The Assassin and the Emperor

Chapter 2 : Two

Translator: PastTimer

Editor: PastTimer

Proofreader: PastTimer

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The room fell into deeper silence. After a few seconds, the assassin realized what this sentence meant. He sucked in a breath, suspecting that he had heard wrong.

Like other imperial nobles who admired neatness, the emperor had no beard. He had a smooth face and a soft outline, but that face was more handsome rather than delicate. The emperor's nightgown had a button left open, enough to see his raised apple. Velvet covered most of his skin, and it was close enough to hide a pair of breasts. The assassin stared at his face, looked down to his chest, and...

"I'm not a woman." The emperor said again, "But have you ever seen someone born both male and female?"

"No," the assassin answered honestly.

"Then you'll see it today," the emperor said.

He lowered his eyes and unbuttoned his clothes. The robe covered him from neck to heel, which meant that he was wearing only one piece of clothing. When he started to untie his belt, the assassin found that he was wearing nothing, no underwear. No underwear. Another drop of blood leaked from the emperor's neck and the assassin's hand shook. The assassin hurriedly removed the blade to avoid accidentally slaughtering the emperor.

The damn nightgown had so many buttons, the belt's knot was beautiful and complicated, the assassin couldn't figure out how to untie it, and couldn't figure out how anyone would like to wear it to sleep. The emperor slowly untied one knot after another, his pale hands shone against the dark nightgown. His hands were well-knotted and his fingers were slender and flexible. He looked pampered and didn't even have calluses. His eyelashes quivered under the flickering candlelight, and the two shadows fluttered like butterfly wings. The assassin felt like a butterfly was flying over his chest, its wings scratching his heart.

The room temperature rose quietly.

The last knot was untied, and the belt fell to the ground. The emperor lowered his hands, his chest was bare, and his body was dazzling white in the night. The nightgown still hung on him, open, as if a door left half-closed, with only a vague view of the garden beneath surrendered. The hem of the nightgown rippled, revealing a leg and thin ankle, which made people suspect that it could be broken with a bit of effort.

"I really can't conceive," the emperor said. "Ironically, such a body can give birth to children."

There seemed to be a slender gap under his hanging penis, where the sac was supposed to be. The shadow between his legs obscured most of his vision, and the assassin couldn't see between them, but he became more uncomfortable because of it. He wanted to remove the sparse hair there, and wanted to put his fingers in. He wanted to know whether there was a delicate place hidden underneath the dignified emperor's robe, whether the rumoured cold-blooded monster was soft and hot, whether it would become submissive and moist because of his touch...

"What a joke," the assassin said dryly, struggling to fight against his rising desire. "Even so, it doesn't prove that you're fertile..."

"Whether it's true or not, you can verify it yourself." The emperor said.

The emperor leaned on the back of his chair and slightly adjusted his posture.

The royal nightgown was exquisite and luxurious. The cuffs and collar were embroidered with dark patterns made with gold thread. One sleeve could probably meet the cost of food and clothing for a commoner's family for a year. The emperor wore the nightgown, sitting in the bedroom facing the assassin who was only one step away, but he was as dignified as if he was sitting on a throne. But such an emperor; the conqueror of most of the known world, a monarch with unimaginable wealth, a rich and unattainable nobleman, a clever man with a clever tongue, who made thousands kneel before him¹, was spreading his legs to a vulgar desperado. The emperor's body was both male and female; it looked solemn, sacred, incomparable. The assassin heard the sound of himself swallowing his spit, and he felt more and more that he was fighting a battle that could only lead to his defeat.