous knights.

But now, he was back in his prime.

'The trouble is with this body...'

The Black Star River was indisputably the most formidable force, yet it exacted a hefty toll on both spirit and body.

The frame of Zion Agnes, bearing this burden, was in such a decrepit state it was a marvel he could even function.

'If only I possessed 'that'.'

Zion spared a fleeting thought for his 'weapon' before shaking the thought off.

There was no merit in yearning for something that was not available here.

His immediate respite lay in persisting with relentless training.

'Furthermore, I am due some company.'

As he wrapped up his training and made his way towards the door, Zion began ruminating.

The recent attack on the Agnes Imperial Palace.

Considering the assault was a bust and there was no retaliation, the perpetrators must be reeling.

Added to that, the severance of all communication lines only compounded the situation.

Just then.

"Your Highness, Prince."

A soft rap at the door revealed Fredo's voice from outside.

"Enter."

At Zion's behest, Fredo gingerly pushed open the door and stepped into the training chamber.

Upon setting eyes on Zion, Fredo's gaze filled with reverence.

Zion, drenched in sweat from head to toe.

His current state was a stark contrast to his past self, who considered a mere walk to be a strenuous workout.

'At long last, His Highness...'

His display of might during the assault on the Imperial Palace and against the knights, coupled with his steely resolve that resulted in the instant decapitation of his enemies.

The transformation was staggering, yet Fredo embraced this evolution.

Only then could His Highness stand his ground in this empire.

'He must have stirred the dormant Agnes lineage in his blood.'

Fredo's sole lament was his fleeting contact with Zion, as he practically resided in the training hall these days.

"What brings you here?"

Feeling perplexed under Fredo's scrutiny, Zion questioned about the purpose of his visit.

"Ah, you have a guest."

"Who?"

"Lady Priscilla."

"And she is?"

Zion, unable to place the familiar-sounding name, posed the question to Fredo.

Fredo responded with a peculiar expression.

"She's your betrothed, Your Highness."

---

---

"A fiancée...."

As Zion made his way to the reception room where Priscilla awaited, post a quick rinse to wash off the sweat, he found himself muttering.

It was plausible, on second thought, for a prince to have at least one fiancée.

Being Zion Agnes's fiancée, she wouldn't have featured in 'Chronicles of Frosimar,' and he, devoid of the original Zion's memories, couldn't possibly know her.

'But why does she seem so familiar?'

Perplexed by this conflicting sentiment, Zion pushed open the door to the reception room he had reached.

Inside, he found two men and a woman seated on an antiquated sofa, sipping tea from their teacups.

The woman, who he presumed to be his fiancée, locked eyes with him.

The woman surveying Zion through eyes as frosty and as pure as snow.

'Now it makes sense.'

In that moment, Zion was able to connect the dots to where he had heard the woman's name.

Priscilla Bammel.

A name referenced occasionally by characters in 'Chronicles of Frosimar.'

A woman destined to earn the moniker 'the Ill-fated Princess' due to a future event.

Her name had escaped his recall as she never directly featured in the chronicles.

'Who would've thought this Priscilla Bammel is my betrothed.'

Her physical traits aligned perfectly with the descriptions in the book, especially her eyes radiating a deep, crimson glow, solidifying Zion's suspicions.

"Why have you...."

"Could the two of you kindly leave us alone for a bit?"

Before the two irate men could address Zion, Priscilla interjected and requested them to vacate the room.

Without a hint of objection, the men left the reception room.

They seemed to be henchmen drawn towards Priscilla by her striking beauty.

"...."

Then, Priscilla, seated across him, wordlessly fixed her gaze on Zion.

Zion returning her stare.

How long did the silence ensue?

"It's been a while."

Priscilla was the first to break the ice.

A frigid voice reflecting her gaze.

Hardly the tone you'd associate with a fiancée.

"Has it?"

"Yes. You appear remarkably different from the last time I saw you."

With that, Priscilla, who had been appraising Zion over her teacup, resumed the conversation.

"From daring to meet my gaze... to making me wait."

Her remarks, although audacious for a noble addressing a royal, were undeniably accurate.

Zion had never kept her waiting previously.

"So, am I to be the one waiting for you now?"

Zion chuckled in response to Priscilla's remark.

His previously unseen demeanor seemed to pique Priscilla's curiosity.

Something had changed.

"……That’s not the case."

Regardless, she chose to remain indifferent. After a brief pause, closing her eyes momentarily, she got straight to the point.

"I came here to dissolve our engagement."

A thought that had been festering for quite some time.

