Side Story 1.14
Now, he could recite every detail of his past with Jaha, down to the smallest trifle. Three years had given him that much.
If he ever met Jaha again, he wouldn’t act as foolishly as the Emperor had. From the very first encounter, he would treat her with nothing but kindness—because first impressions mattered in relationships. He’d gather every scrap of gentleness he might or might not possess and pour it all out. Winning a woman’s favor required at least that much, didn’t it?
His condition still hadn’t resolved itself. Thanks to that, he remained forcibly celibate, just as the Emperor had intended, untouched by any woman. But it wasn’t as if he particularly cherished Jaha the way the Emperor had. Sure, at some point, he’d started referring to her by name instead of just “that slave,” but that was as far as it went.
‘Still, I’ll make sure Jaha likes me.’
No distractions, no running away—he’d keep her quietly by his side. Even if he didn’t love her.
He’d turned the problem over in his mind countless times, yet the conclusion was always the same: he had to keep Jaha close. He simply wanted to. A life without her was unimaginable. Perhaps some of the Emperor’s obsessive compulsions had bled into him.
A pity, but there were moments when he felt as if the Emperor still lived inside him. Whether it was the lingering influence of those memories or not, sometimes he caught himself thinking just like him.
Fortunately, he had enough discernment not to mistake those impulses for his own emotions. Still, the discomfort lingered—like being drunk without ever having taken a sip.
Suddenly, an image flashed in his mind: Jaha, defenseless in sleep. Neatly closed eyelids, lashes a touch too long. Disheveled hair. Lips slightly parted with each quiet breath. His chest tightened.
This is the Emperor’s heart.
‘Not mine.’
He drew the line sharply. If he didn’t, he might lose track—of whose feelings these really were.
◇ ◆ ◇
During one of his secret outings, the Crown Prince suddenly stopped in his tracks when he spotted a vaguely familiar face. Though older than he remembered, he recognized her immediately.
That maid. The peculiar woman who had abruptly quit her job and left the palace, declaring she would “write stories.” Now, she was engaged in a heated discussion with a bespectacled woman, likely her companion.
The maid’s eccentricity—abandoning the imperial palace to pair some fictional character named “Eden” with another named “Hela”—had left a lasting impression on his younger self. Curiosity piqued, he approached them. With his appearance completely altered by magic, there was no risk of her recognizing him.
The bespectacled woman pleaded with an expression that screamed this is wrong:
“If the male lead goes this far against Rain, no matter how much he regrets or suffers later, won’t readers find it hard to forgive him?”
“You don’t understand yet,” the former maid countered firmly. “He’s canonically the most handsome man in the entire setting.”
Holding his breath, he listened intently.
“But author, even so—”
“Remember this.” The former maid cut her off decisively.
“If he isn’t forgiven, it’s because he wasn’t handsome enough.”
At that moment, realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.
“One of the people I served in the past had a very prickly personality. And so young too—acting like the Crown… well, anyway. But I never disliked him. Why? Because he was beautiful, like a celestial being descended from heaven. That’s when I learned it: beauty makes everything forgivable.”
Stunned, he barely registered the rest.
‘Was the future me not forgiven by Jaha… because I wasn’t handsome enough?’
He hesitantly touched his own face. But through the silk gloves, all he felt were the deliberately plain features of his disguise. Teleporting back to his chambers in a flash, he dispelled the transformation and stormed toward the full-length mirror.
After scrutinizing himself from head to toe, he zeroed in on his face. The eyes, nose, and lips he’d dismissed daily now seemed unbearably flawed. His golden eyelashes, for one, looked too delicate for a man. The slightly tousled blond hair? Equally unimpressive.
“Black hair is the standard for men! It looks strong, stoic, and undeniably sexy—nothing beats it.”
The words he had casually overheard in the marketplace some time ago resurfaced in his mind.
Raising his eyebrows, he flicked his fingers. In the mirror, his eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair turned black. It felt somewhat unfamiliar but not bad. Though whether it was the best remained unclear.
Considering that another color might suit him better, he tried red, silver, blue, green, and even pink one after another before reverting to his original appearance. Next, he adjusted his eye color and even altered the shape of his lips. But he couldn’t easily decide what looked best.
It seemed he would need a professional’s help.
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