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

Klein stared at Ophelia's expressionless face, his mind racing for a moment before he realized what she was asking.

The question—well, how should I put it—was far too direct. So direct that Klein didn't know how to respond for a moment.

His hand instinctively reached for the medicine bottle in his pocket again. The moment his fingertips touched the glass, a chill seemed to creep into his heart. He coughed, feeling a tightness in his throat.

"No need," he said, his voice sounding stiffer than expected. "I live on the third floor."

The moment the words left his mouth, Klein suddenly felt that the answer was a little too quick. It was as if the answer had been prepared in advance, or rather, as if it was a way of running away from something.

Ophelia stared at him, her golden eyes unblinking, as if evaluating him using some standard he couldn't understand.

Klein felt extremely uncomfortable under her gaze, as if he were being stared at by some kind of ferocious beast. He took a half step back, took his hand out of his pocket, and gestured in the air, trying to make his explanation sound more natural: "The third floor is my studio, and I usually sleep there. Alchemy experiments often require working through the night, and sometimes the drug reactions can last until the early hours of the morning, so... Anyway, you can stay on the second floor; it's more spacious and has better lighting."

As he spoke, his voice grew softer and softer, and the last few words were almost muffled as he spoke.

"Oh." Ophelia nodded.

And then nothing more was said.

The air seemed to freeze.

Klein felt a strange embarrassment surge up from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. He and his newlywed wife were less than two meters apart, but it felt as if they were separated by an entire battlefield.

Both sides were tacitly aware that continuing this topic would only make things more awkward.

Klein cleared his throat, waited a few seconds, and, making sure she didn't intend to continue speaking, turned to pick up his suitcase.

He placed the box at the top of the stairs, bent down to grab the handle, and the moment his fingers gripped it, the heavy weight made him pause again. He used some strength to lift the box, the weight pressing down on his hands making him wonder again—what could possibly be inside?

He carried the suitcase upstairs, and with each step, a faint metallic clanging sound emanated from inside. It was very subtle, but exceptionally clear in the quiet stairwell.

A thought flashed through Klein's mind: Could it really be armed?

Halfway there, he couldn't help but look back.

Ophelia was still standing in the hall, her gaze fixed on the fireplace. The ashes in the fireplace were grayish-white, mixed with a few pieces of unburnt charcoal, looking somewhat messy. She stared at the pile of ashes for a long time, her eyes somewhat unfocused, as if she saw something else through the ashes.

Then she looked out the window.

The curtains were old, the fabric faded, and the edges frayed. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting dappled shadows on the floor. She looked at those shadows, her fingers curling slightly, then relaxing.

Klein stood on the stairs carrying the box, and inexplicably felt a pang of sadness.

This imperial hero looked like a child thrown into an unfamiliar environment, bewildered yet trying to maintain a calm facade.

He thought for a moment, then said, "I'll make dinner. If you're hungry, the kitchen is at the end of the left-hand hallway; the bread and cheese are in the cupboard. The kettle is on the stove, so if you want to boil some water... well, be careful not to burn yourself."

After saying that, he felt that his words were a bit redundant—how could a knight who could slay sirens on the battlefield not even know how to boil water?

"Okay," Ophelia said.

Her voice was calm, but Klein always felt there was something hidden beneath that calm. Was it exhaustion? Or disappointment? He couldn't say for sure.

Klein continued upstairs, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

He could actually tell that Ophelia wasn't prepared.

She wasn't ready for either being a bride or moving into this place.

The way she stood there, though upright as a pine tree, revealed an almost palpable unease. It was as if a drawn sword had been forcibly shoved into an unsuitable scabbard—awkward no matter how you looked at it.

Klein placed the box in the second-floor room. The box hit the ground with a dull thud, making the wooden floor tremble. He brushed imaginary dust off his hands and looked around the room.

He cleaned the room overnight. The sheets were freshly changed, and there was a bouquet of flowers on the windowsill.

The flowers were picked from the yard yesterday and placed in a ceramic pot. They were quite vibrant at first, but now they're wilting a bit. A few petals are drooping, and the edges are starting to turn yellow.

He walked to the window, picked up the flower, and examined it. The stem was already somewhat limp; it seemed it wouldn't last much longer. He hesitated for a moment, thought for a moment, and then put the flower back.

Well, it's better than nothing.

Footsteps could be heard downstairs.

It was very light, but the rhythm was very steady, and the intervals between each step were almost exactly the same, as if it had been deliberately trained.

