The Useless Prince Is A Gangster

Nine days later – Prince Cassian's private dorm room, Royal Academy.

The cold room filled with warmth of the fireplace, illuminating the whole room in golden.

Prince Cassian stood near it, holding a sheet of paper, his hand trembling holding it. His fingers were white from gripping too hard.

The old butler, Greaves, stood near the door. Looking at his poor Prince with calm, professional expression.

"All?"

Cassian spoke softly at first. Then his voice turned hard and angry.

"All of them? "

Greaves nodded. "Every group we paid for through the eastern books. Eight cells. More than four hundred fighters. All dead. The last message came an hour ago, someone infiltrated and slaughtered our dark guild in Balrary Town. They painted a message on the wall: 'The shadows have crimson eyes.'"

Cassian shut his eyes. When he opened them, something cold and deadly looked out.

"Four years," he said quietly. "Four years of gold and blood to build an army no one could trace back to me. Men who moved only when I said so."

He crushed the letter in his hand. "Someone destroyed it all in nine nights."

He turned towards his old butler.

"I want a name, Greaves. I don't care if you have to peel the skin from every informant in the capital. I want the bastard who dares this."

Greaves bowed. "Already in motion, Your Highness. But whoever they are… they leave nothing behind. No footprints. No witnesses. Only that phrase."

Cassian laughed slowly, his tone getting bitter. "Crimson eyes. Cute."

He stared at his reflection in the dark window: golden hair, perfect face, the mask everyone loved.

"Now I understand who's that," he said. "I will cut those eyes out myself."

♢♢♢♢♢♢♢♢

Later that night – Natowel town.

Natowel town was a huge trading town because of its being bordered by the Zerathune kingdom.

This town's dark guild hideout smelled of sweat, cheap beer, and blood.

Sixty rough men filled the underground room. They laughed too loud to hide their fear. The Crimson Fang's death three nights ago had been a scary story.

A man with a broken nose hit his cup on the table. "Sixty men killed in one night. No bodies left in one piece. Who is crazy enough to fight every guild at once? "

The big bald man across from him grinned with iron teeth. He was missing one ear. "Doesn't matter. Let the Royal Knights come. We'll feed them their own guts."

A big guy guards the front door with arms crossed, looking at the daily mess created by those bastards. But he still fears that crimson death.

Knock. Knock-knock. Knock.

He heard someone knocking on the door. The pattern is code from the guard outside.

The inside guard was seven feet tall and all muscle. He walked to the heavy door and opened the small window. He saw the face he knew—of course, the outside guard.

"Open the door, idiot," the guard said weakly. "I have news."

The big guy snorted and unbarred the door.

The outside guard's body folded in half the moment the door opened wide, torso separating from hips in a perfect, clean diagonal cut. Blood sprayed the threshold like red rain.

Someone behind the corpse gave it a gentle push with one boot.

The guard looked up in horror and saw a diligent noble lady entering inside—Erin Dranemount.

Her silver-white hair was tied back. Her violet eyes gleamed mischievously in the torchlight. She wore a white combat dress with no sleeves. Her sword is already dripping with blood.

She smiled the way spring smiles right before it kills winter.

"Evening, gentlemen," she said, her voice like honey. "Did someone order an apocalypse?"

The guard was mortified; he didn't know who she was, and his hand instinctively took the weapon.

But before he could take his weapon, a flash appeared, and his guards' eyes widened.

Thud.

His sword hand hit the ground before he even felt the cut.

He looked up, mouth wide open in shock, and saw Leonhardt Caulem standing beside Erin, katana resting lazily on his shoulder, crimson eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

The guard managed half a shriek before Leo grabbed the giant by the throat and drove him face-first into the stone wall. His skull shattered in pieces, and he died. The body dropped.

Erin kicked the scout's corpse fully inside and let the iron door swing shut behind them with a loud clang that alerted the people inside; everyone stood, chairs screeched against the floor, and they grabbed their weapons, ready.

Their faces filled with rage and fear. Hands trembling, realizing the story is not fun at all.

Erin tilted her head. Her smile never changed.

"Relax," she called over the chaos, spinning her sword once so the blood drew a perfect circle in the air. "We're just the debt collectors."

Leo rested his katana on his shoulder. He looked at the men the way a butcher looks at meat.

"Sixty of you," he said, almost friendly. "Two of us."

A few veterans exchanged glances, like saying, 'This situation isn't right,' without a word.

The one-eyed brute at the nearest table hawked. "The fuck are you supposed to be, whelp? Some lordling's errand boy with a toy sword?"

The guy behind him forced a laugh that didn't feel real. "Don't matter. We'll gut him proper, stuff the pretty bastard in a cask, and ship it back gift-wrapped."

A guy with a gold tooth looked at Erin. "The bitch, though... silver hair like that? Eyes like fuckin' jewels? Keep her breathin'. There's a noble in the neighbouring nation who'd pay huge for her."

Erin spun her sword once between her fingers, the metal catching torchlight. "Flattery's cheap, boys. But if you're buying, I'll take your screams as payment."

Leo exhaled slowly, the sound stopping through the murmurs like a blade. He shifted his katana on his shoulder, crimson eyes scanning the room—not with anger, but with the mild curiosity.

"Last chance," he said, voice carrying to the rafters without raising. It wasn't a shout; it was inevitability. "I give you guys three options. Pick wisely."