The Sweet Alpha Crown Prince Loves Me So Much

I didn’t have many memories of my younger sister, Jae-young.

With our significant age gap, she was always adorable to me. But after our parents passed away, I was swept along by the adults around me, struggling to cope, and I barely remember our conversations or the things we did together back then.

By the time we ended up at my uncle’s house, I rarely stayed there, finding the atmosphere stifling. I’d spend my afternoons after school at the gas station, helping out with chores and inhaling the smell of gasoline. On weekends, I worked at a fast food joint.

Whenever I returned home, my uncle, his wife, and their son would be in the living room, watching TV and chatting loudly. I’d retreat to the room I shared with Jae-young.

Exhausted, I’d collapse onto my bed, placing a new pair of socks I bought from a truck stop beside the sleeping Jae-young. On nights when her breathing seemed shallow, I’d stay up all night, consumed with worry.

At some point, Jae-young became an incredibly quiet child.

I didn’t understand it back then, but looking back, it must have been uncomfortable for a young girl going through puberty to share a room with her older brother.

But Jae-young never complained, not once.

She simply told me school was closed when I, oblivious to the school calendar, asked why she wasn’t going. I didn’t even realize she hadn’t received a yearbook at her elementary school graduation, which she attended alone.

One day, while I was working and living at a factory, I visited Jae-young after a long time. That was the first time I heard her true feelings, when she cried out, ‘Oppa, I don’t want to live with Uncle anymore!’

She was furious with the adults who were indifferent to her needs, who didn’t take her to the doctor when she was sick, who didn’t teach her how to use sanitary pads. And she was terrified of their son, who’d been harassing her constantly and finally tried to do something unspeakable. I flipped the dinner table in rage, grabbed Jae-young’s hand, and stormed out.

It was winter then, too.

I carried Jae-young’s backpack as she, wearing only a thin coat, clutched my hand. We walked from Seoul to Ansan, crying the entire way.

I explained the situation to my foreman, who was also our landlord. He was furious on our behalf and gave me an advance on two months’ worth of salary. With that, I managed to rent a small basement apartment.

It was a two-room place, a bit cramped but affordable at 2 million won deposit and 300,000 won monthly rent. I decorated Jae-young’s room as best as I could, and although we had to constantly spray for cockroaches, it wasn’t so bad, as long as I was with Jae-young.

I went to the community center to inquire about transferring her to a new school and was directed to free legal consultation. 

That was when I discovered that our names were listed on my uncle’s family register.

While I was trying to figure out how to withdraw Jae-young from the adoption and get her transferred to a new school, my draft notice arrived, and I ended up enlisting in the army.

Jae-young, though still a minor, was a middle school student, so social workers visited her twice a week to check on her. During my leave, I spent every day waiting for her to return from school.

Perhaps it was the unexpected free time, but I learned so much about Jae-young during that period. It felt like our true memories were only beginning to form.

I discovered that my stoic little sister, who never wrote me a single letter, preferred fried chicken with salt over seasoned chicken. And that she’d be disappointed if there were no glass noodles in her short rib soup.

Her playlist was filled with obscure British band music, and she had two close friends.

Though she acted indifferent most of the time, she always teared up when I had to return to base. Holding her hand, I realized what kind of life I wanted to live. 

For you. To be with you. Because we were the only family each other had.

I kept pushing forward, for you, who showed me that the lack of money wasn’t the problem, but the lack of time spent together.

That was why, after my discharge, I enrolled in a night program at a community college and took the emergency medical technician exam.

I wanted to be a source of pride for you. I wanted to be the first one there for you, if you ever faced an emergency. 

Some people told me to slow down, to take a break. But I couldn’t afford to rest. 

My sister was twenty. She died in a bus accident right before starting college. When I rushed to the scene, there were no survivors.

I’d hoped to save at least one life, to tell myself that I’d saved a life in exchange for my sister’s. But I couldn’t even do that.

Less than a month later, I died too.

Was there ever any spring in my life?

How many times had Jae-young smiled at me?

My body was gone, but my soul ached.

To be honest, I was happy, even if a bit confused, when I ended up here, in the world of the novel you were reading.

It felt like I was getting to know you better, to understand what you liked, what you enjoyed. 

The reason I felt drawn to Adrian Heineken was simple.

Because he was the man you loved, the man whose happiness you wished for so desperately.

I was grateful for him, even if he was just a fictional character.

And when he transcended the pages of the novel and entered my life as a real person, I was overwhelmed with joy.

And…

The thought that you might be living in the same world as me, breathing the same air… It fills me with an indescribable happiness. 

The witch, the prophet, Rashida Lulu.

The realization that your unwavering animosity towards me, towards Carl Lindbergh, might be because you’re actually Jae-young… It fills me with an odd sense of contentment.

“That witch is deeply disliked by the Crown Prince.”

