Volgograd (1)

Ang lifted his teacup and took a light sip. Seemingly deep in thought, he suddenly looked up and said, "Your Highness, forgive my boldness... if a new Emperor Alfred VIII is to arise in the future, will one of you princes be chosen?"

Preston had been fiddling with the lid of his teacup. At those words, his hand paused slightly. He looked up, giving Ang a somewhat surprised glance. "I didn't expect Viscount Ange to care about such matters."

Ang shrugged, his tone calm. "I wouldn't call it concern. I'm simply curious. After all, the succession to the Empire's throne is no small matter. I just wanted to know whether you brothers might... well, have some unpleasantness over it."

He put it very bluntly, even rather abruptly. It was not meant as an offense, merely the straightforwardness he had always possessed.

Preston raised a brow and watched him for several seconds, as though judging the meaning behind his words. "Are you worried that my brothers and I will slaughter each other over the throne?"

"What? Was I wrong?" Ang smiled slightly and even touched his own face, wearing an expression that said, I'm only telling the truth.

"Haha." Preston was amused by the sight and chuckled. "Does Viscount Ange enjoy those tales made up by bards too?"

"Oh?" Ang raised a brow. "You mean... they made them too outrageous?"

"They weren't entirely wrong." Preston spread his hands. "Some of it is true, and some is indeed exaggerated. But in the end, the succession system of the Wilderland Empire is not what outsiders imagine—picking 'the best one' from among several princes. Our rule is—whoever lives to the end is qualified to inherit the throne."

Ang's eyes widened at once. He had clearly not expected such a system. "That... sounds even crueler