#005. The Emperor Liked That Blanche Didn’t Seem Three Years Old
The Emperor’s steps were light. The moment he left the western section of the Emerald Palace, his attendants shadowed him like a second skin.
Without even turning around, the Emperor issued an order.
“Prepare the Jasper Palace. Suitable for a child around three or four years old.”
Contrary to how he had pressured Blanche, the Emperor was actually quite taken with her.
But not because she was intelligent. The Letail Empire was a vast empire—there was no shortage of talent. If one looked hard enough, one could even find a few once-in-a-century prodigies.
What the Emperor liked was that Blanche didn’t feel like a three-year-old.
Blanche was different from children who were simply clever. Those kinds of kids might be quick-witted, but they still had all the traits of a typical three-year-old.
They cry easily, laugh easily, are easily fooled. They’re easily frightened and prideful of their own genius. They don’t understand adult logic and believe their own rules should govern the world.
But that wasn’t the kind of “child prodigy” he wanted. He wanted someone who could be a companion for his younger sibling—someone who felt like his sibling.
Someone with a face devoid of interest, like a nine-tailed fox was curled up inside, like this was their second life, like they had already tasted every pleasure, luxury, wealth, and power this world had to offer.
His younger sibling was just like that. Just five years old, yet with eyes that seemed to have seen fifty years of life.
Even if you put sweets in their mouth or wrapped them in silk, their expression didn’t change. Their eyes looked as if nothing in the world mattered, not even death.
He had always wanted to give such a sibling at least one friend they could open up to—and just like that, a perfect candidate had appeared before his eyes.
He realized this while promising Blanche a reward for cooperation.
This role—being a companion to the imperial prince—if done well, what kind of reward could an emperor give a princess?
A typical three-year-old wouldn’t understand such a proposition. A precocious one might become dazed. But Blanche understood, and she wasn’t even interested.
What kind of three-year-old child shows no interest in candy, chocolate, warm feather duvets, or a life where anything they desire is served at the ring of a bell?
He still didn’t know why—but he knew one thing for certain:
Blanche Roa Vandalouin felt like someone made exactly for his younger sibling.
So, regardless of whether Blanche was interested or not, he intended to surround her with candy, chocolate, silk, and jewels—
—things befitting the companion of an imperial prince.
“…Are you planning to bestow these upon Princess Blanche?”
A shadow broke his train of thought.
The Emperor turned and smiled in satisfaction at the question confirming his intentions.
“Don’t you think it’d be a waste to let such talent rot?”
The shadow had not been permitted to hear the previous conversation. So, of course, they didn’t know why the Emperor was so fond of Blanche.
But objecting wasn’t an option either. So the shadow simply bowed.
“It would indeed be a great honor for the Princess.”
“Let’s hope she sees it that way too.”
The shadow thought he was joking, but the Emperor was being completely serious.
He hadn’t forgotten he was the Emperor of a great empire—nor had he forgotten that Blanche was royalty from a foreign nation.
To send a mere three-year-old as a hostage to another country… those fools. Better if she simply stayed here and settled down—for the sake of his sibling.
With those thoughts, the Emperor continued walking cheerfully.
In the wake of the Emperor’s departure, only exhaustion remained. I slumped back against the chair, unable to even climb down.
“Princess…!”
Tula, who had been waiting outside, rushed in and caught me before I slipped off. Thank goodness. Falling off in this state might have left me seriously hurt.
“Are you alright? Do you have a fever? Are you tired?”
Her concern was appreciated—but there was something I had to say first.
I grabbed her hand, which was gently brushing my cheek and forehead, and said:
“Tua.” (Tula.)
“Yes, Princess? Are you feeling unwell somewhere?”
“Neun nae chaegimida.” (You are my responsibility.)
I didn’t know what Tula would think, since the Kingdom of Lamore seemed to have a looser class system. But I had come from an empire where class hierarchy was rigid and I had spent my life being responsible for others.
Now, I was a princess, and Tula was my nursemaid. That meant she was now one of my people—someone I had to protect.
“Geoni museun iri isseumyeon nareul bureora.”
(So if anything happens, call for me.)
If I hadn’t woken up in time. If my judgment had been a little slower. If the Emperor’s curiosity had not outweighed his anger—Tula could have died. And nothing would have changed.
I had seen too much of that in my past life. Especially at the very end.