Klein listened to the footsteps as they reached the top of the stairs, paused for a moment—presumably to look at the stairs—and then began to climb the stairs.

He walked out of the room and met her in the hallway.

Ophelia glanced up at him, her golden eyes flashing in the dim corridor like those of some nocturnal creature. Then she said nothing and went straight into the room.

Klein stood in the doorway, watching her survey the room.

Her gaze swept over the bed, the wardrobe, the windowsill, and finally landed on the bouquet of flowers. She paused for a moment, so briefly that it was almost unnoticed unless one looked closely.

"Um..." Klein broke the silence, "The flowers are a bit wilted, I'll get a new bouquet tomorrow."

"No need," Ophelia said.

She walked to the window and reached out to touch the petals. The petals were a little dry, their edges curled up, making a soft rustling sound under her fingertips. Her movements were very light, as if she were touching something fragile.

Klein leaned against the doorframe, his hands back in his pockets. The vial was warm from his body heat, and the glass surface was slightly sticky.

He wanted to say something, but didn't know what to say. "Welcome to your new home?" That would be too insincere. "I hope you get used to it?" That would be too polite. "We'll get along well?" Even he didn't believe it.

Finally, he simply said, "I'll go downstairs now. Call me if you need anything. My studio is on the third floor, the innermost room. There's a sign on the door that says 'Experiment in Progress.' If the sign is red, it means they're conducting a more dangerous experiment, so it's best not to knock. If it's green, you can come in anytime."

He paused, then added, "Of course, if you're in a hurry, you can knock on the door no matter what color it is."

Ophelia didn't turn around, she just hummed in response.

Klein pursed his lips, turned around, and prepared to go upstairs.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he couldn't help but look back.

Ophelia was still standing by the window, her back to the door. Her white dress stood out starkly in the dim room, like a light that didn't belong there. Sunlight streamed in through the window, gilding her with a pale gold edge, making her appear unrealistically beautiful.

Her hands hung at her sides, her fingers slightly curled, as if she were holding something unseen.

Klein looked at that posture and a strange, indescribable emotion welled up inside him.

That was a defensive posture.

Even standing in her own room, she maintained a posture as if she could draw her sword at any moment.

Klein sighed and went upstairs.

---

……

Ophelia is a knight.

It has been that way since the day she took up the sword.

On the battlefields of the West Coast, the screech of the siren could tear eardrums; the sound was so sharp it felt like countless needles piercing the brain simultaneously. Black tentacles surged from the seawater, each slap turning people into a bloody pulp, the flesh and seawater mingling together, indistinguishable from one another.

She stood at the forefront, her sword cleaving through the seawater and severing tentacles, her golden pupils glowing in the blood mist.

She remembers those days.

I remember the expressions on the faces of each comrade as they fell, the vibrations in my arm every time I swung my sword, and the feeling of standing on the edge of life and death, yet remaining perfectly clear-headed.

She was there when the empire needed her.

Without hesitation, without reservation.

When the empire no longer needs her—

She stood in her room on the second floor, looking out at the desolate manor.

The suitcase lay open beside the bed.

Inside was all her belongings.

A pair of armor.

It was silvery-white, with a deep dent on its breastplate—the mark of a siren's claws. That claw had nearly pierced her chest; if she hadn't dodged in time, she wouldn't be standing here now.

The buckles on her shoulder pads were a bit loose, and she hadn't had time to fix them. Every time she thought about fixing them, a new battle was waiting for her.

Dried bloodstains remained on the inside of her shoulder armor; they were her own. Three months ago, a siren's tentacle shattered her shoulder bone, and the blood seeped into the gaps in her armor. The wound healed, but the bloodstains couldn't be washed away.

A long sword.

The scabbard was badly worn, with fine scratches covering the leather surface, and in some places it had been worn through, exposing the wood underneath.

The leather wrapped around the hilt was no longer recognizable as its original color; it had turned black from being soaked in sweat and blood, and it was stiff but felt exceptionally comfortable in the hand.

There were several small cracks on the sword, left from when she cleaved the siren's head in the final battle. That strike had used all her strength; she heard the sound of metal cracking the moment the blade pierced the bone.

There's still some space in the box.

Something else should have been placed there.

For example, a change of clothes, jewelry, or those little trinkets that girls usually carry.

But she didn't.

She doesn't have those things.

Or rather, she once had them, but lost them all on the battlefield.

