The Crown Prince Who Raises a Side Character-Chapter 67: Phantom Thief Dauphin (11). Worth

“H-He fell in!! Should we jump in after him?”

“In the middle of the night?! We won’t find anything in that water! Get more people! Wait above—if he floats to the surface, we catch him immediately!”

While the other guards were panicking and scrambling to fish Dauphin out of the river, Dahlia stood alone, staring at the water with a deeply displeased expression.

It wasn’t because her attack had failed.

It wasn’t even because she hadn’t caught him.

What truly bothered her was the reaction Dauphin had shown moments ago.

When she’d charged through the vortex, Dauphin had clearly panicked and tried to weaken the attack.

Worried ◆ Nоvеlіgһt ◆ (Only on Nоvеlіgһt) that Dahlia might be seriously injured by his own spell, he’d ended up hesitating—so much so that he failed to properly defend against her counterstrike, which he might have avoided otherwise.

Didn’t that just make her counterattack feel like she’d exploited someone’s concern to land a cheap shot?

If Dauphin had heard her thoughts, he probably would’ve laughed and said, “If someone leaves an opening in battle because they got distracted, that’s on them, isn’t it?”—and meant it.

But for someone like Dahlia, who had always drawn clean lines between duty and principle, it wasn’t so simple.

“S-Squad Captain! Is it over? Did you take him out for sure?”

The target Dauphin had gone after—the spoiled heir of a noble family—came running up the moment he was sure the fighting had ended, frantically questioning her.

Dahlia replied in her usual flat tone.

“...At minimum, one arm’s broken. Maybe even some ribs.”

“Ha ha! Good! Excellent! I’d heard your skills were impressive, but I didn’t expect this! If he hit the water with a busted arm, he might not even make it out! Would serve him right if he drowned!!”

Apparently thrilled beyond words, the young noble switched between praising Dahlia and cursing Dauphin in rapid succession.

And out of the corner of her eye, Dahlia caught sight of something.

A boy in ragged clothes, staring blankly at the river where Dauphin had fallen.

Then, as if snapping out of a trance, the boy turned—and glared with open resentment at both the noble heir and at Dahlia, who was now being praised by him.

He didn’t seem to realize that, beneath her visor, Dahlia was looking straight at him.

“This isn’t over yet. You should go back,” Dahlia said.

She subtly shifted the noble’s attention away, making sure he didn’t notice the boy.

Whether it was her words or a renewed sense of unease, the noble gave the river one last nervous glance—then hurried off behind her.

Dahlia looked up at the sky.

She had fulfilled her duty. Protected a threatened target. Fought off the criminal.

And yet, the moon above seemed to scold her, making her lower her eyes in silence.

***

In the end, Dauphin was never found.

The guards clung to a half-hopeful, half-deluded explanation—that he’d drowned from his injuries after falling into the river.

Public opinion, however, was split down the middle.

The upper class celebrated... but couldn’t shake their unease over the missing body.

The lower class despaired—or refused to believe that Dauphin had gone out so easily, and spread rumors that he was still alive.

And once again, a day off arrived for Dahlia.

Dressed in plainclothes, she left her dorm, lost in thought.

Where should I go?

Back then, she would’ve taken a “casual stroll,” wandering the city under the pretense of patrol—still working, even on her day off.

Maybe she would’ve checked whether guards from other squads were taking out their frustrations on the locals.

But now, walking through the commoners’ districts didn’t feel so easy anymore.

The face of that old woman who’d condemned her... and the eyes of that boy who’d glared at her—neither had faded from memory.

Not many could recognize the captain of the 8th Platoon by face alone, but it wasn’t impossible. The old woman had done it.

If she showed up in the slums or poor districts now, all it would do was stir up unnecessary conflict.

If she went to the upper-class district, she'd be welcomed... but then she’d inevitably be asked for favors—pleas to prioritize their safety first.

So she wavered. Unsure. Hesitant to go anywhere.

She thought about just going back to the barracks. Maybe resting there.

But that would probably just worry the others in her squad.

They’d probably tell her to enjoy her hobby or something. But truth be told, her job and her daily life were so entangled that...

