The Yellow-Haired Villain in Soaring Phoenix's Novels Also Desires Happiness

Spring in Belrand came later than in the Holy City.

The last flurry of snow had just ended, and the busy streets were still blanketed with drifts that hadn’t yet melted.

Carriages rumbled hurriedly past, carving deep tracks into the white surface.

Among them was a pure black carriage, unmarked by any family crest or emblem. Even the horse pulling it was an unremarkable gray-black, blending easily into the dreary scenery.

Yet only those with sharp eyes could tell—by the steadiness of the carriage’s movement and the horse’s powerful gait—that this was no ordinary vehicle.

The carriage passed quickly through the busy upper-district streets, down the famous Queen’s Avenue, and then over the Diswent Bridge that linked the upper and lower quarters, entering the slums below.

The mounted guards stationed at the bridge made no attempt to stop it. After all, any carriage coming from the upper district could very well carry a noble far beyond their reach.

Their duty was to question those traveling the other way.

The carriage pressed onward.

The deeper it went into the lower district, the narrower the ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) streets became. Buildings grew lower and more dilapidated, and the thawed snow had turned the ground into a muddy mess, the air thick with a faint stench.

Children in tattered clothing ran through the streets, driving away the cold with their frantic movement. Waving newspapers in their hands, they shouted the day’s headlines to every passerby.

“Give me one.”

A cool, crisp voice sounded from inside the carriage. The passing newsboy flinched, frozen on the spot.

He had never heard such a beautiful voice—like melted snow flowing across smooth river stones, each word a clear musical note.

Though the tone was cold. Cold like the ice fields themselves.

“Two Aimier, thank you.”

The boy nervously drew out his cleanest, newest paper and slipped it through the crack of the carriage curtain, accepting the shining coin from that slender, fair hand with trembling fingers.

Only when the carriage vanished at the end of the road did he come back to his senses, still quivering from the memory of that perfect hand. Then he ran off excitedly to boast to his companions about the noble he had just met.

The carriage rolled on.

After two more streets, it stopped before a building that, by lower-district standards, was almost grand.

Moments later, a middle-aged man rushed out of the building, brushing past confused attendants. Standing respectfully beside the carriage, he asked cautiously,

“Your Highness?”

“Come in.”

The same cold voice replied from within.

The man glanced around, dismissed the servants, and bent to step inside.

The sight that met him made him lose his composure for a brief second.

A girl sat there—her hair silver-white, cascading like the Milky Way. Her willow brows were sharp as blades, even her long lashes frosted white, like delicate hoarfrost.

Her beauty was flawless, godlike—yet in those eyes, half-hidden behind the newspaper, was a chill so deep it froze the air itself.

“Your Highness Princess.”

The man bowed deeply again.

“It has been a long time. I didn’t expect you to come in person.”

“Baron Shaun, sit.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

Shaun sat nervously across from Celicia Leopold. His eyes flicked toward the newspaper she was reading—and upon seeing the bold headline “Duke’s Son Becomes Church’s Honorary Holy Knight: True Merit or Secret Affair?” his heart leapt in panic. He quickly looked away.

“Do you know why I came to see you, Baron Shaun?”

Celicia’s gaze finally lifted from the paper, landing on the man who, in barely a month as lower-district governor, had already stirred up so much trouble.

“Well... I truly don’t know.”

Under that cool, assessing gaze, Shaun forced a wobbly smile.

“To be honest, with my lowly status, I never imagined I’d have the honor of meeting Your Highness. For you to seek me out personally—it’s more than I deserve.”

“You’re the governor of the lower district now. Tens of thousands depend on your words and actions. Don’t speak of yourself as ‘lowly.’”

Celicia’s voice was flat, detached.

“I came because several nobles jointly accused you before my father—claiming that as governor, you embezzled grain meant to be distributed freely to the poor and sold it for profit.”

“This matter is causing quite a stir. Even though my father appointed you directly, he needs an explanation. So...”

Celicia paused.

“Is it true?”

“...His Majesty also believes I stole from the poor?”

“He does not. That’s why I came instead of him.”

Ordinarily, the Princess of the Empire should not have been involved in such a “small” matter.

That she came personally meant there was no one else suitable to handle it.

And given Shaun’s factional ties—and Celicia’s role not only as princess but as a political counterweight—her presence here reflected the Emperor’s intention clearly.

But for that same reason, Celicia needed a solid explanation.

“Yes, Your Highness, I did sell the grain.”

