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The Gilded Crown: The Rise Of The Bastard Prince
By: Tessy BenUpdated just now
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Arthur Vance was a titan of modern industry—a ruthless corporate strategist who mastered the art of the hostile takeover. But when a betrayal ends his life in the 21st century, he wakes up in the body of Julian Valerius, the disgraced, "waste" illegitimate son of a dying Emperor. In a world governed by ancient steel and noble bloodlines, Julian is a man with a target on his back. His six half-brothers, each a powerful warlord or cunning politician, have already signed his death warrant to secure their path to the throne. He has no army, no wealth, and a reputation as a drunken fool. But he has a mind the medieval world isn't prepared for. Using his knowledge of modern economics, chemical engineering, and psychological warfare, Julian begins his ascent from the mud of the slums. He turns sour grain into Liquid Gold, a distilled spirit that corrupts the empire’s elite and funds his private shadow army. He recruits Elena Vance, a legendary but betrayed General, turning her into the sword that will carve his path to glory. He builds a network of "Rats"—the beggars and outcasts—creating the first global intelligence agency in history. As the Empire spirals into a bloody civil war, Julian doesn't just fight for survival; he executes a takeover. From the smoke of the slums to the gold of the high court, the "Waste Prince" will prove that in the face of modern logic, even the strongest crown is nothing more than gilded lead. Witness the birth of an Empire where gold speaks louder than swords, and a bastard's shadow looms over the world.
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Chapter 1
Chapter 1: The Wine-Soaked Corpse
The smell of stale ale and vomit was the first thing Julian felt. Or rather, the man who was Julian.
In his previous life, he was Arthur Vance, a man who moved markets with a phone call and collapsed regimes with a whisper. He had died in a high-rise office in Manhattan, a silencer’s bullet through his temple. He expected darkness. He expected the void. He did not expect a splitting headache and the feeling of cold stone beneath his cheek. "Look at him," a sneering voice drifted from above. "The Emperor’s 'Little Mistake' can’t even hold his liquor. How fitting that he dies in his own filth." Arthur opened his eyes. His vision was a blurred mess of flickering torchlight and shadows. He wasn't in New York. He was in a drafty, damp hall that smelled of wet dogs and burning tallow. He tried to push himself up, but his arms felt like twigs. His hands were pale, thin, and trembling. This wasn't his body. This was the body of a boy—perhaps nineteen—dressed in silk rags that had seen better decades. "Finish it, Marek," another voice whispered, colder than the first. "The First Prince wants no loose ends before the bells toll for our Father's passing. A 'drunken fall' down the cellar stairs should suffice." Arthur’s mind, honed by years of corporate warfare, snapped into focus. Assassination. Succession. Disgraced lineage. He didn't know where he was, but he knew the script. He was the expendable pawn. A heavy boot slammed into his ribs. Arthur—now Julian—gasped, the pain searing and very, very real. "Get up, Your Highness," the man named Marek mocked, reaching down to grab Julian by his greasy hair. Marek was a mountain of a man, clad in boiled leather armor with a rusted crest of a lion on his chest. "Let's take a walk to the stairs." Julian felt his scalp burn as he was hauled upward. His feet dragged on the stone. He looked around the room. It was a cellar. Barrels of sour wine lined the walls. A single iron candle-holder sat on a small wooden table nearby. Think, Julian hissed to himself. He’s bigger, stronger, but he’s arrogant. "Please..." Julian rasped, his voice cracking. "I have... I have gold hidden. In the large cask." Marek paused, his eyes glinting with greed. "Gold? The 'Waste Prince' has gold? You spent your last copper on cheap whore-houses months ago." "My mother's... dowry," Julian choked out, pointing a trembling finger toward a massive oak barrel in the shadows. "Hidden in the false bottom. Take it. Just let me live." Marek looked at his partner by the door. The other guard shrugged. "Check it. If he's lying, I'll break his neck myself." Marek dropped