The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing - Chapter 81

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Translator/Editor: Ceaseless

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◈ The Medieval Heretic King is Too Good at Developing ◈

Chapter 81: The Paper Revolution (5)

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The underground prison of Prague Castle. A dim chamber where the faint glow of torches barely held back the darkness.

Thud!

Oswald was thrown unceremoniously onto the cold stone floor.

"Urgh...!"

Instinctively curling up, he squeezed out the last of his noble pride and shouted.

"How dare you! I am Oswald von Wolkenstein, a knight of Tyrol and a diplomat of the Holy Roman Empire! Open this door at once...!"

Clang!

The cell door slammed shut, its sound echoing through the underground chamber as if mocking him. The soldiers' footsteps quickly faded away.

"Wait...!"

Oswald clutched the iron bars in despair.

The stench of mold and musty straw, along with the chill seeping from the moss-covered stone walls, sank deep into his lungs.

"..."

Oswald looked down at his hands.

The scars left by the torture he had endured at Hauenstein Castle.

His fingers, grotesquely twisted and bent at jutting joints, trembled hideously.

'Again... prison again.'

He crouched in a corner, breathing heavily. Cold sweat streamed endlessly down his back.

What had he done that was so wrong?

Had they locked up a noble from another country, a distinguished guest seeking asylum, and treated him like an animal just because he had sung a few songs in the street?

'These barbarians. I shouldn't have expected any sense from heretics!'

Oswald leaned against the cold stone wall and gritted his teeth.

For a long while, he clutched his throbbing fingers and cursed the Emperor and Duke Frederick of Austria, the men who had driven him to this state.

How much time had passed?

By the time the darkness had dulled his sense of time, footsteps echoed once more from the far end of the corridor.

Click, click.

They were not the heavy footsteps of a guard. These were far more measured and authoritative, the sound of fine leather boots striking the floor.

Oswald desperately clung to the bars.

"Who's there? Get me out of here! I'm not a spy!"

Escorted by soldiers carrying torches, a man approached the cell. Beside him stood the black-haired young man who had dragged Oswald here.

A middle-aged nobleman wore a luxurious fur cloak over a silk tunic. His neatly trimmed mustache framed a face caught between annoyance and confusion.

Covering his nose with a silk handkerchief, he glanced into the cell.

"Is this the one? The fellow causing a fuss and claiming to be a noble?"

"Yes, he says he's the Emperor's diplomat, but judging by his appearance, he seems like nothing more than a senile old man."

"Hmm."

The middle-aged nobleman brought the torch closer and examined Oswald's face.

Oswald narrowed his eyes as well, studying the man beyond the light.

It was a familiar silhouette.

A man he had encountered many times at the Emperor's lavish banquets and in the crusaders' camps.

Oswald's mouth fell open in shock.

"You...?"

One of Bohemia's most powerful nobles, and an icon of betrayal.

"Sir Cenek of Vartemberk? Sir Cenek of Vartemberk, isn't it?"

As Oswald cried out urgently, Cenek of Vartemberk's eyebrow twitched.

"You know my name. But I don't know any beggar like you."

"It's me! Wolkenstein! Good heavens, to meet you here! Get me out of here! These ignorant fools think I'm a spy!"

"Wolkenstein?"

Cenek of Vartemberk frowned and looked Oswald over.

Hair matted from not being washed for days, a bruised face, and clothes reduced to rags beneath filth and dust.

Yet beneath all that, the familiar arrogant, irritable look in his eyes remained.

"...Hah."

A hollow laugh escaped Cenek of Vartemberk.

"Good heavens, it really is Sir Wolkenstein. Has it been since the talks at Brno in Moravia three years ago?"

"Brno? What nonsense are you talking about? Why leave out the time we met in Prague? Two years ago, when the First Crusade pushed all the way to Prague! I was beside you when you handed the keys to Prague Castle's gates to the Emperor!"

A chilly silence fell over the cell.

János Hunyadi's eyebrow twitched, while the guards exchanged glances and pretended not to hear.

It was an open secret that Cenek of Vartemberk, leader of the moderate Hussite nobles, had once served as the Emperor's lackey. Still, no one had ever exposed his past so rudely and bluntly to his face.

"Ahem! Ahem! Er, ahem!"

Cenek of Vartemberk's face reddened like a ripe tomato. He coughed furiously and struck the floor with his cane.

"T-Things were complicated then! People make errors in judgment! I'm loyal to His Majesty now, aren't I?"

"An error in judgment? Don't make me laugh! You even received a medal from the Emperor! I wrote the letter of recommendation myself!"

"Will you shut that mouth of yours already!"

Cenek of Vartemberk floundered in panic, then hurriedly turned to János Hunyadi and waved his hands.

"Sir János Hunyadi, it's certain. This man is Wolkenstein. A nobleman from Austria and the Emperor's former diplomat. He looks mad, but at least he's not a fraud."

János Hunyadi looked down at Oswald with cold eyes.