Having realized what this meant, Shaun didn’t hesitate.

“The accusations from those nobles are true.”

Celicia’s icy eyes narrowed.

“Mind your words, Baron Shaun. That’s a grave confession.”

“No—I admit what I did, but I don’t believe it was a crime.”

He loosened his collar and spoke firmly.

“I did it for the people.”

“For the people?”

Celicia tapped her finger lightly against the small table, waiting.

“Your Highness knows that every winter, the price of grain rises.”

“That’s normal—food is scarce in winter.”

“It seems normal, yes. But because of it, every winter many of the poor in the lower district starve to death.”

He paused, meeting her gaze.

“This is Belrand, Your Highness—not anywhere else. Belrand.”

The most prosperous city on the continent, home to over a million souls—yet not one field of farmland within its walls.

Thus, the foundation of life for the countless poor depended on something as small as the price of a loaf of black bread.

“The price of grain should rise in winter—but not that much. You know as well as I do how filthy that business is.”

“Deliberate, malicious price manipulation?” Celicia murmured.

“Yes. That’s exactly why I acted as I did. The grain His Majesty forced from the nobles—if simply handed out for free—wouldn’t last long. Worse, it would create a false sense of scarcity and drive prices even higher.

“So rather than distribute it for free, I put the grain into the market...”

“To suppress the price,” Celicia finished, her cool eyes glinting.

“Yes.”

Shaun smiled faintly. “As expected of Your Highness—truly perceptive.”

“Flattery isn’t necessary.”

Celicia lowered her eyes again to the newspaper.

On its last page, this most popular civilian paper listed current basic commodity prices.

Her gaze scanned quickly and stopped where she wanted.

Black bread—five Aimier per pound.

And last year’s price?

Her excellent memory supplied the number instantly.

Ten Aimier.

Half the cost.

It didn’t seem much, but for the lower-district poor, that small difference of five Aimier was the line between life and death.

“When my carriage passed through the district, I saw many familiar family crests,” Celicia said, looking toward the window.

“Some ‘benevolent’ nobles came down personally to hand out free bread to the poor.”

“Yes. So benevolent.”

Shaun laughed bitterly.

“Those noble lords, descending from their palaces in this cold to feed us wretches for free—why, if I didn’t know better, I’d be moved to tears.

If only I didn’t know they’re the biggest grain merchants in all of Belrand!”

“You did well, Baron Shaun.”

Celicia turned back and nodded approvingly.

“I’ll report everything to my father exactly as it is. You’ll receive the reward you deserve.”

“Your praise honors me.”

Shaun calmed himself and said respectfully,

“But the reward should go elsewhere. If anyone deserves it, it’s Young Master Muen Campbell!”

“Hm?”

Celicia’s silver brows lifted slightly. She hadn’t expected that name here.

“Why?”

“Because I only acted on Young Master Muen’s advice. Even the success of lowering prices was thanks to the Duke’s household support!”

Shaun straightened his back, eyes shining with fervor.

“Young Master Muen truly lives up to being the Lion King’s son—brilliant, composed, modest, charming, gallant, courageous, and wise! Every gesture radiates the noble spirit those filthy nobles could never imitate!

Even if vile slander has stained his reputation a little, his deeds deserve to be remembered by all!”

“......”

Celicia stared at the man before her, suddenly unsure if the Muen Campbell he was praising and the one she knew were even the same person.

“But speaking of him...” Shaun continued, “it seems he’s been away for quite some time.”

Realizing only then that he was speaking to Muen’s fiancée—the princess herself—he smiled lightly.

“He’s been gone so long, Your Highness must be worried.”

“Worried?”

Shaun froze.

The princess’s expression hadn’t changed at all, yet somehow the air inside the carriage turned colder.

“Why should I worry about that man who’s good for nothing except charming women? What is he to me? Even if he dies out there, what difference would it make to me?”

Her tone remained utterly calm—like ice that had never known thaw.

“N–no, I didn’t mean—”

Cold sweat poured down Shaun’s face. He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his brow.

So the rumors were true—the princess really didn’t like her fiancé.

If etiquette allowed, he would have bolted from the carriage that instant.

Luckily, the oppressive chill didn’t last long. A white dove swooped down through the window, breaking the frozen tension.

“A message from the palace? At this hour?”

Celicia frowned slightly, taking the small scroll from the dove’s leg. It was sealed in a way only she could open.

Then... for the first time, Shaun saw something unmistakable on that icy face—an expression of shock.

“My father... is gravely ill?”