Chapter 124
The Pope had knelt before the Emperor. No matter the circumstances, it was an unforgivable disgrace—one that would be etched into history. But the Pope knew another truth, one unknown to the rest.
It would have been better if he had knelt to the Emperor.
The Emperor had forced him to his knees not for himself, but for the slave in his arms. To make him apologize to a slave.
To reduce the Pope to this state—because of a slave!
Consumed by rage, the Pope trembled like an aspen leaf.
He would never forget this. This burning humiliation, as if his entire body were being scorched.
Then, his forehead touched the ground. Now, like the priests and holy knights before him, the Pope lay completely prostrate.
The papal tiara—symbol of his authority—fell from his head and rolled across the pristine marble floor.
The Emperor watched silently as the Pope’s back twitched in silent fury. Then, without a word, he turned and left the Temple.
Cradled in strong arms as she was carried away, Yoo Jaha recalled the Humiliation of Canossa.
The event where Henry IV, Holy Roman Emperor, had knelt before Pope Gregory VII.
It had taken place at Canossa Castle in Italy—hence the name.
Excommunicated by the Church, Henry IV had knelt barefoot in penitent’s rags before the castle gates, begging the Pope for forgiveness.
Three days later, the Pope finally lifted the excommunication. To demonstrate his complete submission, Henry IV even lay down in the shape of a cross before him. Yet later, once Henry IV seized power, he exacted his revenge by installing a new Pope, while Gregory VII died in exile after years of retreat.
Such was the nature of power struggles—especially the clash between imperial and papal authority. The victor and the vanquished could switch places at any moment. That was why one had to avoid sowing unnecessary grudges.
The Emperor knew this better than anyone. Who could predict how today’s events would come back to haunt him? What was his plan for dealing with the consequences?
Yoo Jaha couldn’t fathom the Emperor’s reasoning. No matter what they had done to her—what did it matter, really?
In this world, slaves were not human. Hadn’t the Emperor himself treated her as nothing more than an object? So then—why? By what right?
How were their actions any different from what the Emperor had done all along?
From Jaha’s perspective, the Emperor and the Temple were two sides of the same coin.
When I do it, it’s fine—but when others do it, it’s unacceptable?
If it’s me, it’s romance; if it’s someone else, it’s adultery? Or self-loathing?
Whatever the reason, it was absurd. In the end, the Emperor had started this, and the Emperor would bear the consequences. All she could do was watch from afar, detached—like observing a fire from the other side of the river.
That day, upon returning to the imperial palace, Yoo Jaha waited for the Emperor to leave. Lately, the Emperor had been trying to spend nearly every waking moment with her. But they weren’t one body—it was impossible to stay inseparable for all twenty-four hours of the day.
The instant the Emperor stepped away, Jaha walked to the window and threw herself out.
As she fell, the only thought that registered was how the wind against her cheeks cut like knives.
She lost consciousness before hitting the ground—so she remembered nothing else.
◇ ◆ ◇
She was submerged in black water when suddenly, the surface rippled.
Drip, drip—
Drops fell from somewhere, disturbing the stillness.
With great effort, Jaha forced her heavy eyelids open. Through feverish, swollen eyes, she saw the Emperor—his face streaked with tears.
The violent pull of his embrace registered slowly as she blinked.
So I survived.
Had the height not been enough for instant death?
She felt no particular pain. It made no sense—falling from such a height without a single scratch. His doing, no doubt. That damned magic of his, capable of restoring severed limbs as long as breath remained.
The body pressed against hers trembled pitifully.
The broad chest, the arms crushing her ribs, the stubbled jaw against her shoulder—all of it useless. A waste of that imposing frame.
“How could this… how could you…”
His shaking palm cradled the back of her head as he whispered, hoarse:
“You must have been so frightened. It’s alright now.”
But Jaha hadn’t been frightened. He was the one who looked terrified—pale as death, skin icy, body shuddering like a man in seizure.
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