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.

III.

After returning to the palace, the Crown Prince continued a peaceful life as the seasons changed several times. During that period, three of his brothers died—so by ordinary standards, it might not have been considered “peaceful.” But since it was no particular concern to him, the description wasn’t entirely wrong. It had been a long time since his brothers’ misfortunes had any bearing on his own.

The seventeen-year-old Crown Prince soon turned twenty. Over those years, he had grown taller, his frame broader, the last traces of boyish softness giving way to a firm jawline. Time stole his youthful beauty only to replace it with the striking presence of a man.

The terrifyingly beautiful boy had become a terrifyingly beautiful young man. His face, like a work of art, indiscriminately drew the gaze of all who saw him, sometimes evoking the overwhelming pull of a celestial body—as if everything around him orbited him in silent reverence.

“And yet, the very Crown Prince who ignites desire in all remains so aloof.”

The First Prince tilted his teacup with a sneer. Scarlet tea dripped into a flowerpot, staining the soil.

“Surely you don’t need the praise of being called the second coming of the First Emperor Abrixa?”

The Empire’s founding emperor was famous for loving only one woman until his death. If the Crown Prince was imitating that by avoiding women, it could only be described as obstinacy. Even now, the Crown Prince was often compared to the First Emperor due to his extraordinary magical prowess. But to further cement his standing by practicing abstinence? What a revolting little brother. The First Prince’s grip tightened around the teacup handle.

“He must be relieving himself in secret. Even if he doesn’t have a regular partner, surely he’s indulging in one-time encounters under a disguised identity… With magic altering his appearance, no one would recognize him.”

The Eighth Prince’s attempt at flattery only worsened the First Prince’s mood. Shape-shifting magic was high-tier sorcery, requiring immense mana—something most mages wouldn’t even attempt. Yet the Eighth Prince’s words carried the implicit assumption that the Crown Prince could do it effortlessly. That alone grated on the First Prince’s inferiority complex.

With cold calculation, the First Prince decided the Eighth Prince would be his next target. After all, he’d already eliminated the Fifth Prince—there was no need to keep useless pawns around.

“His Highness the Crown Prince has always had a sinister edge to him. Who knows? Perhaps he’s hidden not just women but even children. Maybe even more than one bastard.”

The First Prince smiled gently at his foolish younger brother, who prattled on eagerly, oblivious to the danger of his own words.

The Crown Prince swept his slightly longer hair back with wax, fixing it in place as he stared indifferently at the mirror before him. Reluctant as he was to admit it, he seemed to resemble the Emperor more with each passing day—not his current father, but himself from the vanished future, the one who had turned back time.

Gazing at his unchanging reflection, a wave of boredom washed over him.

‘How tedious.’

The price of knowing every future event in advance was a suffocating ennui. Most days, he barely felt alive. The only moments he truly existed were when he confronted his rawest desires… when he was alone in bed, with—

‘Damn it.’

A slight crease formed between his brows before smoothing back into perfect composure.

His language had coarsened. That, at least, was one stark difference between him and the Emperor from the future. Originally, he had only ever spoken in refined, upper-class diction—until he started tormenting Jaha.

The Emperor was to blame. Himself—that future fool—was the reason his speech had grown vulgar. What absurd irony, he thought. But whenever that imbecile crossed his mind, he couldn’t help but curse. If it had been some stranger, he might have shrugged it off. But the fact that the idiot was his future self only amplified his disgust and contempt.

Still, frustration gnawed at him—no matter how much he wanted to hurl insults at the Emperor, his vocabulary had been too refined to properly vent. That changed after his nighttime escapades. Boredom drove him beyond the palace walls, where he picked up a colorful array of profanities. Now, he could curse the Emperor in endlessly creative ways.

Of course, he hadn’t only learned crude language. Each trip outside the palace deepened his understanding of the people’s lives. He was certain he knew the common folk far better than his vanished future self ever had.

And that wasn’t all. Through relentless effort, he could now wield magic nearly as skillfully as the Emperor in his prime—despite the restrictive seals on the back of his hand. What’s more, his swordsmanship surpassed the Emperor’s, and he was younger, fresher. By every measure, he had surpassed the Emperor. He was, in every way, the better man.

‘I won’t make the same mistakes as that Emperor.’