Release that Witch Chapter 1 From today onwards, I am a Royal Prince

Chapter 1: From today onwards, I am a Royal Prince

Cheng Yan felt a voice summoning him.

“Your Highness, please wake up...”

He shifted his head aside, yet the noises refused to fade; in fact, they intensified. Moments later, a soft pull on his sleeve reached him.

“Your Highness, my Royal Prince!”

Cheng Yan’s eyes flew open. The familiar office vanished—his desk, the walls plastered with sticky notes—all gone, supplanted by an alien scene. A circular plaza ringed by modest brick dwellings filled his sight, with gallows rising ominously at its heart. He occupied a seat opposite the execution platform, not cushioned by his swivel chair, but perched on a frigid metal throne. Beside him sat a cluster of onlookers fixated on him. Some donned attire reminiscent of medieval nobility from Western films, stifling their chuckles.

What in the world? Wasn’t I hurrying to complete my mechanical designs before the cutoff? Cheng Yan wondered in bewilderment. For three straight days of overtime, exhaustion had drained both mind and body. He faintly recalled his pulse faltering, yearning only to slump over his desk for a brief rest...

“Your Highness, please declare your ruling.”

The voice belonged to the sleeve-tugger, an elderly man in his fifties or sixties, clad in a white robe. He resembled Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings at first look.

Am I trapped in a dream? Cheng Yan pondered, moistening his parched lips. Ruling? What ruling?

A swift scan cleared his daze. Everyone around stared toward the plaza’s center, the gallows. Townsfolk packed the square, brandishing fists, yelling, and hurling sporadic stones at the scaffold and its occupant.

Cheng Yan had witnessed such archaic death devices only in films. The structure featured two upright posts soaring roughly four meters from an elevated platform, linked by a horizontal beam midway along which dangled a stout yellow hemp rope. One rope end fastened to the frame, the other forming a noose encircling a captive’s neck.

Within this bizarre dream, Cheng Yan marveled at his sharp vision. Normally requiring glasses to read screen text, he now discerned every gallows detail from fifty meters away, bare-eyed.

The figure on the gallows wore a hood shrouding the head, hands bound behind. Filthy gray rags clung to a skeletal form so gaunt that an ankle seemed graspable in one hand. By the slight chest swell, Cheng Yan deemed it a woman, trembling in the cold gust yet striving to stand tall against her doom.

Fine, Cheng Yan mused inwardly, what misdeed earned this woman such furious public wrath, awaiting her hanging with seething animosity?

Suddenly, Cheng Yan’s memories surged forth, unveiling the scenario’s root and answering his query simultaneously.

She was a “witch”.

Deemed corrupted by demonic lures, branded as evil’s embodiment.

“Your Highness?” The Gandalf-like figure prompted warily.

Cheng Yan eyed the elder. His fresh memories clarified: not Gandalf, but Barov, Assistant Minister of Finance, sent by Roland’s father to aid territorial rule.

Cheng Yan embodied the Fourth Prince of Graycastle Kingdom, Roland, dispatched to oversee this borderland. Locals had captured the witch, handing her straight to guards for judgment. Judgment? Nay, rushed to sentencing sans defense. Local lords or bishops typically supervised witch executions, yet as this land’s governor, the duty now fell to him.

Cheng Yan’s memories responded to his questions one after another, no sifting or scanning required—they felt utterly like his personal history. He felt a flash of bewilderment; no mere dream could hold such vivid specifics. Then a thought struck Cheng Yan: could this not be a dream? Had he truly traversed time to medieval Europe’s grim era, becoming Roland? Overnight, from a humble mechanical engineer lost in schematics to the exalted Fourth Prince?

This desolate, primitive stretch of land belonged to the Kingdom of Graycastle, a realm unknown to any history books he recalled.

So, how should I manage this? Cheng Yan pondered silently.

Cheng Yan resolved to investigate the impossible feat of time-space travel later; his urgent priority lay in halting the ridiculous drama unfolding before him. Pinning their woes and catastrophes on these “witches” smacked of savage ignorance. He simply couldn’t stoop to the idiocy of executing someone just to placate the staring throng.

Snatching the official decree from Barov, he hurled it to the floor and drawled slowly, “I’m feeling tired, we will give our judgement another day. Court dismissed, now disperse people!”

Cheng Yan realized recklessness was off-limits, so he delved cautiously into the memories, emulating the original prince’s demeanor. He needed to perpetuate the ex-prince’s playboy antics and scoundrel ways. Precisely—the Fourth Prince was a rotten sort, with a foul disposition, acting on whims without heed for fallout. In any case, Cheng Yan reflected, could they truly demand propriety from a headstrong youth in his twenties?