Marco commented, watching as Carl Lindbergh lined up dozens of magic stones, each the size of a thumbnail, on the table.

He remembered the time when Carl Lindbergh, after returning from a walk, suddenly declared to Adrian that he was taking the witch to Lindbergh. Adrian’s fury had been palpable, making Marco tremble in fear.

Firstly, Rashida Lulu was the reason Carl Lindbergh had left Adrian’s side. Secondly, Adrian despised Carl showing interest in someone else, especially a young girl.

Adrian had been openly displeased, but Carl Lindbergh remained resolute.

〈Stop paying attention to her, Carl Lindbergh.〉

〈If there’s anyone in this castle who genuinely wishes for your happiness and the prosperity of Heineken, besides me, it’s the Prophet girl. Even before your parents.〉

Carl Lindbergh was unwavering, despite Adrian’s incredulous expression.

〈She did nothing wrong, Adrian. It was my fault. I was a coward and made countless misjudgments. That’s why I left. All she did was offer advice. Advice that staying by your side might not be a good thing.〉

Adrian’s voice rose as Carl defended the prophet, claiming she was merely concerned for Adrian’s well-being.

〈So what? What if she spouts another ridiculous prophecy and you waver again? I might… I might kill her.〉

Carl Lindbergh, sensing the underlying fear and anxiety in Adrian’s threatening words, grasped his hand.

〈I won’t waver again. I promise I’ll never leave your side unless you tell me to. No matter what prophecy she makes, my resolve won’t change. I promise.〉

Now, Carl Lindbergh understood completely.

Adrian’s happiness stemmed from obtaining what he desired most—Carl Lindbergh.

Only then did Adrian reluctantly agree to let Carl take the Prophet with him.

“Last time, she told Young Lord Hendrick something he didn’t need to hear. That’s how she ended up in this mess. Honestly, her predictions aren’t even accurate. Saying the Crown Prince’s soulmate was Belfry, or whatnot. Poor Young Lord must’ve been so confused.”

Marco, placing a magic stone, used to warm the bed, between the sheets, clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“She won’t cause any trouble this time.”

It seemed Lulu had given up on the original plot and was content with simply being near the Crown Prince. 

And if the Lulu Carl Lindbergh knew was truly her… 

She was a surprisingly simple girl.

However, Marco didn’t share his optimism.

“How can you be so sure, Your Highness? Do you think she’s called a witch for no reason? Nobody knows where she came from, and she can’t even use magic. But she can handle magic stones with incredible precision, hence the title ‘witch’.”

“Important characters always have a mysterious past.”

Carl Lindbergh squinted at the magic stones, finding it difficult to decipher the blurry inscriptions even under the lamplight. He figured he would need a magnifying glass.

‘Dying,’ ‘Beast,’ ‘Revived,’ ‘Void,’ ‘Hunger,’ ‘Fill,’ ‘Master.’

Was that what it meant?

It seemed like magic didn’t require all the magic formulas to be inscribed on a single magic stone to activate.

And hadn’t someone mentioned that the demon beasts had unusual appearances?

Perhaps, like Frankenstein, they were stitched together from corpses and revived with the power of lightning.

He wished he could infiltrate Parman and see what was happening there.

While the crystals varied in shape and color, the inscriptions were identical.

As Carl Lindbergh diligently examined each of the dozens of magic stones, Marco continued his rambling behind him. Elizabeth, unable to bear it any longer, nudged Marco’s side with her snout, but he continued undeterred.

“I’m worried, Your Highness. What if the witch used dark magic to manipulate you?”

“Marco.”

Carl called out softly, and Marco pouted.

Was he being told to stop? But the prince was too trusting. Marco, convinced that Carl needed a bit more nagging, deflated at the question that followed.

“What’s dark magic? Is that a real thing?”

Ah, right. The prince has amnesia.

Marco pursed his lips, trying to stifle a chuckle.

“It’s magic used for evil purposes, Your Highness.”

“Is it a common practice?”

“Of course not, Your Highness. If caught, you’d be stripped of your magic permanently and banished to an island.”

“Only in Heineken? Or in Lindbergh as well?”

Marco found the question odd, but he answered diligently.

“It’s a universal law across the continent, Your Highness.”

Otherwise, Marco added, dark mages would be at the forefront of every political intrigue and conspiracy.

Carl silently gathered the magic stones, put them back in the sack, and stood up. 

“Isn’t it almost dinner time, Your Highness? Where are you going?”

Marco asked.

“There’s someone I need to talk to, that impudent child.”

“Who, Your Highness?”

Carl simply said he would be back soon and left the room.

That naive little brat, spending money on novels about men doing… things… behind his brother’s back. Carl intended to get to the bottom of this ‘novel’ situation.

Carl Lindbergh’s steps were light as he walked down the hallway.