Has the knight lady who married into the countryside fallen into depravity today?

Klein stood at the entrance of the manor, a half-finished vial of potion still tucked into his waistband.

The rim of the glass bottle was digging into his waist, and the liquid inside sloshed around, making a soft gurgling sound. He reached out and pressed it to make sure the stopper wasn't loose, then pulled his coat down further to cover the protruding neck of the bottle.

He didn't actually think too much about it.

The knight from the capital who could repel the siren on the coastline was most likely the type—how should I put it, whose arms were thicker than his waist.

Or at least he has to be the kind of ruthless character whose face is practically screaming "I'm the best in the world".

After all, shouldn't someone who can hold the line of defense by himself look like that?

Klein even mentally prepared himself for a female warrior a head taller than him to jump off the carriage and then scrutinize him, the "empire's chosen husband," with the same scrutinizing eyes one would use on livestock.

He had no expectations for this sudden marriage.

It was just an order from the empire; neither side had a choice.

The carriage door opened.

The first thing to come down was a hand.

Her fingers were long and slender with distinct knuckles, and a small section of skin was visible on her wrist, so white it was almost dazzling.

Sunlight fell on that wrist, revealing faint blue veins beneath the skin.

Klein blinked.

Then comes the skirt hem.

The white fabric, embroidered with gold thread, piled up at the edge of the carriage's footboard, shimmered in the midday sun, causing him to squint involuntarily.

When the man finally got off the carriage and stood in front of him, Klein felt his eyes sting from the glare.

No, it's not just the eyes.

His mind went blank for a moment.

Blonde hair.

Golden eyes.

His features were so exquisite that it looked like a statue of a deity painted by a court painter using the most accurate proportions and taking years of painstaking effort.

Klein stared at her for two seconds, and the first thought that popped into his mind was—could she really wield a heavy sword?

My second thought was—have the painters in the capital gone blind?

The portrait in the document was so scribbles it looked like a ghost's drawing. At the time, he thought the artist was being lazy or that he had just found an apprentice to do it.

In retrospect, the artist may not have been slacking off.

They probably never even met him in person.

The other person was also looking at him.

Those golden eyes were expressionless, just staring calmly, as if scrutinizing or confirming something.

Her gaze swept across his face, lingered for less than a second, then moved down to his shoulder, and then to his hand.

Klein felt a little uncomfortable under that scrutinizing gaze.

He coughed and tried to put the medicine bottle he had clipped to his waist into his pocket, but when he got halfway in, he realized the bottle was too big and the pocket was too shallow, so he had to pull it out again and put it in from a different angle.

The movements were a bit clumsy.

The stopper of the medicine bottle hit the edge of the pocket, making a slight clicking sound.

Klein pretended nothing had happened and raised his hand to say hello.

The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I didn't know what to say.

"Hello" sounds too formal.

The "welcome" is too fake.

"You've worked hard" sounds like a compliment to a subordinate.

Finally, he managed to squeeze out, "Was the journey smooth?"

He regretted it as soon as he said it.

Ophelia looked at him, said nothing, and simply nodded slightly.

The movements were very light and the amplitude was small, but the answers were very serious.

Klein reached out to help her down from the carriage.

Before their hands even touched, the other person took a half step back.

The movements were incredibly fast, like lightning, almost like a reflex.

Klein's hand froze in mid-air.

The atmosphere suddenly became awkward.

Ophelia looked down at her own hands, then at Klein's hands, which were suspended in the air.

Her fingers rubbed against the hem of her skirt, creating several wrinkles in the white fabric.

After a two-second silence, she said, "I'm sorry."

The voice was calm, revealing no emotion, as if stating a fact.

"I'm not used to..." She paused, shifting her gaze to the manor's walls, "to having direct physical contact with others."

Klein withdrew his hand and put it in his pocket.

The medicine bottle in his pocket bumped against him; the cool glass pressed against his palm through the fabric. He shifted his position, trying to appear as natural as possible: "It's nothing."

He wanted to say something else, like "I understand" or "Take it slow," but he swallowed the words back.

What's the point of saying all that?

The other person doesn't really want to marry him.

Ophelia stepped off the carriage herself using the footboard.

Her skirt was a bit long, so she lifted it up slightly to reveal her boots.

The boots were black, the leather was old, there were signs of wear on the surface, and there was a shallow scratch on the heel, as if it had been rubbed by a sharp object.

It didn't match her brand-new, priceless imperial uniform at all.

Klein glanced at the boots, then at her face.

The other person's expression remained calm, as if nothing had happened.

She stood on the ground, her skirt falling down to cover her boots. But the impression those boots left was already etched in Klein's mind.

The driver unloaded a box from the cart and placed it on the ground.

The box wasn't big, nor did it look heavy. It was covered in a layer of dust, and the corners were worn, indicating that it had been used for many years.

"That's all?" Klein asked.

He looked at the lone box, then at the carriage.

The carriage was empty; there was nothing on it.

An imperial hero who married into the capital only had one suitcase in her luggage?

"Yes," Ophelia said.

Her gaze fell on the box, lingered for a second, and then looked away.

Klein looked at the box, then at Ophelia.

Her expression was calm, almost unnaturally so.

"Then let's go home first."

He paused when he said the last two words.

The two words rolled around in my mouth, leaving a slightly bitter taste.

Ophelia nodded.

Klein bent down to pick up the suitcase.

He froze the moment his fingers touched the handle of the box.

The box was much heavier than he had imagined.