The nobles seated alongside him stayed composed amid his shocking announcement, but a burly figure in full armor rose to challenge, “Your Highness, this isn’t a joke! All known witches should be put to death immediately upon being identified, or other witches might be tempted to try and save her! Do you want to force the church to get involved when they hear that we have allowed a witch to live? We have no choice in this matter!”

This striking fellow, Carter, was in fact his Knight Commander. Cheng Yan scowled and retorted, “Why? Are you scared?” Mockery laced his tone openly, and it wasn’t all pretense. A brute whose arm outmatched the “witch’s” waist in girth, quaking at a jailbreak by females? Were witches truly the devil’s minions? “Wouldn’t it be better to catch more witches than to settle for only one?”

Noting Carter’s silence, Cheng Yan beckoned his personal guards with a wave and departed. Carter paused briefly before descending to join the guards marching beside the Fourth Prince. The remaining nobles stood, offering homage, yet Cheng Yan detected blatant scorn in the spectators’ stares.

Upon returning to the keep—Border Town’s castle lay to the south—he brushed off the fretting Minister Barov at his chamber door, finally sighing in relief alone.

For someone who’d conducted ninety percent of interactions via computer, confronting the assembly as he had stretched beyond his limits. Drawing from fresh memories, Cheng Yan pinpointed his bedroom, slumped onto the bed, and savored true respite while steadying his racing heart. Right now, grasping the full picture mattered most. Why had the prince, barred from the kingdom’s capital Wimbledon City, been exiled to this godforsaken spot?

The shocking truth he unearthed left him dumbfounded.

Roland Wimbledon had been dispatched here to contend for the throne.

All stemmed from King Wimbledon III of Graycastle’s audacious decree to his progeny: “You want to inherit the kingdom? The first-born prince doesn’t necessarily have the right to become king, only the person who proves themselves as the most capable of governing can inherit the country.” He assigned sundry domains to his five children, planning to name the successor after five years by their prowess in ruling those lands.

Transforming the throne's succession into a contest of merit and offering equal chances irrespective of gender appeared as highly progressive notions, yet the core issue resided in their practical execution. Was there assurance that all five princes began under identical circumstances? This bore no resemblance to commanding units in a real-time strategy game. From what he knew, the second son had received a far superior domain compared to this remote border town. Upon closer reflection, it struck him that none of the other four territories assigned to them fell short of his forsaken frontier outpost. Undoubtedly, his launch point lagged behind the rest.

Cheng Yan also pondered how governance prowess would be evaluated—through population numbers? Military might? Financial prosperity? Wimbledon III had omitted any benchmarks, imposing zero curbs on their contesting approaches. Should one covertly eliminate rival candidates, what recourse existed? Would the queen idly permit her offspring to slaughter one another? Hold on... He meticulously sifted through subsequent memories; confirmed, yet another grim revelation—the Queen had perished five years earlier.

Cheng Yan let out a sigh. Evidently, he had plunged into a ruthless, shadowy feudal epoch. Their reckless persecution of witches offered ample clues. Moreover, Cheng Yan reflected, what allure lay in claiming the crown? Devoid of internet access and modern luxuries, he'd endure existence akin to the locals—torching witches for sport, dwelling amid streets fouled by open defecation, and succumbing to the Black Death in the end.

As a prince, Cheng Yan already enjoyed an elite starting position. Even sans the kingship, his royal heritage and bestowed knighthood elevated him. Survival alone would cement his role among the Realm's noble Lords.

Cheng Yan curbed his meandering mind and approached the mirror in his bedchamber. Staring back was a figure with pale gray locks, the hallmark of royal lineage. His complexion held a pallor, ordinary features rendering him utterly unremarkable. He looked neglectful of bodily training, though memories hinted at frequent dalliances with wine and women. Several paramours in the King's City had shared his bed, all consensual—no coercion on his part.

Concerning the trigger for his transmigration... Cheng Yan surmised that his firm's merciless push for deadlines prompted his superior to enforce overtime, culminating in the fatal mishap of sudden demise. Such fates commonly befell programmers, coders, and mechanical engineers.

Ultimately, regardless, he had secured a second lease on life. Excessive complaints ill-befitted him; ahead lay chances to gradually elevate this existence, though his immediate duty demanded flawlessly embodying the Fourth Prince, lest others detect oddities in his conduct, brand him devil-possessed, and consign him to the pyre, Cheng Yan mused inwardly.

“To live comfortably...” Cheng Yan drew a profound breath, gazed into the mirror, and murmured, “from today, I am Roland.”