Side Story 1.17
“Brother, didn’t you just try to kill me by serving poisoned tea?”
He gestured with his eyes to the teacup lying pitifully on the floor and the stain spreading across the carpet. The First Prince’s face turned deathly pale.
“T-That’s a misunderstanding!”
“Then lick the carpet.”
He pointed at the tea-soaked stain with the tip of his boot.
“Prove your innocence, Brother.”
He had just returned from subjugating foreign enemies at the border, so he was dressed in his military uniform. Perhaps because of that, his presence felt even more oppressive. The stiff, immaculate uniform—without a single wrinkle or drop of blood—was as detestable as it was chilling.
What a disgustingly monstrous bastard.
The First Prince shuddered before speaking with visible discomfort.
“I, too, have my dignity as a member of the imperial family. How could you ask me to—”
In truth, dignity was nothing but an excuse. The tea spilled on the carpet contained a lethal poison—fatal even in the smallest dose. He had to avoid it at all costs.
“Ah.”
The Crown Prince nodded as if in understanding, then flicked his fingers. The soft, high-quality velvet brushed against something, and at the faint sound it made, an inexplicable shiver ran down the First Prince’s spine. At that moment, the stain on the carpet began to fade.
Is it a cleaning spell? Just as the First Prince began to relax, a strange sense of wrongness made him look up—only to see the tea floating in midair. Gathered into a perfect, spherical shape.
The First Prince gaped, his eyes darting between the carpet and the hovering tea. The stain had completely vanished. With a light gesture, the Crown Prince guided the tea back to the table. Glug, glug— As if poured from a teapot, the crimson liquid steadily filled the teacup at a measured pace.
Finally, the sound of pouring ceased.
“Here, drink up, Brother.”
The Crown Prince smiled faintly, his sharp eyes glinting as he offered the cup. Now there should be no problem, right?
The First Prince trembled violently. Magic was supposed to defy the laws of physics—but this went beyond reason. In a flash of horrified realization, he understood: if the Crown Prince willed it, that tea could just as easily be forced straight into his stomach. The thought nearly drove him mad.
Only now did it truly sink in.
A monster. That thing is a monster. Fighting a monster was nothing but foolishness.
Abandoning all pride, the First Prince prostrated himself flat on the floor, uncaring that his forehead pressed against the carpet. Before such overwhelming terror, nothing else mattered.
“Spare me. If you let me live, I’ll live like a dead man—so quietly you’ll forget I exist. Ah—my magic, I’ll give up all my magic! What else? Tell me what you want, and I’ll do it. No—no, I’ll obey. Your Highness the Crown Prince. Your Majesty the Emperor. So please, just spare my life—!”
The Crown Prince looked down at the First Prince squirming like a worm and begging for mercy. Unlike the Emperor, there had been a calculated reason for him to spill the poisoned tea onto the carpet.
Having thoroughly eradicated any potential threats among the imperial family, he now faced a choice he hadn’t in the vanished future. Whether he would use it or not remained uncertain, but he intended to keep at least one alive—just in case. If they proved useless, he could always dispose of them later.
“Can you swear it upon your magic, Brother? That you’ll obey any command I give?”
The First Prince looked up at the Crown Prince, whose voice was almost affectionate, and nodded fervently.
◇ ◆ ◇
The first problem the twenty-two-year-old Emperor pondered after ascending the throne was what to call his future self.
Until now, he had always referred to him as “the Emperor”—but now he was the Emperor.
Fool, half-wit, imbecile… As the Emperor mulled over fitting titles, he suddenly felt it was a waste of time and decided to call him the specter. It was a perfectly fitting term—after all, that man no longer existed in this world.
‘He’s the fake. I’m the real one.’
The Emperor’s lips twisted as he ran a gloved hand over each piece of the Regalia. The specter had been unworthy. That’s why he failed.
He was different. He wouldn’t make the same idiotic mistakes as that specter.
He didn’t need to force anyone. All he had to do was treat them so well they’d never even think of leaving. Make them want to stay by his side. And of course, maintain his appearance diligently. Even if looks weren’t a universal solution, if they could reduce a problem from a 10 to a 7 or 8, that was still something.
Out of habit, he peered into the mirror.
He tried to sleep as early as possible, avoided alcohol, and stayed away from foods known to harm skin health.
He employed dedicated attendants for regular full-body care and practiced not just swordsmanship but other exercises to maintain an aesthetically pleasing physique.
He applied hair oil religiously to his locks—something he’d never bothered with in his past life.
He commissioned a signature fragrance tailored to suit him best, ensuring its subtle scent lingered around him at all times.
Every garment in the royal atelier was designed in colors and cuts that flattered him most.
He consulted experts on which accessories and shoes paired best with each outfit, adhering strictly to their recommendations.
Yet, almost obsessively, he still searched for flaws in his appearance. It had become a habit.
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