CH513 · Rewrite
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Chapter 513: “Magic Hand” Yorko

Roland almost choked.

A pale, slightly overweight man with stubby fingers and a curly Mohawk materialized in his mind—vivid, immediate, as though they had parted only yesterday. He’d nearly forgotten Yorko entirely, but the name called him back at once.

The visit wasn’t surprising, in retrospect. Prince Roland had once been as close to Yorko as a man could be without blood between them. After Tilly’s rejection had sent the prince into bitter self-loathing, after he’d accepted he would never fit into Gerald’s or Timothy’s or Garcia’s circles, Yorko had appeared like a lifeline. He’d brought Roland along to the brothel, given him his first taste of noble pleasures; he’d introduced him to a circle of delinquent companions, granted him a kind of reckless prestige that the palace would never allow. None of it was righteous. But at that time, Yorko had been his closest friend.

Roland might have sent him away. But these memories reminded him that the real Prince Roland would not have done so—and beyond sentiment, he needed someone who could attract the remaining nobility and coax them into service. After a moment’s consideration, he decided to receive the city’s famed “Magic Hand.”

“Bring the knight to my study,” he ordered. “And confiscate his God’s Stone of Retaliation first.”


Returning to the Tower of Crown, Roland soon met his waiting “old friend.”

“Oh my God! Your Majesty—I didn’t expect you to come back so quickly and defeat your demon older brother so easily!” The door hadn’t fully opened before Yorko was through it, arms wide. He gave Roland a warm hug the moment he could reach him. Prince Roland had always called his siblings a clan of demons, and Yorko had enthusiastically endorsed that framing in private.

Roland patted his back in the old familiar way. “I didn’t expect you to come so soon either.”

Yorko’s appearance bore no obvious relation to his title of “Casanova”—average features, a round chin that gave people an inexplicable sense of warmth. But the neatly shaved beard, the spotless attire, the precise cologne, and the legendary technique of his hands all made sense together. Many women had fallen for him, apparently, despite everything.

“I’m different from the others!” Yorko grinned. “Those cowards are still measuring the wind and worrying about Timothy’s remaining strength. But I know you’d never let him off easily!” He clapped his hands. “Now that you’re back—shall we have a drink tonight at the Golden Lane? I could arrange Mrs. Rother or Miss Kingfisher. Ever since that one night, they’ve been missing you.”

A chill passed through Roland’s back. An ice-cold gaze cut through him from behind, aimed directly at Yorko.

Yorko felt it. His voice died mid-sentence; he glanced around in confusion. “How did it get so cold in here?”

“What one-night stand?” Roland objected immediately. “I had nothing to do with them. Whatever they may feel has nothing to do with me.”

Even if it did, it would have something to do with Prince Roland—not with me. What I said is still true. Nightingale shouldn’t be able to tell the difference.

The chill receded.

“Oh? Is that right?” Yorko stroked his chin. “But you obviously spent a night there.”

“It was well past curfew. I had no way back to the palace—I would have had to sleep in the street.” Roland kept his voice steady. “I didn’t do anything that night. Understand?”

A flicker of doubt crossed Yorko’s face, but his smile returned. “Well, forget them, then. Let’s find some new ones tonight. There’s a classier place that opened right across from the Golden Lane—quality like a noble’s private reserve, invitation-only. I haven’t tried it yet myself. For you, there’d be no problem. What do you think?”

“No. I’m staying in the palace tonight.”

“Understood.” Yorko raised his brows knowingly. “The palace attendants are quite something as well. I should teach you my famous stunt first—none of them will forget you afterward.” He sighed with theatrical sincerity. “You used to be so eager to learn, though I thought it might be useless for you back then. But now that you’re about to be king, you’ll have more lovers than I ever did. Energy is limited, Your Majesty—the technique will come in handy.”

“Stop.” Roland nearly clapped a hand over his mouth. He did not want to hear another word of this—did not want to accumulate more of Prince Roland’s history in front of Nightingale. “Listen, friend. I’m different now.”

Yorko blinked. “Of course you are. You’re the king.”

“I don’t mean that.” Roland interrupted, then pulled him close with an arm around the neck, an old gesture that came back naturally. “But you can take it that way too. A king can’t behave the way he used to—you understand? Speaking of which: you didn’t come here just to reminisce. You never did anything without a reason. Tell me what you want. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Yorko laughed, then straightened. “In that case, I’ll be direct. Your Majesty—can you give me an official position?”

“What?”

“Nothing major. Not Treasurer or Minister of Justice.” He patted his broad stomach. “Something like patrol captain. I can promise you the Rats will be obedient under me.”

Roland kept his expression neutral with some effort. The city’s reputation would be in ruins. He’d bring the patrol squad to every brothel in King’s City, use official authority to settle personal grudges with rival Casanovas. It was a genuinely alarming thought.

And yet—if he were given something suitable, Yorko could serve a purpose. He had a clean record, no serious political entanglements, no land to protect. The only real failing was that he couldn’t govern his own desires. The question was what kind of position fit a man like him.

Roland considered for a moment. “There’s no problem giving you an official post. But the specifics need to be worked out with the City Hall—it’s a matter of formal governance.” He clapped the old friend on the shoulder. “I’ll send word when I’ve decided.”

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