"So he's a noble. That doesn't guarantee he isn't a spy."

"What?"

"If anything, that makes him more dangerous. He can read, he knows the terrain, and above all, he was close to the Emperor. He has more than enough ability to steal high-level intelligence. Isn't that right?"

János Hunyadi's gaze was as sharp as a dagger.

"And from what I just heard, it seems you were particularly close to the Emperor. Close enough to write him a letter of recommendation. Why would such a loyal servant suddenly come to Bohemia?"

"No, that's not it! I hate the Emperor!"

Oswald cried out in wounded indignation.

"That red fox betrayed me! That bastard Duke Frederick abandoned me too! Look at my fingers! This is the medal those bastards gave me!"

He thrust his twisted fingers through the bars, pouring out his resentment.

"I came for revenge! Even if I have to sell my talent and my life, I must see those men weep tears of blood!"

János Hunyadi stroked his chin and stared into Oswald's eyes.

Rage bordering on madness. Hatred buried to the bone.

It was too desperate to be an act.

'It doesn't seem like he's lying...'

Cenek of Vartemberk spoke up beside him.

"Sir János Hunyadi. He may be touched in the head and foul-mouthed, but he isn't the sort who could serve as a spy or assassin. He has spent his whole life plucking a lute and chasing women."

"Hmm..."

Just as János Hunyadi considered the matter, a soldier hurried downstairs.

"Excuse me, Director!"

"What is it?"

"An order from His Majesty!"

János Hunyadi's eyebrow twitched.

The messenger bowed deeply.

"You are to escort the prisoner to the Great Audience Chamber."

The three men's gazes met in midair.

* * *

Escorted by soldiers, Oswald climbed the stairs.

During that short time, he straightened his clothes and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, putting it into at least some semblance of order.

His appearance was a mess, but his mind was racing.

'In any case... this is an opportunity.'

He had been terrified when they threw him into prison, but things had changed now. The king had summoned him personally.

He calmly assessed his own worth.

Born into a powerful noble house in Tyrol.

A veteran diplomat who understood the Empire's complicated political landscape.

Fluent in German, Latin, Czech, Hungarian, and Italian.

Above all, he was an informant who held Sigismund's most private scandals and weaknesses in his grasp.

'Any king would recognize my worth.'

He had heard that Ulrich von Sternberg, King of Bohemia, came from a provincial noble family.

A heretic with weak legitimacy, unrecognized as a king by the surrounding nations.

What would such a ruler need most?

Someone like him, a man versed in international affairs.

Unlike those Bohemian nobles who knew nothing beyond their own little world, he was an experienced adviser who could read the larger game of the Empire and guide the course of diplomacy.

A confident smile spread across Oswald's lips.

'If I play this right, taking a position will be easy. Diplomatic adviser? Or court poet? He's the king of some backwater, so if I flatter him in elegant Latin with a little imperial etiquette mixed in, he'll fall for it all too easily.'

In his mind, he refined the flowery words he would speak before the king.

He would emphasize his tragic tale of exile, praise the king's heroic qualities, and stir their shared hatred of the Emperor.

Then the king would be moved, raise him up, and treat him as an honored guest of the realm. It was a perfect scenario.

"Go in."

The soldiers threw open the oak doors of the audience chamber.

Creeeak.

Oswald took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and stepped inside. He repeated the opening he had prepared in his mind.

'Your Majesty, King of Bohemia, Oswald, knight of Tyrol and wanderer of the Empire, humbly greets you.'

But then.

His confident stride stopped before he could take three steps.

The air in the Great Audience Chamber was heavy.

It was pressure beyond mere silence or solemnity, pressure that made it hard to breathe.

There were none of the lavish gold decorations, fragrant flowers, or musicians he had imagined.

Only the cold stone floor and the chill military discipline radiating from the neatly arranged royal guards filled the chamber.

'What is this atmosphere...'

At the center of that silence sat a man.

To his right stood the black-haired young man from the prison, János Hunyadi, like a shadow. To his left, the massive veteran Jan Žižka stood with an eyepatch and his arms folded, radiating the pressure of a boulder.

Both were extraordinary men, yet Oswald's eyes remained fixed on the man seated between them.

'That is... Ulrich von Sternberg.'

Silk clothes embroidered with gold thread? A crown set with jewels? A benevolent smile for his subjects?

There was nothing of the sort.

He was a handsome man with the strong features characteristic of West Slavs, but more striking than that was the atmosphere he gave off, hard and cold as steel.

Young eyes filled with cold intellect.

Smooth plate armor forged for actual battle.

And beneath it, a crimson cloak flowing like blood.

"..."

Oswald had met countless rulers in his life.

The mad Charles, the greedy conqueror Henry, and the endlessly cunning Sigismund.

Yet this king before him was unlike any of them.

There was no madness, greed, or empty pride in his eyes.

Efficiency ruled in place of emotion, logic in place of authority.

'What is this...? What kind of king is he?'

Only then did Oswald clearly remember what this man was called in Bohemia.

The Steel King.