Julian like a sack of grain. He stepped toward the barrel, his back turned for a split second. It was the only window Julian needed. In the modern world, Arthur Vance had studied Krav Maga not for sport, but for survival. He knew that the weak only win by being more vicious than the strong. Julian didn't go for the gold. He lunged for the heavy iron candle-holder. His new body was weak, but adrenaline is a powerful equalizer. He didn't stand up; he rolled, grabbing the iron base and swinging it with every ounce of his borrowed life. CRACK. The iron met Marek’s Achilles tendon. The giant let out a guttural scream as his leg gave way. As he tumbled, Julian didn't hesitate. He didn't wait for a fair fight. He drove the jagged, wax-covered point of the candle-holder into the soft flesh of Marek's throat. Blood, hot and metallic, sprayed across Julian’s face. The guard by the door gasped, reaching for his sword. "You—you dog!" Julian stood up, wiping the blood from his eyes with a silk sleeve. His heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, but his gaze was ice-cold. He didn't look like a drunkard anymore. He looked like a predator. "One is dead," Julian said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight of authority that shouldn't belong to a bastard prince. "If you run now, you might live to see the sunrise. If you stay, I'll make sure they never find your body in this cellar." The guard hesitated. He looked at Marek, twitching on the floor, then at the "Waste Prince" who stood amidst the shadows like a resurrected demon. Fear, sharp and sudden, took hold. The guard turned and bolted into the darkness of the upper hallway. Julian slumped against the wine barrel, his lungs burning. He looked at his blood-stained hands and let out a dry, jagged laugh. "The Valerius Empire," he whispered, memories of this new life finally beginning to flood his brain like an incoming tide. "Six brothers. One throne. And a kingdom rotting from the inside out." . He straightened his tattered tunic, stepping over Marek’s corpse. "Well," Julian smirked, his eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "I always did enjoy a hostile takeover."Expand
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The Gilded Crown: The Rise Of The Bastard Prince Chapter 112: The Iron Pry
The sound of the "Great Thaw" was not a gentle trickle. It was a deep, rhythmic booming that lived in the very bones of the mountain. As the sun finally gained enough strength to melt the high mountain caps, the underground river that fed the Southern Hub began to roar. But the water wasn't flowing freely. A massive "Ice-Jam"—a jagged wall of frozen slush, uprooted trees, and boulders—had wedged itself into the narrow throat of the lower canyon. The river was backing up fast, and the icy grey water was already beginning to seep into the storage tunnels where the last of the winter grain was kept.Julian stood on a slippery rock ledge, the spray from the churning water soaking his fur coat until it weighed a hundred pounds. He looked down into the dark, foaming mess. If that jam didn't break, the lower Hub would be under three feet of freezing water by nightfall. The grain would rot, the fires would be doused, and the "Human Era" would drown in its own backyard. He didn't have a "The
Last Updated : 2026-03-02The Gilded Crown: The Rise Of The Bastard Prince Chapter 111: The Iron Grave
The mid-winter feast was supposed to be a time of stories and rest. The smell of roasted roots and salted meat filled the Hub, and for a few hours, the freezing wind outside felt like a distant memory. But the peace was broken when a group of Out-Liners returned from a scouting trip in the lower tunnels. They weren't carrying firewood or game. They were carrying heavy, black crates made of a metal that didn't rust—a metal Julian recognized instantly. It was the "Matte-Steel" of the old corporate security forces.Inside the crates lay rows of "Pulse-Carbines." They weren't powered by the sun or the wind; they were fueled by old, volatile chemical cells. To the Out-Liners, who had lived their lives in the dirt, these weren't just tools. They were gods. They were a way to never be hungry or afraid again."With these, Julian, we don't have to worry about the 'Glass Barrens' or the 'Red Fever'!" the scarred leader of the Out-Liners shouted, his eyes wide with a feverish light. He held a