It wasn't the kind of weight that comes from being filled with clothes, but rather a heavy, weighty feeling that pressed down on your hand.

He used some strength to lift the box; it felt heavy in his hands, as if it were filled with stones.

Klein glanced at the box, then at Ophelia.

The other person's expression did not change.

He swallowed his doubts, picked up the box, and turned to walk into the manor.

After taking a couple of steps, I realized there were no footsteps behind me.

He turned around.

Ophelia stood still, without moving.

Her gaze fell on the manor's wall, lingered for a few seconds, swept over the vine-covered stone bricks, and then moved to the stone pillars at the entrance.

Vines climbed all over the stone pillars, their green leaves hanging down and rustling in the wind.

She stared at the vines, her eyes somewhat dazed, as if she were thinking about something.

"What's wrong?" Klein asked.

Ophelia looked away and turned to him.

"It's nothing," she said, taking a step to catch up.

She walked with a straight posture, her back ramrod straight, her shoulders level, and her steps steady, each step almost the same distance. The hem of her skirt swayed at her feet, making a rustling sound.

Klein walked ahead, listening to the rhythmic footsteps behind him, and something felt off.

The footsteps—well, they didn't sound like a bride walking; they sounded more like a march.

He glanced at it from the side.

Ophelia's hands hung at her sides, her fingers slightly spread, as if she were ready to grasp something at any moment.

It's not about lifting the hem of a skirt, nor is it about striking a pose; it's about adopting a posture that suggests you can draw your weapon at any moment.

He looked down and examined her hand again.

His fingers were long and slender, but the fingertips were covered with thick calluses that shimmered yellowish in the sunlight. There was a scar on the web of his hand, curved like a crescent moon, embedded in his skin.

You can tell that those hands have been holding the sword for a very, very long time.

The callus has grown so long that it can't be worn away anymore.

Klein looked away and continued walking.

The manor is not large; the distance from the gate to the main building is only a few dozen meters.

Trees lined both sides of the road, their dense foliage blocking out most of the sunlight. The shadows cast dappled patterns on the stone path.

"It's usually very quiet here," Klein said, trying to break the silence. "Occasionally, a caravan passes by, but not often. Most of the time it's just me and two servants, but they live in town and only come when needed."

"Um."

"The town isn't far from here; it's only a half-hour ride on horseback. There's a market in town, open every Wednesday. They don't have a huge selection, but they have everything you need for daily life. If you want to buy anything, you can make a list, and I'll have someone buy it for you."

"Um."

Klein said a few more words, and the other party responded with "hmm" or a nod.

He swallowed the words he had prepared and shut his mouth.

Forget it.

Anyway, I don't know what to say.

We've arrived at the main building.

Klein pushed open the door, the hinges creaking as he stepped aside to let Ophelia go in first.

She stood in the doorway, looked inside, her gaze swept across the hall, lingered on the fireplace for a second, and then moved to the bookshelf.

Then she stepped over the threshold.

The hall was not spacious and there wasn't much furniture.

The fireplace still held ashes from last night, which hadn't been cleaned out yet. The bookshelves were filled with books and bottles and jars, with liquids of various colors swaying in the glass bottles—some clear and transparent, some cloudy and viscous, and a few that glowed eerily in the sunlight.

Several parchment sheets were scattered on the table, with sketches of alchemical arrays drawn on them. The lines were messy, and there were a few places where the ink had smudged, making it look like they had just been drawn not long ago.

Klein placed the box at the top of the stairs. The box hit the ground with a dull thud, louder than he had expected.

He turned around and saw Ophelia staring at the parchment on the table.

Her gaze lingered on the alchemical arrays for a few seconds, sweeping over the complex symbols and lines with a hint of curiosity in her eyes, which she quickly averted.

"That's an alchemy array," Klein explained, walking over to put the paper away. "I was working on a new potion formula, it's a bit messy, sorry."

He folded the parchment, stuffed it into the drawer, and then neatly arranged the quills and ink bottles scattered on the table.

Ophelia looked away from the parchment and onto the bookshelf.

She walked over, her gaze sweeping over the bottles, examining them one by one, as if confirming something.

"Is it poisonous?" she asked.

Klein was taken aback for a moment: "Huh?"

"Are these potions poisonous?" Ophelia pointed to the bookshelf.

Her tone was calm, as if she were asking "How's the weather today?"

Klein blinked, then realized, "Uh... a few bottles are poisonous, but they're all labeled. You see, the red labels are poisonous, the green ones are for treatment, the blue ones are for supplementary use, like stimulants or pain relievers. The yellow ones are—"

"I won't touch it," Ophelia interrupted him. "I was just asking."

Her hand rubbed against the hem of her skirt, her fingertips touching the fabric before she let go.

Klein nodded.

The atmosphere quieted down again.

He touched the medicine bottle in his pocket; the glass was warm from his body heat and no longer as cold as before. He cleared his throat: "Your room is on the second floor. I've had it cleaned. The sheets and blankets are new, the window faces south, and the lighting is pretty good. If you need anything, just let me know."

He paused, then added, "My room is on the third floor. I usually spend a lot of time in the lab, so I won't bother you."

Ophelia turned around and looked at him.

Those golden eyes stared at him, their gaze direct, without flinching or probing, just staring straight ahead.

Klein felt a little uncomfortable under that gaze and subconsciously looked away.

"We..." she began, then stopped.

"Um?"

"Shall we sleep in the same room?"