Side Story 1.7
In the future, he had killed the First Prince before him and ascended as Emperor. And the First Prince had, in turn, eliminated five of his own brothers with his own hands, so there was no room for resentment. Besides, the circumstances leading to his death had been entirely of his own making.
The First Prince had tried to poison him—only to have the tables turned. He had personally extracted the poison from his own teacup and transferred it straight into the First Prince’s organs. With magic.
When he informed the dying First Prince—who had no idea why his insides were melting—the man had howled in disbelief, demanding to know how such a thing was possible. His response? “If you knew even the basics, you wouldn’t be writhing on the ground like a worm, coughing up blood.”
‘Was that five years from now?’
Barring any unforeseen changes, the First Prince’s end would play out the same this time, too.
“The imperial family values magic, but swordsmanship is admirable as well. I have no doubt Your Highness will excel at it, as you do in all things.”
The First Prince forced a cordial smile as he offered the hollow praise. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t even praise—but he decided to play along. Political sparring was tedious. To him, the First Prince was already a dead man walking.
“Ah, is that so? Thank you.”
His perfectly polite smile made the First Prince’s eyelid twitch. For some reason, the First Prince had always despised his soulless responses—enough to visibly suppress a shudder. No matter how hard the man tried to hide it, his irritation always bled through.
Feigning ignorance, he smoothly continued, maintaining flawless courtesy.
“I have prior engagements, so I’ll take my leave now, elder brother.”
“…As you wish, Your Highness.”
The First Prince couldn’t stop him. His status made it impossible to force the issue.
He strode leisurely out of the training grounds. Though magic had already left his body immaculate, he still wanted to wash up.
The bath welcomed him with a vast tub of steaming water.
“Leave.”
The attendants waiting just in case quietly withdrew. He hadn’t allowed anyone to assist him with bathing since coming of age—other people’s touch was never welcome.
With practiced ease, he shed the layers of his elaborate robes, stepping into the tub bare. Water rippled briefly before settling into stillness. He relaxed his muscles. The warmth, the silence—it wasn’t unpleasant.
Letting out a languid breath, he swept back the damp bangs clinging to his forehead. Glossy golden hair, darkened by moisture, tumbled over his gloved hand as it trailed back.
Gloved Hands, Unraveling Desire
Because of the mark on the back of his hand, he never removed his gloves—even when bathing. The contamination-proof enchantment kept the silk from getting wet, so at least it didn’t cling uncomfortably to his skin. Still, the absurdity of sitting naked with nothing but gloves on nearly made him laugh.
Anyone who saw me like this would think I have some kind of fetish.
And they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. Even when pleasuring himself, he used the gloves, friction against silk rather than bare skin.
The thought alone sent a sudden rush of heat through him. It didn’t take long for impulse to become action—if it had to be done, better to get it over with quickly.
Leaning back against the edge of the tub, he ran a gloved hand down his abdomen. Stimulated, his c**k gradually stiffened.
The sensation of warm water lapping with each stroke was… tolerable. M**********n, to him, had always been just that—an obligatory nuisance, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, a mechanical release for urges that piled up at inconvenient times.
But then—
“Tch—!”
A face flashed through his mind, and a full-body shudder wracked him. His disciplined muscles trembled helplessly against the wave of pleasure, so sharp it bordered on pain.
Electricity shot from his scalp to his toes. His thoughts blanked, every nerve converging into a single point. His abdomen clenched achingly tight, his thighs—hard as stone—twitching violently. As if every pleasure he’d ever known before had been a lie.
“Haah… ngh…!”
Every hair on his body stood on end—no, every atom of his being seemed to vibrate. His heart pounded wildly, as if announcing, This is what it means to be alive.
He gripped the tub, his back arching. The porcelain edge groaned under his hold, his knuckles straining white even through the gloves. The sight of his tensed forearms, the flawless shift of his back muscles, was obscenely beautiful—art and indecency blurred.
“Ugh—Jaha…! Hah—!”
His swollen c**k jerked violently, spilling white into the water. Gasping, he slumped against the tub, his breath ragged.
His oversensitive skin prickled, his entire body raw. Yet he couldn’t stop. His hand moved again, rough and demanding, already coaxing himself back to hardness.
It had become inevitable—every time he touched himself, she invaded his thoughts. He’d tried to resist, but the harder he fought, the clearer she appeared. Vivid. Relentless. As if some cruel trickster was dangling her before him, laughing.
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