Last Updated : 2026-03-02The Gilded Crown: The Rise Of The Bastard Prince Chapter 110: The Wet Hearth
The first real snow of the deep winter didn't fall softly. It came with a heavy, wet thud against the stone mouth of the Southern Hub. Inside, the central fire was the heartbeat of the community, but that morning, the heartbeat was skipping. Julian woke up to the smell of damp smoke and the sound of hissing wood. He walked over to the main woodpile and felt the logs. They weren't crisp and dry; they were soaked through with a cold, oily moisture. He looked up and saw a thin, dark crack in the cave ceiling where the melting ice from a hidden spring was leaking directly into their fuel."If this fire goes out, Julian, the 'Red Fever' will be the least of our worries," Silas said, his breath visible in the cooling air. He was trying to blow a spark into a handful of damp shavings, but all he got was a bitter, grey cloud. "The Hub is a stone box. Without the heat, the walls will start to sweat, and the children will freeze in their sleep. We have maybe four hours of good coals left."J
Last Updated : 2026-03-02The Gilded Crown: The Rise Of The Bastard Prince Chapter 109: The Rule of the Bone
The Hub was buzzing. It was the first real "Market Day," and the air was thick with the smell of smoked fish and dried corn. After the long trek for salt and the hard work at the forge, people finally had things to trade. Julian stood on a high stone ledge, watching the crowd. Men and women were holding their carved bone tokens tight in their hands. They weren't just pieces of bone anymore; they were a promise that if you worked, you ate.But the peace didn't last. A loud shout broke through the chatter near the grain bins. A man named Korg—a massive, broad-shouldered worker from the old mining pits—was towering over a young weaver. Korg’s face was red with anger, and he was clutching a handful of bone tokens that looked too clean, too perfect."This is a lie!" Korg roared, his voice bouncing off the cave walls. "I spent all week hauling rocks for these, and now this girl says her cloth is worth three of them? I say my strength is worth more than her string!"The young weaver was s
Last Updated : 2026-03-01The Gilded Crown: The Rise Of The Bastard Prince Chapter 108: The Salt Trail
The summer was breathing its last, but it was a dying breath that carried the scent of dust and fire. The Council had realized a terrifying truth: the harvest they had fought so hard to save would be gone in a month if they couldn't preserve it. They had no "Cryo-Lockers" or "Preservative-Gels." They needed salt, and they needed it in quantities the Hub couldn't provide. Julian remembered an old geological survey from his days as a CEO—a map of the "Glass Barrens," a stretch of desert fifty miles to the east where an ancient sea had dried up, leaving a crust of pure white salt."The Glass Barrens aren't just a desert, Julian," Elena said, her eyes fixed on the shimmering horizon. She was sharpening a bone-handled knife, her movements slow and deliberate. "The sand there was fused by the old 'Exodus' rocket launches. It’s a sea of jagged crystals. If you fall, you don't get a bruise; you get flayed."Julian looked at the small caravan he had assembled: twenty people, ten mules, and a
Last Updated : 2026-03-01The Gilded Crown: The Rise Of The Bastard Prince Chapter 107: The Iron Forge
The silence of the old industrial sector was the heaviest thing about it. For decades, this place had been a cathedral of automation, a sprawling complex of "Smart-Foundries" that could spit out precision-engineered alloys at the touch of a button. Now, those machines were nothing but rusted, hollowed-out carcasses. The "Master-Forge" was a tomb of silent wires and dead screens. Julian stood in the center of the main floor, his boots crunching on layers of iron filings and grey ash. He didn't have a "Power-Grid" to wake the sleeping giants, and he didn't have the "Permissions" to access the digital furnaces."We aren't here to wake the machines, Silas," Julian said, his voice echoing off the high, corrugated steel ceiling. He was looking at a massive pile of discarded girders and broken engine blocks—high-grade scrap that the "Audit" had deemed too inefficient to recycle. "We’re here to melt them down. We’re going back to the fire."The task was monumental. They had to build a "Bloo
Last Updated : 2026-03-01
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