What Became of the Tyrant After the Pregnant Empress Left - Chapter 270

One month, two months, half a year…

As time flowed endlessly onward, Temisian, who had been watching the two, suddenly noticed something peculiar.

The Emperor had been secretly protecting the Empress.

At first, he thought it was a misunderstanding. But once the suspicion took root, the Emperor’s seemingly abusive behavior toward the Empress began to take on a different meaning.

At the time, the power structure of Uzephia was deeply distorted. With the imperial authority weakening by the day, the nobles grew fat on their own influence—until a wielder of Tennilath’s power seized the throne.

Though the heads of each house were bound by the Blood Oath and could not raise their swords against the Emperor, they still clung to the power they had built over generations. Across the empire, there were those who would do anything short of outright rebellion.

And into this situation, the princess of a minor kingdom—a Chernian, no less—had abruptly become Empress. Everyone opposed it, but since Kazhan had pushed it through alone, many were left dissatisfied.

Had it ended there, it might have been fine. But the situation grew stranger. Those who had once prayed for no awakened heir to the Tennilath bloodline now moved to overthrow the Empress, as if guided by an unseen hand.

Yet this undercurrent never escalated into outright disaster. Because the Emperor himself dragged the Empress into the mud.

The nobles scorned and belittled the Empress freely. They saw her less as a threat to be guarded against and more as the Emperor’s plaything.

Kazhan did not stop them. If anything, he encouraged it, leaving Ysaris exposed to vicious slander while standing idly by.

Yet at the same time, he ensured no one could lay a finger on her. The moment so much as a single hair on her head was threatened, his fury would erupt.

A woman not worth risking danger to touch, nor worth tearing from the Emperor’s side. Merely a convenient toy for gossip.

Such was high society’s judgment of Ysaris. A bizarre eye of the storm, a paradoxical peace surrounding her.

……And those red eyes followed her everywhere. Now filled with an emotion even he could not name.

Kazhan did not answer.

Again, no reply came. He merely met Temisian’s gaze in silence before dismissing him.

Temisian did not agree with Kazhan’s methods. Had he truly wished to protect the Empress, it would have been better to grant her unassailable power from the start—

Could the Empress, who hated him so, ever have accepted that?

Who knew? Had the war ended cleanly, had he strengthened the empire’s foundations and gradually built ties with Pyrein before marrying—had news of Ysaris Chernian’s engagement not driven the Emperor to madness—perhaps things might have been different.

But all such speculations were meaningless. Futile, as they say.

The Emperor, whether rationally or emotionally, oppressed the Empress even as he worked tirelessly to protect her. And the Empress withered daily under her husband’s cruelty.

Temisian regretted the loss of the fiery light in Kazhan’s red eyes. It pained him to watch these two, so clearly miserable, stubbornly endure their wretched lives.

When Temisian finally stepped in to help the Emperor at the crossroads of tragedy and farce—disaster struck.

The Empress’s death—or disappearance. And the Emperor’s descent into madness.

Afterward, Kazhan acted as though he no longer cared what became of the empire. Unlike his earlier efforts to rule well, he now executed nobles for treason at the slightest provocation.

Temisian allowed it all. Bound by the Oath, he willingly became the blade in the Emperor’s hand—so long as his own house was spared.

When the Empress returned to the empire, he truly thought it a miracle. Temisian stood by Kazhan’s side as the Emperor regained his sanity, aiding in the empire’s restoration with all his strength.

……How wonderful it would have been if that had been the happy ending. If the Emperor, who had spent over a decade watching no one but the Empress, had finally been loved in return.

Click.

Without waiting for permission, Temisian opened the door to the Emperor’s study. The footsteps behind him hesitated at the audacity, but it hardly mattered.

This place had long lost its master. Temisian strode confidently to the desk, pulling open a drawer to reveal a hidden compartment. Inside lay sheets of paper covered in the Emperor’s handwriting.

Letters from a man who had always expected his own death—written to the woman he loved.

Kazhan Tennilath’s last will.