The Dialectic of Master and Slave - Side Story 1.12

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.

“Y-Your Highness?”

“Had I not seen it, I wouldn’t have known. But now that I have, I cannot rest easy.”

Baron Palga blinked. He had never heard rumors that the Crown Prince was soft-hearted. On the contrary, wasn’t his reputation that of an elegant, cold-blooded killer—one who, without a single breach of etiquette, would plunge a dagger into his enemy’s back without so much as a flicker in his smiling eyes?

And yet, here he was, granting beds to slaves?

“I’d like you to gather the slaves.”

To the bewildered Baron Palga, the Crown Prince made another inscrutable demand. Giving up on trying to understand, the Baron simply obeyed.

One by one, the household’s slaves, scattered across the estate, appeared before them.

The Crown Prince watched them with unreadable eyes. The nobles, who had been scrutinizing him for even the slightest clue, found nothing in that gaze and eventually abandoned their attempts.

“Is this all of them?”

“Yes.”

Having counted and confirmed there were fourteen, Baron Palga answered the Crown Prince’s inquiry with confidence. The Crown Prince gave a single nod, as if satisfied, then turned to leave. His steps showed no hesitation, no lingering attachment.

What in the world was that about?

Leaving the nobles’ confusion behind, the Crown Prince maintained his composure—or more precisely, his control. Every movement, down to the slightest twitch of his fingers, was restrained, giving no clues for others to interpret. It was a long-ingrained habit, nothing unusual. Yet, his inner thoughts were far from his flawless exterior.

‘Foolish.’

The slave named Jaha had claimed she once attended an academy in her homeland. Considering the typical age of academy students, she should still be there now—not enslaved in Baron Palga’s household. It was a simple, indisputable fact. Basic logic, hardly even worth calling deduction. Yet, the moment he heard the words “Baron Palga’s household,” even that elementary reasoning had failed him.

Was I out of my mind?

He couldn’t suppress a bitter, incredulous laugh. It was an unthinkable mistake for someone who had never once erred in complex magical formulae. The feeling of having been an idiot was strangely novel. Yet, it wasn’t entirely unfamiliar—thanks to the Emperor’s memories. He had wondered why his future self had seemed to make such foolish choices, one after another. So this was it.

The problem was that he—not yet the Emperor—had acted just like the Emperor. Just like that blind fool of the future, over some lowly slave girl. It wasn’t amusing, not even as a joke.

He stifled the irrational urge to hurl the rabbit in his arms away. Taking out his frustration on something innocent was beneath him. Besides, wasn’t it a life he himself had spared?

‘A meaningless kill.’

Though he had recently given orders on the battlefield that would claim tens of thousands of lives without a second thought, he took no pleasure in pointless slaughter. Even if someone called it contradictory or hypocritical, it was the truth.

This was also why he disliked hunting. Killing for mere sport was, by his standards, barbaric.

Of course, he wasn’t delicate enough to be shackled by guilt, so his sentimentality ended there. He handed the now-useless rabbit to an attendant.

“Bury it somewhere appropriate.”

The moment it left his hands, he wiped the rabbit’s existence from his mind entirely.

But the slave named Jaha—he couldn’t do the same.

Whether it was the hollowness of having come all this way for nothing, the anger at his own pathetic blunder, or something like regret—he couldn’t tell.

That child must have been adorable. And that was something only the present him could know—a sight even the future him had never seen.

‘Something only I could have possessed…’

Startled by his own thoughts, the Crown Prince nearly stopped dead in the hallway.

Wasn’t this the kind of foolish reasoning befitting that deranged Emperor—the one who had been obsessed with that slave?

It didn’t suit him. He was not the Emperor. He had no special feelings for that slave. Those weren’t his memories or emotions. They belonged to a specter of the past—one that no longer existed.

He couldn’t afford to confuse the two.

That night, as expected, Baron Palga’s daughter visited his chambers. Having anticipated this to some extent, he received her without surprise.

“You’ve come quite late, my lady of House Palga. I wonder what brings you here.”

“You’ve already guessed, yet you insist on embarrassing a lady?”

The woman’s face, bright and expectant as she gazed at him, bore no resemblance to her father—which made her at least tolerable. Perhaps she took after her mother. He observed her indifferently. Clad in a sheer negligee that left little to the imagination, she feigned shyness but carried herself with practiced confidence. She didn’t seem inexperienced.

“Ah.”

He smiled softly.

A familiar type. Not bad. Better than an awkward novice.

Interpreting his reaction as permission, she cautiously approached—until he raised a gloved hand to stop her.

“You should return.”

“Wh-Why…?”

“I’m tired from the hunt.”

She realized it was a polite rejection. A man in his prime wouldn’t turn away a woman just because he was tired. Flushed with humiliation, she bowed and withdrew.

He sank deeper into the chair. He had tested himself enough and concluded it was futile. Lingering over something impossible was a waste of time he couldn’t afford. There was no point in dragging out what he couldn’t follow through with.

The more he dwelled on it, the more absurd he found himself. Was he really planning to preserve his chastity until he met that slave? Abstain for over a decade?

‘Ridiculous.’

This was just a temporary affliction. A trivial issue that would resolve itself with time. That’s why he was letting it be.

Nothing in this world lasts forever. Any intensity dulls before the passage of time. Even the most overwhelming passions—let alone insignificant desires.

As the Crown Prince steadied his mind, his gaze fell upon a vase. He rose and approached the table where a few red roses were arranged. Selecting the most voluptuous bloom, he plucked it from the arrangement. The stem, stripped of all its thorns, was smooth and unblemished.

Bringing it close to his nose, he inhaled its scent—still fresh, recently plucked from the garden.

He studied the flower silently, its layers of petals lush and intricate. Then, with deliberate slowness, he pressed a single gloved finger into its center. The silk-clad digit parted the tightly wound petals, delving deeper until it brushed against the hidden stigma and stamens within.

The depths were tighter than expected, swallowing the first knuckle of his index finger completely. He paused, buried inside the velvety folds, before moving. His fingertip teased the delicate stigma, rubbing in slow circles until a sticky moisture coated his glove. He paid it no mind.

The rose trembled around his finger, petals quivering as if shivering—though in truth, it was his hand that stirred them. When he twisted his finger slightly, the crimson petals clung like flushed skin, rippling in obedient waves, as though trained to yield to his touch.

Then, in the next breath, he withdrew his finger and returned the rose to the vase.

As if no indecency had ever occurred, only the image of a composed nobleman remained. The white glove, once damp with nectar, was pristine again—cleansed by the magic woven into its fibers, leaving no trace of defilement.