A dethroned crown prince.

The disgrace of the Agnes royal lineage.

A cast-off of pure blood.

All these labels pertained to Zion Agnes standing right before her.

He was a prince who, befitting these titles, wielded neither power nor ability, leading an existence lesser than a noble.

However, the primary reason for terminating their engagement was simply that he didn't sit well with her.

After all, their engagement was nothing more than an arrangement struck between their families to forge an alliance with the royal household, regardless of her will when she was young...

"If you don't accept, I--."

"I accept."

"...What?"

"I see you have no further questions."

After saying that, Zion got up from his seat and headed for the door. From the beginning, Zion had no time to think about the engagement.

He had no intention of becoming involved with her eventual predicament. She had no relation to him and he didn't have any time to spare her.

Nevertheless, there was one reason why he gave her his precious time and came to meet her. It was because he suspected Priscilla was involved in the recent attack.

Her visit was just too coincidental.

'But Priscilla doesn't know anything about the attack.'

If she had, she would've mentioned it, or at least showed concern over his well-being.

Hence, he didn't want to waste any more time on her. That was Zion's reasoning as he walked out of the drawing room.

"Your Highness."

But Zion was obstructed by one of Priscilla's followers who had been waiting for their conversation to end. He was a man with a large head and seemed to be a son of a high-class aristocrat, as he was wearing very luxurious clothing.

"Return inside and apologize to Lady Priscilla."

It almost seemed as if he had been eavesdropping on the conversation within.

The man, glaring down at Zion with an imposing tone, initiated the dialogue.

"What do you mean?" Zion retorted, confronting the man.

"It refers to your rude interruption of Lady Priscilla's speech and your untimely departure before the conversation could conclude. Lady Priscilla is not someone to be treated in such a manner."

"Ah..."

A sigh unwittingly escaped Zion's lips upon hearing this.

It was a sigh intended for Zion Agnes, himself, rather than for the other person.

The idea of a noble treating a royal in this way was unthinkable.

How powerless must he have been?

How much humiliation had he endured?

Was he implying that even such individuals were overlooking him?

Did Zion's sigh irk the man?

Another attendant, who had been silently observing the situation, irritably voiced his thoughts.

"Least of all, Lady Priscilla should not be disrespected by a royal who has been discarded by the royal family. Isn't that so?"

A man who seemed a mage, with a slender body swathed in a robe.

"I, you know,"

Zion's eyes, which were fixed on the two men obstructing his path,

"I'm not particularly fond of people obstructing my path."

Began to narrow.

Then, their bodies began to twist slightly.

---

---

"Ah..."

As Zion vanished into the distance, Priscilla sighed in disbelief, observing his receding silhouette.

She was well aware that Prince Zion harbored a significant fondness for her.

Hence, she had anticipated his staunch resistance and had even concocted several strategies to extricate herself from him.

However, she never got a chance to utilize them, let alone discuss them.

Because Prince Zion had accepted the dissolution even before she could broach the topic.

'It feels as though...'

She felt as if she was being rejected.

Regardless of whether that was the case, her pride was wounded, and there was no avoiding that.

Coupled with that was an unfamiliar discomfort.

'I can't leave it at this. Even if we're severing ties, it shouldn't end this way.'

She had to assert control, or at least see the conversation to its conclusion.

Having resolved, Priscilla briskly stood from her seat and paced towards the door.

Just then, as she swung open the door of the reception room to call out to Zion who had exited first.

"Hm?"

She spotted Zion, a short distance away, confronting two nobles she had accompanied.

Gregor and Arto.

Both were scions of distinguished noble houses and ranked amongst the highest-tier followers smitten by her beauty.

They were relatively useful, which was the reason she had permitted their accompaniment.

However, their expressions, as they glared at Zion, were severely contorted.

'What has transpired?'

Could there have been a dispute between them?

Faces primed as if on the brink of delivering a punch.

In fact, one of Gregor's hands was ominously inching towards Zion.

'No!'

At this, Priscilla's eyes flared wide in shock.

Gregor, notorious for his rage-induced blindness, was a dangerous adversary once provoked.

If Gregor, who boasted the prowess of a highly trained knight, even slightly shoved, Prince Zion would surely suffer grave injuries.

"Halt it right...!"

Just then, a desperate outcry was on the verge of escaping Priscilla's lips.

In that split second.

She bore witness to it.

Gregor, towering above 190cm with a physique and might worthy of being termed a demi-ogre.

Creak!

The sight of him, toppled onto the ground, headfirst, by Zion.

***

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