The Sweet Alpha Crown Prince Loves Me So Much Chapter 123

Chapter 123

Just as Juniper, his skin crawling from their blatant affection, was finally ushering the lovebirds towards the teleportation circle, Holy Knight Duvel, amidst the chaos of the battlefield, spotted a rat.

“Brust Kirchner. Old, ugly, and utterly shameless.”

Duvel’s flat, emotionless voice made Kirchner freeze.

“I knew it the moment I saw you. You reek of the gutter.”

Duvel effortlessly lifted the old man, examining him like a piece of merchandise, then frowned in disgust.

Kirchner, finally regaining his composure, sputtered indignantly, “Unhand me, you brute!” but Duvel simply pinched his nose, his expression screaming ‘You disgust me.’

Kirchner, humiliated by his blatant display of revulsion, gritted his teeth.

“Put me down!”

“Quiet. Don’t struggle.”

Duvel slapped him lightly across the cheek, then dusted off his hand as if it had been contaminated.

Kirchner was stunned. He’d expected such treatment from the mad King Mugicha, but to be slapped by a low-ranking knight…

Duvel strode away, effortlessly cutting down a couple of monsters that lunged at him, then barked orders at a nearby holy knight. Moments later, Kirchner found himself bound and gagged, unceremoniously tossed into a small cart, the kind used for transporting livestock.

The cart, long and narrow, resembled a corpse cart, and Kirchner, overcome with a sudden wave of terror, called out to Duvel, who was turning to leave.

“You! Heineken knight! Listen to me!”

Seeing him ignore him, Kirchner’s voice rose in desperation.

“Listen to me! I know more about Parman’s schemes than anyone! Heineken will reward you handsomely for this information!”

It was a desperate bluff.

Kirchner’s knowledge was a mere drop in the ocean compared to Mugicha Parman’s machinations. He only knew that the king had spent years taming magical beasts and digging tunnels.

But negotiation was an art, wasn’t it?

And he was the only one who’d spent any significant time in Parman.

Duvel, his ears ringing from Kirchner’s incessant yelling, turned back and approached him.

“The King of Parman is taming magical beasts! And the scale of his…”

Kirchner, his eager rant cut short by Duvel’s intense gaze, fell silent.

Duvel found the old man annoying, insignificant.

A spent force, clinging to life. He didn’t understand why he’d been ordered to keep him alive.

Anyone could see what was happening, the monsters swarming the battlefield, clearly acting under someone’s command. The old man was a fool.

The surrounding holy knights glared at Kirchner, their expressions mirroring Duvel’s disgust.

Duvel, glancing down at him, uttered a silent incantation.

Divine power, the source of a holy knight’s strength, sealed Kirchner’s lips.

“Mmmpphh!”

Already bound, his mouth now sealed, Kirchner thrashed against his restraints, his eyes rolling back in his head.

He’d lived a life of freedom, of unchecked power. Even this minor restriction felt like torture.

Duvel clasped his hands together, as if in prayer.

“You poor, wretched creature. I should send you to face divine judgment now, but someone else has plans for you.”

He made the sign of the cross, then turned and walked away without a second glance.

The monsters attacked relentlessly, and the soldiers, despite their training, were struggling.

The holy knights, their faces hidden behind visored helmets, their aversion to bloodshed evident, fared better than the soldiers, whose lighter armor, prioritizing mobility over protection, offered minimal defense.

The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of gunpowder.

“Perhaps it’s a blessing that there are no civilians here,” a soldier commented, catching his breath.

Even seasoned warriors were struggling to distinguish between friend and foe in this chaotic melee.

The first and second divisions rotated, taking turns on the battlefield.

One group would retreat, tending to their wounded and resting, while the other took their place.

Duvel, crushing a monster’s skull beneath his boot, blood splattering across the ground, approached Count Bourbon. He was momentarily mesmerized by the Count’s graceful movements, his swordsmanship almost artistic.

He moved with an elegance that belied the carnage surrounding them, as if he were dancing at a ball, not fighting a war.

‘Age hasn’t slowed him down.’ Duvel couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret. Why had Count Bourbon chosen to remain an ordinary knight when he could have been a holy knight, his skills and unwavering devotion a valuable asset to the Temple?

Count Bourbon, sensing his approach, retreated slightly, allowing his lieutenant to offer him water and a clean towel.

It was a simple but essential wartime ritual, a way to detect and treat minor injuries, preventing infection.

The Count, observing Duvel, commented, “They’re disorganized, their attacks random. It’s as if they’ve been ordered to simply kill anyone they see.”

