Stop Hypnotizing Me, Villainous Princess!

"Your current Succession Ceremony score is... 24 points."

As the voice of the Saint Oak Envoy fell, the reception room suddenly grew so quiet that one could hear a pin drop.

Unprecedented silence blanketed the room, settling in each person’s heart.

Greya felt a sharp jolt of unease.

24 points?

This figure was laughably minuscule compared to the scores of the other eight princes—so small it wouldn't warrant any attention.

Yet, just ten days ago, this number had been -576.

A surge of 600 points in a mere ten days?

Greya couldn’t believe that his own insignificant actions had caused such an immense change. His gaze instinctively turned to Duke Tyrius, the last person to arrive, only to find lingering astonishment and admiration on the Duke's face.

It seemed he had anticipated something extraordinary, but even this outcome exceeded his wildest expectations.

What exactly... happened?

Such confusion swept through everyone’s mind in an instant.

Not only Greya but also Morris, Afia, and the others exchanged looks of shock and delight, their expressions dumbfounded by the unexpected good news.

Even Yveste, who had been sitting silently in her wheelchair, lifted her head slightly. Her silky white hair cascaded gently over her shoulders, down to her waist. A faint trace of surprise flickered in her icy gaze.

“Impossible.”

After a long silence, Second Prince Felit finally spoke.

He wasn’t enraged by Yveste surviving the elimination round; instead, he simply questioned the result itself.

At this moment, Felit furrowed his brows and stood up from the sofa.

Looking at the Saint Oak Envoy, whose expression was equally mixed with shock and confusion, he asked, “What reason did they give for the additional points?”

Clearly, in his view, even with his influence and resources, earning such a high score within ten days would have been nearly impossible. Let alone for Yveste.

This was pure fantasy.

Hearing the question, the Saint Oak Envoy paused for a moment before slowly reading aloud the contents of the parchment:

“The Saint Oak Institution’s reason for the additional points is...

‘Restoring post-disaster order and winning the hearts of the city’s people: +600 points.’”

Absurd.

The word leapt to Felit’s mind the moment he heard the explanation.

Not to mention how ludicrous it was to restore order in such a hopeless city.

And as for winning hearts?

While it was true that commoners could be as easily deceived as animals, that didn’t mean simple tricks could inspire genuine loyalty.

When the Level 0 Sealed Artifact caused a riot, Felit had tried to sway public opinion to earn points from the Saint Oak Institution. Yet his efforts had been completely undone by one of that boy’s remarks.

Then there was “she said this world should never have been defiled”—that scene, as if a miracle, appeared before the crowd. All of Felit’s groundwork had been stolen by Yveste.

But instead of seizing the opportunity to cement her influence, she had remained silent for over a month after the event.

The shock of that moment naturally faded in the people’s minds until it was almost forgotten.

Which was why Felit refused to believe this outcome.

Yet the words came from the Saint Oak Institution, which never erred.

This left him deeply puzzled.

“What did you do?”

He turned to the silent, white-haired woman in the wheelchair, then looked at the Augusta Estate entourage he had once dismissed.

But they too appeared utterly baffled, as if they had no idea what was happening.

If that was the case, the answer had to lie with the last person to arrive.

Taking a deep breath, Felit bowed slightly. “Your Grace, it seems you must be the mastermind behind all this.”

“If so, could you enlighten me? I’m very curious about everything that has happened in the past few days.”

Felit had already executed his spies in Orne City after their failure to provide accurate intelligence on Lynn Bartleon.

The new team hadn’t arrived yet. And given Felit’s tendency to ignore matters that didn’t interest him, he hadn’t paid much attention to recent developments in Orne City.

The Duke of Tyrius glanced at him and said, “What do you think is the city’s most pressing need right now? Or rather, what’s the first step to restoring order?”

Felit answered without hesitation: “Food.”

“After the recent disaster, over 200,000 refugees in the city are homeless and on the brink of survival.”

“To restore order, the chaos must be stopped, and the only way to do that is by filling the bellies of these refugees.”

The Duke of Tyrius smiled. “So, you do understand.”

Felit shook his head. “Understanding is easy. Implementation is nearly impossible.”

“Much of the city’s food supply is controlled by the nobility, sold at exorbitant prices that bleed the commoners dry. Even if the City Council opens its granaries to distribute relief, it’s barely a drop in the ocean for 200,000 mouths.”

“The price control is in their hands. If a family like the Augusta Family tries to lower prices, the other nobles band together to buy out the cheaper stock and resell it at the usual rates.”

“It’s a foolish move, really.”

Hearing this, Greya, standing in the corner, flushed with embarrassment and lowered his head.

But Felit pressed on regardless. “In my opinion, solving the food crisis requires two conditions to be met simultaneously.”

“First, the profiteering nobles must hold enough food to supply all 200,000 refugees.”

“Second, there must be a force strong enough to confiscate that food outright... in other words, to kill.”

“The first condition has already proven impossible.”

“Currently, the surrounding transportation routes have been destroyed and are under emergency repair. Grain shipments from other cities can’t get through, and the nobility’s grain reserves are nearly exhausted. It won’t be long before Orne City descends into cannibalism,” Felit said coldly.

“This bottleneck leaves us with no options. Without enough grain, it’s an unsolvable problem.

“As for the second point… Duke, over half of the 8,000 elite troops you brought with you perished in the Level 0 Sealed Artifact riot.