“...Ah.”

There was one thing.

Calling it a hobby was—no, it was more than a little humiliating.

But still, it was something she could do. Something not driven by duty or obligation, but genuine enjoyment.

“I should repay the favor anyway.”

She mumbled to herself—unclear whether it was a statement or an excuse—and made her way to his house.

Right on the edge between the upper-class district and everywhere else.

Too modest to be called a noble estate, but far too fine for a regular commoner.

Dahlia stood at the gate, looking at it like it was the entrance to a battlefield, then raised her hand and rang the bell beside the door.

A clear chime echoed. She waited.

“...Hm? Oh.”

The man who casually opened the door—completely unaffected by her presence—smiled softly when he saw her face.

“Welcome, milady. I’m glad you didn’t forget our appointment.”

“...Yeah. Well.”

She gave a small, cautious nod—though her eyes instantly flicked to his right arm.

Seeing him open and close the door with that arm, using it without trouble, Dahlia finally relaxed her shoulders.

Thank goodness. It really was all in my head.

This translation is the intellectual property of Novelight.

The man tilted his head, noticing the subtle change in her expression.

“Did something good happen? Oh, right—I heard you had quite the achievement again. Was it that?”

“...No, not that.”

“I see. Well, come in, then.”

From there, it unfolded just like last time.

He brought up several bold, even outrageous arguments. Dahlia countered, organizing her thoughts and emotions as she responded.

But this time, it wasn’t exactly the same.

Mixed in with the usual debate were pieces of Dahlia’s own story.

She had never been one to speak about herself.

Even within the 8th Platoon, only a few veterans who’d been with her for years knew much about her past.

So to share anything with a man she’d only met once before—it should’ve been unthinkable.

And yet, somehow, in front of him, the words came easily.

Maybe it was just that... she needed a way to unburden herself from all the pressure and stress she’d been carrying lately.

“You know... I’ve been strong since I was a child. I don’t know how else to say it, but... it wasn’t normal.”

Even as a little girl, she could overpower adults in contests of strength. She never caught any of the dangerous illnesses that often claimed young children.

Her body was so unnaturally tough that even falling from a second-story window hadn’t left her with a single scratch.

“My dad—uhm. I mean, my father...”

“You can just say ‘Dad.’ That’s fine.”

“...Dad was flustered, but I was happy. He was the kind of man with a terrible case of wanderlust—an ordinary child wouldn’t have been able to keep up or would’ve just gotten in the way. But I could.”

Dahlia had once had a knife to her throat, held hostage by bandits trying to capture her.

She’d been hit by a stray arrow while protecting civilians caught in the crossfire between two feuding territories.

She’d even been bitten by a pack of wolves that had developed a taste for human flesh after attacking traveling merchants.

Each of those incidents should have been fatal for a child. But Dahlia had come out of them unharmed—at worst, a few scrapes or bruises.

“But to everyone else... that was creepy. People called me a monster. Said I was a witch who’d shapeshifted. Some even claimed I wasn’t human at all—just a monster pretending to be one. And then Dad told me, ‘Dahlia, your body isn’t monstrous or strange. It’s a gift from the gods above, meant to protect people. So ignore the nonsense those fools spout.’”

After attempting an imitation of her father’s voice—which didn’t sound like him at all—Dahlia chuckled quietly.

“That was the only time I ever heard him call the people he protected ‘fools.’ Normally, even when they were thankless or rude, he was the gentlest man alive. But he couldn’t stand hearing someone insult his daughter.”

“Hm.”

The man across from her paused as if choosing his words, then asked:

“Is that why you became a guard? Because you were born strong, and you wanted to use that strength to protect others?”

“Half, yeah. The other half was just survival. I had to make a living.”

“There was always the adventurer’s path. From what I understand, the adventurer guilds here in the Birka Kingdom originally began as community defense forces. That’s also a way to help people, isn’t it?”

“I don’t really like adventurers.”

Dahlia muttered, her expression souring.