Then, as a monster lunged at them, he shoved Duvel forward, simultaneously removing his visor with a swift, practiced movement.

The monster, screeching, recoiled, then reached out with a limb – hand or foot, it was difficult to tell – towards Duvel’s arm.

Duvel easily dispatched it, then looked at the Count questioningly.

Count Bourbon smiled faintly.

“But it seems they have orders to capture certain individuals alive.”

He met Duvel’s gaze, his eyes lingering on his golden hair, the blue ring around his irises.

“Blond hair, blue eyes.”

Duvel, realizing there were no blond, blue-eyed soldiers among the wounded, thought of the most famous blond, blue-eyed man he knew.

“…The only person worth capturing is the prince.”

The Count nodded.

But why?

Sensing Duvel’s confusion, the Count explained, “Mugicha Parman is also an Alpha. And the prince is a highly desirable Omega.”

Duvel, however, couldn’t understand why Parman would complicate things further.

“Does he intend to sexually assault the prince?”

Duvel asked, his tone casual, almost indifferent.

“Claim him as his mate, more likely.”

Count Bourbon clicked his tongue, and Duvel, frowning, wiped his sword clean.

“But isn’t the prince already bonded to the Crown Prince?”

Count Bourbon chuckled at his surprisingly logical question.

“Their bond is a secret. Mugicha Parman doesn’t know. Not yet. But even if he did, forcing a bond, demanding heirs… it’s not impossible. We have to be cautious.”

Duvel’s face contorted in disgust.

“A forced bonding… that is sexual assault. This is repulsive.”

He made the sign of the cross, and Count Bourbon shrugged.

“Sadly, such things are common.”

Duvel clasped his hands together, his face grim.

“To create such carnage, for the sole purpose of spreading his seed… how pathetic, how utterly wretched. I will send him to hell.”

Count Bourbon rolled his eyes at his pious tone, and his sanctimonious words.

“His ultimate goal is to conquer the continent. The prince is just a bonus. People die for far more trivial reasons.”

Something you wouldn’t understand, nor would you want to.

The Count, glancing around, patted Duvel on the shoulder.

“Unleash your divine wrath, Sir Duvel. Our guests are arriving soon. I’ll be indisposed for a while.”

The moment he finished speaking, Duvel rushed back into the fray.

The Count’s lieutenant, watching Duvel’s gleeful, almost manic expression, shuddered.

“Honestly, aren’t holy knights supposed to be human? Why do they enjoy fighting so much?”

The Count glanced at the white-clad figures moving through the battlefield like specters.

“They live a life of strict rules and regulations. War… it’s their only chance at freedom. Their only rule during wartime is to not harm those on the goddess’ side.”

Of course, Duvel’s motivation was probably simpler – the legalized bloodshed – but he didn’t want to burden his sensitive lieutenant with such unpleasant details.

Most holy knights, recruited at a young age, spent their entire lives training and studying the scriptures, their minds filled with the goddess’ laws. They had no family, no friends.

They were instruments of the goddess, nothing more. They had nothing to lose.

Their only distinguishing traits were their exceptional physical abilities and their heightened senses, their sensitivity to scents and pheromones, regardless of their differentiation.

There were no Alphas, Betas, or Omegas among the holy knights. No gender distinctions.

This was one of the reasons the Emperor was wary of them.

A group of young, physically fit individuals, living and training together, without any emotional attachments or conflicts… it was unnatural.

Duvel was unique, even among the holy knights. He despised even the smallest transgression against the goddess, an almost obsessive devotion.

Unlike the others, who were recruited as children, Duvel had been brought to the Temple by Count Bourbon at the age of twelve, a rebellious, street-smart boy on the cusp of adolescence.

The Count, seeing the unusual fire in his eyes, had offered him a chance at a better life, believing the priesthood would suit him. The High Priest, however, had insisted on knightly training.

The Count had protested, knowing the brutal and unforgiving path of a holy knight. But the High Priest had been adamant, claiming Duvel wasn’t ordinary.

And he’d been right.

Duvel’s nature, his detachment, his lack of empathy, would have made living a normal life difficult. He had psychopathic tendencies.

It was fortunate that he’d embraced the Temple’s doctrines. Otherwise, he’d have ended up in the high-security prison on a remote island, along with the other dangerous criminals.

‘Perhaps all that pent-up energy needed an outlet.’

The same could be said for the other holy knights.

But the High Priest held them on a tight leash. They were a formidable force, as long as they were on your side.

His lieutenant untied his spare horse, and the Count, mounting it without dismounting his own, turned and rode back towards the Heineken encampment, leaving the battlefield behind.

The magic stone embedded in his armor shimmered.