The Dialectic of Master and Slave - Chapter 112

Volumes 1-4 + Side Stories of DMS are available uncensored on ko-fi! ※ This work contains depictions of coercive relationships, explicit language, and other graphic content. Reader discretion is advised.

He was certain—with nothing but the pure physical strength of his bare hands, he could take this woman’s life. Just a little more pressure, a little more force around her throat, and it would be over. So simple, if he willed it.

The one who holds the power of life and death is the victor.

He is the master.

The ruler.

Whether by the laws of nature or the order of man—

The hierarchy of power was this clear, so then… why—?

“Was he really that good to you? That fallen prince—did he mean so much?”

–was he the one tasting defeat?

Why was he the wretched one, reduced to begging like a slave before his own possession?

“You think he approached you with no ulterior motives? That his kindness was pure? Everyone in this palace knows how tightly I keep you wrapped around my fingers. He was playing you! Using you! Did you really think he was any different from me? He was royalty too—you think a prince would ever see a slave as human?”

He felt like he was losing his mind. He loathed Jaha—how she had shattered the moment that bastard died, how she had become this.

He felt it to his bones—no amount of power could truly dominate a person’s heart. A creature with a mind of its own would feel what it wanted to feel, and there was nothing he could do to change that.

“If you loved him that much, I’ll send you to him.”

He remembered how Jaha had hesitated when asked if she would die in that bastard’s place.

Now, with her slender throat clenched in his grip, he desperately hoped—prayed—for a refusal. For survival instinct to kick in, for her to snap back to her senses and say no. But Jaha didn’t even flinch, her eyes as lifeless as a dead fish.

Furious, he raised his other hand—but it trembled so violently he couldn’t even bring himself to touch her.

Defeated, he released her throat and burst into tears.

His heart felt like it was being torn to shreds.

Jaha stared blankly at him as he wept silently, then finally parted her lips. Though no sound came out, he knew—she had said something.

Sniffling, he hastily pressed his ear close to her mouth.

A whisper, soft as a fading breath, seeped into his ear. His pulse quickened.

“Faster…”

He strained every nerve, not wanting to miss a single word.

Jaha continued in a flat, emotionless tone.

“It’s fine… even if I get loose…”

He froze.

Every hair on his body stood on end.

Never in his life had he felt such bone-deep terror.

Never had words spoken by another chilled him to this degree.

Even if he had been thrown naked into an icy cavern, it wouldn’t have been as horrifying as this.

His lips trembled violently—something that had never happened before, not from cold nor fear. Yet now, he couldn’t control it.

The swelling pride in his chest plummeted, crashing down like a felled tree.

The glimpse of paradise he’d seen vanished, replaced by an abyss of darkness that swallowed him whole from head to toe.

His defenses crumbled.

The man who had once clenched his jaw and stood firm, unshaken even in the face of bloodshed, now broke down completely, sobbing uncontrollably.

He had never cried before. Part of it was his upbringing—but even without restraint, tears had never come. He had thought himself strong.

He was wrong.

He simply hadn’t been hurt enough until now.

Born as the son of the emperor who ruled the largest empire on the continent, blessed with the strongest magical prowess among his siblings, he had ascended to the throne and lived with near-limitless freedom, wielding absolute power.

He had never known pain.

When everything bent to his will, how could he ever be hurt?

Who could have predicted that a mere slave would reduce him to this—a man weeping uncontrollably?

Not even he had foreseen this day.

Now, faced with the raw reality of how broken Jaha had become, he could barely breathe from the agony.

This wasn’t the outcome he’d wanted.

Hadn’t there been a part of him that assumed her spirit would bend under pressure? That she’d eventually crawl back to him? To deny it would be a lie. A lifetime of privilege wasn’t something one could discard in an instant—and he had stood at the very pinnacle of that hierarchy. Perhaps his mindset had been arrogant. But in the end, he had only ever wanted one thing.

For Jaha to want him, any way at all, as fiercely as he wanted her. That was all.

Now, the truth he had feared to confront crashed over him all at once, and he was utterly lost.

Those bright, sharp eyes. The stubbornly clenched lips. The unyielding pride woven into her every gesture. The subtle shifts in her expressions—anger, joy, sorrow, delight—each flickering across her face. All of it flashed through his mind.

That was Jaha.

That was the real Jaha.

And at last, he admitted it.