Chapter 823: Everyone’s Choice

Over the years, the Crown Prince and the old King had worked together in secret and in public with remarkable coordination. No one ever suspected that the leader of the Nagaryll Youth Party, the one who had stormed the royal palace, was actually the King’s eldest son.

No one could have imagined this—only the father and son knew the truth. Even the new king currently sitting in the palace had no idea what the Crown Prince was truly doing, or why his decoy remained out in the open under constant public scrutiny.

The father and son had planned it all out thoroughly. They assumed that when the Federation arrived, they would contact local opposition forces and support them against the entrenched elite.

This way, the Crown Prince could become a puppet backed by the Federation.

And whether or not he was a puppet didn’t matter—by being one, his interests would naturally align with those of the Federation.

If the Federation wished to preserve their interests here, the best way would be to support the Crown Prince, let him ascend the throne, and become the new king.

There were no major flaws in the plan. They even made all the signals obvious: the Youth Party’s deep conflicts with the domestic ruling class, their longing for the Federation, and their desire for freedom, fairness, and justice.

From the outset, the Crown Prince and his allies shaped the Youth Party around the ideals of the Federation, eagerly waiting for the Federation to reach out.

The plan was also very convenient for the Federation.

They wouldn’t need to tear off their long-worn mask of hypocrisy—just support one rival, and the Nagaryll rulers would spiral into chaos.

Not to mention, the Youth Party was capable, promising, and most importantly, pro-Federation.

But no one expected the Federation to go off-script. Instead of supporting the opposition, they sided with the authorities and helped suppress them.

Sometimes, lying awake late at night, the Crown Prince would stare at the bright moonlight and feel a deep confusion.

Had the Federation lost its mind?

Why ignore such an advantageous choice and make the dumbest decisions instead?

He couldn’t understand what the Federation was thinking. He just assumed they were idiots.

If he hadn’t resorted to all these schemes—if he had just stayed away, living abroad, seen as a spoiled fool unwilling to return home—maybe he and his father wouldn’t have needed all these elaborate plans, only to end up losing everything.

The Federation never played by their script, which drove them to despair.

But the old King no longer worried—he had already been killed by his own son. And in his final moments, he still believed his son would one day restore their family’s legacy and revive the glory of their ancestors.

Now, all the pressure rested on the Crown Prince.

He was defiant, but more than that, he was unwilling to accept the despair behind it all.

People weren’t him—they didn’t know the torment he was going through inside.

It was as if he had killed his own parents with his own hands just to prove his loyalty to the Federation, only to be ignored, then hunted across the country.

Even his decoy had betrayed him.

He had lost everything—no money, no power, nothing.

After the Valier currency exited the market, all Nagaryll banks collapsed overnight. His accounts were gone. The gold, gems, everything he had stored had been bought up by the Federation at rock-bottom prices.

He had nothing left. To get those treasures back, he would have to prove his identity to the Federation.

But neither as the Crown Prince nor the Youth Party Leader could he do that. If he revealed himself, the Federation would kill him.

No way out. No future. The only path was forward.

Fortunately, he still had a few loyal supporters.

The crackling fire snapped him out of his wandering thoughts. He turned toward the flames and tightened his coat.

“I know a secret passage that leads straight into the palace…”

It took great effort to say this, because he knew the moment he said it, he had made his final decision.

In all of Nagaryll, he was the only one left alive who knew about that tunnel.

It had once been his secret way into the palace when needed—after all, as the nation’s top rebel leader, he couldn’t just walk in under public scrutiny.

After the old King’s death, no one else knew of it. This was his last chance.

Better to risk everything now than spend the rest of his life hiding from the Federation.

He had two goals.

First, he wanted to speak with the new king. He didn’t expect the decoy who had betrayed him to show any sympathy or hand over the throne.

He just wanted to ask: all these years, he had treated the decoy well—never abused him, always provided for him—so why the betrayal?

Second, he knew where the royal treasury was and how to open it. Whether he wanted to fund a new resistance or just flee the country and live in peace, he needed money.

With two purposes driving him, he had the motivation to keep going.

But this time, he didn’t tell anyone else the real reason. He just claimed, “We’ll seize the king to force the world to hear our demands.” A noble excuse—but a lie.

Around the campfire, every face flickered between light and shadow. Darkness occasionally overtook their features, making them look twisted and frightening.

“Is the tunnel long?”

“Not really.”

“Where does it come out?”

“In the back garden…”

As questions and answers passed between them, the group finalized the steps and timing of the operation. They would act today.

It seemed rushed, but it wasn’t. No matter when they acted, it had to be done. There was nothing more to prepare.Their mission was simple: enter the palace, abduct the king, and leave. Nothing more.

Whether they acted now, tomorrow, or a year later made no difference—some things only got harder the longer they waited, as courage gradually faded.

The group lay down in their sleeping bags to rest and regain strength before the operation.

The Crown Prince couldn’t sleep at all. His mind wandered through a flood of memories, many uninvited—his childhood conversations with his father, playing with his siblings—scenes from the past flashing uncontrollably before his eyes.

Until—

Someone nudged him. The Crown Prince gripped his pistol tightly and opened his eyes. He had a gun, and so did the others.

This wasn’t a bakery run. They were about to kidnap a king, and the palace had guards. They couldn’t go unarmed—if things went sideways, a firefight was inevitable.

“It’s time.”

The fierceness in the Crown Prince’s eyes quickly softened. He slapped his cheeks a few times. “Got it.”

He rolled out of his sleeping bag. January in Nagaryll wasn’t particularly cold—around seven or eight degrees Celsius—and a light sweat clung to him.

The dozen or so men extinguished the fire and cleaned up the traces they’d left behind.

The sky was pitch black. Stars and the moon were the only sources of light. It should have been a tranquil scene, but instead, it felt eerie and ominous.

They didn’t drive—vehicles had been parked near the palace days earlier. Starting a car in the dead of night made too much noise. This wasn’t the Federation.

The plan was to enter, seize the king, exit, and then either hide nearby or escape by car.

After a 20-minute trek, which served as a warm-up—just right for the lean-bodied Nagaryllians—they reached the secret entrance the Crown Prince had mentioned: a well, covered with debris.

He slid down the rope into the well. At the bottom, there was a small door leading to a tunnel.

The group moved through the passage, tense and short of breath.

Someone muttered, trying to ease the nerves, “The royal family’s insane. Who builds a tunnel under a well? What if it floods?”

The others chuckled quietly and joined in cursing the royal family.

He wasn’t wrong. The tunnel was hidden underground precisely to remain secret when needed.

But now, it had lost its value.

As they neared the exit, the Crown Prince motioned for silence.

There were no guards here—by design, to allow him secret access—but he hadn’t been back in a long time. Who knew what had changed?

He pushed aside the iron grate above, straining to move the water-draining bars, and peeked out.

No one.

He climbed out, and the rest followed, quickly slipping through the shadows of the palace grounds, vanishing into the night.

None of them questioned how the Crown Prince knew the palace so well—like he was… home.

Meanwhile, the new king had just climbed off a girl, his body soaked in sweat.

Impersonating the Crown Prince had been the best decision of his life. The Federation had treated him extremely well. He had even invited them to station troops in the palace to ensure his safety.

Unfortunately, the Federation declined.

The palace, as a national symbol, couldn’t afford the outrage that would follow if foreign soldiers entered—some radical Nagaryllians would surely explode in protest.

He cast a sideways glance at the silent girl lying beside him—his supposed sister—a smirk tugging at his lips.

He wasn’t the real Crown Prince. And even if he were, no one would question his preferences.

He liked his identity. He liked the identities of the other women in the palace, too.