So in this life, I didn’t want to go through that again—even if it meant facing death for a second time.
“Nae-ga neol jikyeo-juma.”
(I’ll protect you.)
These were words I had once spoken in my past life too. To my daughter.
I didn’t know if Tula would believe me, unlike my daughter who had trusted me wholeheartedly.
After all, who would take seriously the words of a three-year-old hostage claiming to protect them, no matter how noble their status?
But at the very least, she must’ve sensed I was sincere. I lightly patted the back of Tula’s hesitating hand and smiled gently.
“Geuman jageora.”
(Rest now.)
Tula seemed like she wanted to say something, but in the end, she closed her mouth and withdrew.
Alone once again, I fell into deep thought.
My current goal was simple: to protect the children who had been dragged here because of me.
To do that, I had two options—live like a ghost in silence, or act like someone dangerous to provoke.
The former was already off the table. So the only choice was the latter.
I had to pass the Emperor’s test and forge ties with the Grand Duke.
“Daman, eodikkaji ganaga munjegessgun.”
(But… how far should I go, that’s the question.)
Revealing all your talents isn’t always the right answer. Just like a lost battle can lead to winning a war, not every task has to be a perfect success.
So what was the right move? Should I succeed in this task, or should I fail? Should I reveal my full ability, or conceal it?
Regardless of the outcome, I had to at least appear to try. In that case, what methods should I choose?
I kept pondering until this young body, unable to resist drowsiness, finally drifted off to sleep.
All that overthinking turned out to be unnecessary—the means to act arrived in my hands, disguised as an invitation.
“Tea… par… ty?”
I carefully enunciated the words to avoid slurring, and Tula nodded.
“Yes. Now that all the peace envoys have arrived, Her Majesty the Empress is opening the greenhouse for a celebration.”
Oh ho. Whether it’s a setup to let the pests fight amongst themselves or a subtle warning to behave under watch—it’s a clever move.
And good news for me.
“If you’re still tired from the journey…”
“Gandago dapae.”
(Tell them I’ll attend.)
For me, manipulating people was nothing difficult.
I had once commanded statesmen who were sly as serpents—what challenge would a few naïve young royals be?
All I needed was the chance to meet the remaining three of them. The palace was divided into zones, so running into them by accident wasn’t an option.
How convenient that the chance had presented itself on its own. Even better—it was an opportunity to observe the Empress up close, someone who likely wouldn’t be easy to manipulate. Even if my body broke down, I had to attend.
“Yes, I’ll let them know.”
Tula looked at me with eyes full of concern, but I pretended not to notice. This is all to protect you, my dear.
Upon reading the invitation, I found the date was shockingly soon—today, in fact.
Sure, we were all living within the palace, so moving from place to place didn’t take long—but still, same-day notice? Bit much.
But I had no reason to complain. Drawing negative attention now would only make life harder later.
So I left the job of pointing out such nonsense to the other adults, and merely asked Tula to find me something appropriate to wear to a tea party. After all, no one expects a three-year-old to complain.
Once Tula went to fetch a suitable outfit and I was alone, I organized today’s objective in my mind.
“Ildanun jeongboda.”
(First and foremost, information.)
Ultimately, the biggest problem with this body wasn’t my status—it was the fact that I was still only three years old.
If I were 18… no, even just 13—I could’ve sent invitations to other royals myself, visited the library, or extracted information through conversation.
But who would respond to an invite from a toddler—or discuss international politics with a child whose speech was barely intelligible?
Thus, my information was severely lacking. I didn’t even know the exact number of kingdoms that had sent hostages here.
Something I could’ve figured out in under two hours—if only I were 13.
“Geoni, ireon gihoereul nochyeoseon andwae.”
(So I must not miss this opportunity.)
This tea party—where many people would gather and converse—was incredibly valuable to someone like me. Just listening in would provide tremendous insight.
Even if I couldn’t connect with the other royal hostages yet, I could lay the groundwork by simply showing my face.
So today’s goal wasn’t to recruit them. That could come later.
“Jeongbo sujip. Hwangjok wijo-ro.”
(Information gathering. Focusing on the imperial family.)
With fiery resolve, I clenched my tiny fist. After wielding power for so long, starting from the bottom like this felt… novel.
Not exactly enjoyable—but at least I was feeling motivated again.