“They show up to kill monsters for pay, but act like they’re doing us a favor. Some get treated badly by lords and take it out on the townspeople by half-assing the job. Some switch to banditry when the money runs dry. They talk all big about ‘freedom’ and ‘resisting the nobles,’ but at the end of the day, they’re just thugs swinging weapons around for their own gain.”

“I... I see.”

“There are a few that come through Lebruk sometimes. We guards and the adventurers basically hate each other. They say we’re just lackeys groveling to nobles because we can’t make it on our own. Like they’re any better—living day to day without a stable paycheck.”

The man looked oddly flustered.

Dahlia frowned, wondering if she’d said something inappropriate. Then it dawned on her:

Is he an adventurer? Or somehow connected to them?

If that was the case, she’d just insulted him to his face. She felt a twinge of guilt.

After a couple awkward coughs, she added:

“Anyway... yeah, I don’t like adventurers. But I know not all of them are bad. When I heard the guild took down the lich without negotiating with the nobles first, a lot of us in the squad said good things about them. If they hadn’t moved quickly, the whole kingdom might’ve been in danger.”

“Yes. The courage and dedication of those who make such difficult choices deserve proper recognition. If goodwill becomes a punchline and those who mock it are seen as wise... then the world we live in is worse than a sewer.”

Dahlia flinched.

She remembered how, in squads other than her own, some had mocked the lich operation, calling those adventurers “idiots playing heroes who got themselves killed.”

She’d sensed this bitter feeling about her job growing lately—doubts, regrets—and now that vague unease was becoming clearer by the day. She sighed again.

Noticing her change in mood, the man gently shifted the conversation.

“Then... did you learn your combat skills from your father?”

“Spear techniques and magic enhancement, yeah. I can infuse my weapon with magic for a second or two, but that’s it. It’s only enough to activate the length-adjusting function on my spear. I can’t use sword energy or anything like that.”

Hearing this, the man asked softly:

“Would you mind letting me see your hand for a moment?”

“...? Sure.”

Dahlia held out her hand, and he placed his own over it.

She looked around awkwardly, unsure what to do in the silence, but the man was fully focused on the sensation of her hand and didn’t notice.

A moment later, he let out a breathy chuckle.

He now understood what her father must have felt when he realized what kind of body his daughter had been born with.

He must have been happy. But probably dumbfounded, too.

There’s a concept known as magical energy cultivation.

By circulating magic through the body in a specific way, it’s possible to increase one’s total magic reserves or grant unique traits to that magic. It's a technique practiced by elite warrior families and knights' orders across the continent.

Such families often guard these methods as precious secrets—because magical energy cultivation can also change the body itself.

More strength. A more durable physique. Stamina that doesn’t run out.

To any warrior, these traits are invaluable. Those who can cultivate them gain a clear advantage over those who can’t.

But now, consider a hypothesis.

Magical energy cultivation requires deliberate control—magic flowing through the body along precise paths, following exact patterns.

But what if, instead of guiding it consciously, your magic just naturally flowed in the ideal way—without you even realizing it?

What if someone had been receiving the full benefits of a technique that takes others decades to learn... since the day they were born?

It’s not impossible—but it’s rare.

Even the slightest deviation in a cultivation path can ruin everything. Learning it wrong is often worse than not using it at all.

It’s like throwing tens of thousands of dominoes into the air and having them land in a perfectly shaped mural without anyone arranging them.

But what if someone did land like that?

What if someone was just born with a body like that?

With just a little observation and refinement, one could copy that natural magical flow—and build a full knight order around it.

It wouldn’t work for everyone.

Dahlia, after all, had reached the level of a fifth-rank lower-tier warrior without even using sword energy, solely through raw physical ability.

Others probably wouldn’t achieve her efficiency.

But still—this was power that could be passed to the powerless.

If someday he gave her this gift... what would she do with it?

The man found himself wondering about that future.

But he didn’t rush. He knew the gift wouldn’t be ready for a while yet—and even if it was, giving it to her before she’d resolved the issues in her heart would only burden her further.

Still, it had been a valuable discovery.

And smiling faintly, he thought to himself: it had been worth the pain of forcing his right arm to move with the support of his suit.