She reached into the box, her fingertips brushing against the armor's cool surface. The metallic touch reassured her; it was a familiar sensation, more real than any hug.

She gripped the sword hilt, her thumb tracing the worn marks. She remembered each mark; each one represented a battle, a reason to survive.

The sound of wind came from outside the window.

She released her sword, stood up, and walked to the window.

The manor's courtyard was overgrown with weeds, beyond which lay a grove of trees, and beyond that, rolling hills. The sky was a deep blue, the clouds were white, and everything was eerily quiet.

There was no sea, no battlefield, no shrieking sounds.

There was nothing that needed her protection.

She gazed at the tranquil scenery, her hands hanging at her sides.

His fingers curled slightly.

It's as if he's still holding a sword.

But the sword was not in his hand.

She suddenly felt a little uncomfortable.

She wasn't used to this quiet, this sense of security, or the feeling that no one needed her protection.

She had stood on the battlefield for so long that she had forgotten what peace was like.

Now that peace has arrived, she doesn't know what to do.

The wilted flowers on the windowsill swayed gently in the wind, and a few petals fell and landed on the windowsill.

Looking at the petals, she suddenly remembered something from long ago.

She was still young then, not a knight yet, and would laugh happily over a bouquet of flowers.

But that was a very, very long time ago.

So long that she almost forgot what she looked like when she smiled.

---

……

Klein is very busy.

He had planned to finish making that bottle of treatment potion today.

The recipe has been revised three times, and all the ingredients are ready. Each ingredient has been weighed according to the most precise proportions. As long as we follow the steps, it can be completed before evening.

But today is a little special—he got married.

It wasn't exactly a romantic story.

The empire was wary of the female knight who had fought so fiercely against the sea monsters on the west coast, but didn't want to make things too ugly, so it sent her to the countryside under the guise of marriage.

Klein was a minor nobleman with a respectable family background and no affiliation, which made him a perfect fit.

Moreover, Klein actually felt that this might not be a bad thing for the young lady knight.

Judging from her demeanor in the hall, she's probably not suited for the intricacies of court life. Rather than being used as a pawn in the capital, it would be better for her to enjoy a peaceful life in the countryside.

At least, no one here will want her dead.

He stirred the glass rod in his hand in the crucible, and the pale blue liquid began to clear, with fine bubbles rising to the surface. Klein stared at the bubbles, counting the frequency of their bursting, but his mind was still wandering.

That box.

That heavy box.

And there are the calluses on Ophelia's hands and the scars on her hands.

And the dazed look in her eyes when she looked at the fireplace.

Klein sighed, turned down the flame, and waited for the potion to cool.

He's actually not very good at handling these kinds of things.

His specialty is mixing various materials in the correct proportions to induce the desired reaction and achieve the desired result.

But people are not materials.

People have emotions, past experiences, and wounds.

He didn't know what to do with those things.

The medicine had cooled down enough, and he carefully divided it into several small bottles. The bottles glowed with a faint blue light in the candlelight; they were quite beautiful.

After he finished doing all that, he looked up and realized that it was already dark outside the window.

The setting sun dyed the sky orange-red, and the clouds, as if burned, stretched layer upon layer across the horizon.

Klein paused, glancing at the clock on the wall.

It's past dinner time.

Damn.

He put down the bottle in his hand, took off his work gloves, and rubbed his face with a bit of annoyance.

Leaving your spouse stranded downstairs on the very first day of your marriage is incredibly rude.

Although the marriage itself was very impolite, at least the pretense had to be put on.

He walked out of the studio on the third floor, making his footsteps very lightly as he went downstairs, afraid of making too much noise.

The second-floor corridor was quiet, eerily quiet.

The door to Ophelia's room was closed, and there was no light in the room; it seemed she hadn't even lit a candle.

Klein walked to the door and knocked.

No one answered.

He knocked twice more, but there was still no response.

"Ophelia?" he said through the door, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible. "Dinner... uh, I mean, are you hungry? I can make something to eat."

It remained quiet.

Klein frowned, a sense of unease beginning to creep into his heart.

Could something have happened to her?

Or is she angry?

Or... she doesn't want to see him?

He hesitated for a moment, then grasped the doorknob and gently pushed the door open.

"I'm coming in, if you—"

He froze halfway through his sentence.

The room was empty.

The suitcase lay open beside the bed.

There was nothing inside.

The wilted bouquet was still on the windowsill, with a few more petals falling off.

The white dress was neatly folded and placed on the bed.

But the person was not there.