“The reinforcements you urgently summoned are still en route and won’t arrive in Orne City within ten days.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, given the current circumstances, you simply don’t have the means to meet the second condition.”

“After all, the local nobles aren’t helpless sheep. If you attempt to forcibly confiscate their estates, their collective resistance would be formidable.

“And even if you dared to carry out mass confiscations or executions without valid justification, the Imperial Capital would never allow it.

“To them, the commoners—worthless like pigs or dogs—can die as they please. But how dare anyone demand a blood sacrifice from those lofty nobles?”

The Duke of Tyrius remained silent for a brief moment before nodding slightly. “You’re... not wrong.”

Frankly, this trip to Orne City had almost stripped him of all dignity as an Elector Count.

First came the incident with the Divine Order Church, where his hands were tied. It was only thanks to that young man that he salvaged some honor.

Now, this second disaster—originally a perfect opportunity to deal with those profiteering nobles before order was restored—had been derailed by his military’s incompetence.

He had assumed his force of 8,000 personal guards was enough to dominate Orne City. Who could have foreseen the riot caused by the Level 0 Sealed Artifact?

It wasn’t his fault; it was an act of fate.

“So, without meeting either condition, how exactly did you achieve this?”

Felit stared intently at the Duke of Tyrius, his confusion mounting.

He trusted the Saint Oak Institution’s impartiality, which made the results even harder to comprehend.

Given the Duke’s methods, he shouldn’t have been able to pull this off.

“I know what you’re thinking.” The Duke suddenly chuckled and shook his head. “To be honest, even I had doubts about many details before the final results were revealed.

“Indeed, this was not my doing. Not a single soldier under my command was involved.”

“Impossible.” Felit shook his head vehemently.

Among those present, only Tyrius had the capability to accomplish this.

Aside from him, the rest of these good-for-nothings could never have earned 600 points in ten days.

Unless... that person was still alive.

The moment the thought occurred, a spark of realization flashed in Felit’s mind.

Wait a second.

From the very beginning, no one had definitively claimed—whether through intelligence reports or whispered rumors—that Lynn Bartleon had died in the disaster.

Everyone had simply assumed, based on preconceived notions, that a lowly First-Rank Extraordinary couldn’t have survived the Level 0 Sealed Artifact riot.

But... what if he had?

Felit, quick-witted as ever, instinctively turned his gaze toward the Duke of Tyrius.

The faint smile tugging at the Duke’s lips confirmed his suspicions.

“It seems all of you have forgotten someone,” the Duke remarked with a hint of amusement.

“Besides… haven’t you noticed how noisy it’s been outside since earlier?” The Duke suddenly turned to Greya, who stood frozen near the window. “Boy, draw the curtains.”

Greya remained rooted in place, his mind still processing the Duke’s words.

Could it be…

No, impossible.

If that person were alive, why had there been no trace of him for over a month?

Wait!

Given that man’s personality and methods, no trace was the best answer, wasn’t it?

In that instant, a strange premonition arose in everyone’s hearts, including Greya’s.

Even Yveste’s once-lifeless crimson eyes now gleamed faintly, flickering with an intense, almost deranged heat.

With trembling hands, Greya yanked the curtains aside.

All eyes turned toward the window.

From the third-floor reception room, their gazes fell upon the sprawling grounds of the Augusta Estate. What they saw left them utterly stunned.

A massive crowd, too numerous to count, had gathered outside the estate.

Thousands? Tens of thousands? Or perhaps… hundreds of thousands?

An unending sea of people filled every visible street, alley, and open space.

The crowd raised their hands high, their bright, tear-filled eyes brimming with gratitude and reverence.

Even through the glass and walls, the voices of the masses reached those inside the reception room.

A single name rose above the rest, echoing across the estate.

“Yveste!”

The citizens called out the name of the Saint Roland Empire’s Third Princess in unison.

Words like “Your Highness,” “beloved,” “great,” and “Saint Roland VII” interspersed their chants.

It was as though they stood before their future monarch.

A monarch they would follow to the ends of the earth, even offering up their hearts.

The sheer scale and fervor of the moment overwhelmed both the senses and the spirit, sweeping through the reception room like a tidal wave.

Felit instinctively took half a step back.

Not even he, the first-ranked prince in the Succession Ceremony, had ever been praised so passionately by the masses. He had only seen such devotion during his father, Saint Roland VI’s, ceremonial tours.

How… was this possible?

A surge of absurdity washed over Felit’s heart.

Yet at this very moment, even Yveste herself failed to realize that her delicate, pale fingers had unconsciously clenched into a tight fist.

The heart she thought had long withered and died suddenly began to race.

The scene before her was something she had dreamed of countless times over the years but had always believed to be unattainable.

And now, it had appeared before her in a way she had never dared to imagine.

Within reach.

Yveste stared blankly out the window at the spectacle unfolding below, only to notice a carriage slowly parting the crowd as it made its way toward the Augusta Estate.

The carriage drew closer and closer, gradually slowing before finally coming to a stop on the road below.

For no discernible reason, everyone’s heartbeat seemed to skip a beat.

The next moment, the carriage door was gently pushed open.

A tall, black-haired youth stepped out of the cabin.

As though sensing the fiery gazes from above, the boy tilted his head back, his lips curling into a familiar smile as he looked toward the third floor.

“Everyone,” he called out cheerfully, “long time no see!”