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

Klein stood in the empty room, looking at the wilted bouquet of flowers.

He did not panic.

The young knight didn't seem like the type to run away from her marriage. She stood in the hall, looking somewhat bewildered, but she had accepted the marriage and would keep her promise. Knights are all like that—and this young knight seemed especially so.

Klein turned and went downstairs.

The first-floor hallway was quiet; the fireplace ash was still grayish-white, the curtains were drawn, and the light and shadow stretched long across the floor. He walked through the hall and pushed open the door leading to the courtyard.

The night breeze blew in, carrying the scent of grass and trees.

The moon rose and hung on the treetops, casting a white glow on the weeds in the yard.

Klein stood in the doorway, and then—he saw her.

Ophelia was wearing that silver-white armor.

The dent on her breastplate looked like a black scar in the moonlight, and the buckles on her shoulder guards hung loosely, but she stood straight, like a gun gleaming in the moonlight.

She held the sword.

The sword reflected the moonlight, tracing an arc in the air. The blade sliced ​​through the air with a low, guttural sound—a sound Klein had read about in books but never heard in reality. Now he heard it; it was the sound of a blade cutting through the wind, sharp, resolute, and carrying a dangerous, heart-stopping quality.

Her movements were quick, but each step was steady.

The weeds beneath her feet were trampled, and the tip of her sword left shallow furrows in the ground. She thrust forward, the tip of her sword hovering in the air, as if piercing the throat of an unseen enemy; she slashed upward, the shoulder guards of her armor making a slight scraping sound, the trajectory of the blade leaving afterimages in Klein's eyes; she turned and slashed horizontally, her golden hair flying in the moonlight, the weeds flattening wherever the blade swept.

Klein leaned against the doorframe, forgetting to utter a sound.

He had originally intended to remind her to eat, but now he didn't want to interrupt her.

Sweat trickled down her forehead, down her cheeks, and onto her chin, appearing like tiny silver threads in the moonlight. Her breathing became rapid, her breastplate rising and falling with each breath, but the sword did not stop.

She thrust her sword again, the tip hovering in mid-air for a few seconds before retracting it.

She stood there, her sword hanging at her side, the moonlight shining on her.

Sweat soaked through his golden hair at the temples, with a few strands clinging to his forehead and neck. His pale golden pupils shone almost blindingly in the moonlight, like the last vestiges of warmth on a sword, not yet faded from some unseen battlefield.

Klein stared at her for two seconds.

Then he realized something:

Those people weren't lying to him. This woman had indeed killed far too many sirens on the West Coast.

But they didn't tell him that this kind of person would be this good-looking.

Her armor should have been a burden, and the dents and wear should have made her look disheveled, but the way she stood in the weeds made her seem like something else entirely—Klein had seen those descriptions in books, about blood-stained banners and knights who refused to retreat, but words on paper never had such impact.

The moonlight stretched her shadow long, the tip of the sword almost touching Klein's feet.

As he gazed at the shadow, a saying suddenly came to mind: "The sword is a knight's second life."

Now he believes it.

Klein took a deep breath, looked away, and cleared his throat: "Ahem."

Ophelia turned her head and saw him.

Her hand gripped the sword hilt tightly, then loosened. Moonlight shone on her face, and sweat dripped from her chin onto her armor with a soft rustling sound.

"Dinner," Klein said, trying to make his voice sound normal. "I haven't made it yet."

Ophelia looked at him without saying a word.

She simply stood there, sword still in her hand, moonlight shining on her, like some kind of ancient statue.

"Are you hungry?" Klein asked again.

She glanced down at the sword in her hand; tiny cracks still clung to its blade. She sheathed it swiftly and decisively, as if she were sheathing something dangerous. Then she straightened up and looked at Klein.

"Mmm," she said.

The voice was calm, but Klein sensed something else—she was indeed hungry, and probably had been hungry for a long time, but she wouldn't say it.

Honesty is a virtue of knights, but knights will not complain.

This inevitably made Klein somewhat embarrassed.

After all, Ophelia was his wife in name only, yet she hadn't even been able to get a meal since arriving here, and had been practicing swordsmanship in the courtyard on an empty stomach until now. If word got out, Klein, even if he wasn't a complete scoundrel, would certainly be considered a bastard.

Ophelia glanced at him, probably sensing what he was thinking.

"It's okay," she said, her tone still calm, as if stating something perfectly ordinary. "Back in the army, we often didn't have time to eat because of training. Sometimes when we were on the move, it was common to only eat one meal a day. There was a shortage of supplies on the west coast. Once we were stranded on a sea cliff and only ate hard bread twice in three days."

Her eyes remained unchanged as she spoke, as if she were telling someone else's story.

Klein felt even more guilty upon hearing this.

While others were risking their lives on the battlefield, he was tinkering with potions in the lab. While others were fighting sirens on empty stomachs, he at least managed to eat on time. Now that she's finally retired, she's been left out in the cold on her very first day of marriage, not even getting a hot meal.

What kind of nonsense is this?

“That won’t do,” Klein said, his tone more firm than before. “The past is the past, and the present is the present. You’re no longer in the army, nor are you on the West Coast; you still need to eat. And—”

He paused, then added, "And today is... well, a special day. I can't let you go hungry on your first day of marriage."

Ophelia didn't speak, she just looked at him.

The moonlight shone on her face, reflecting his image in her golden pupils. Her gaze was direct, lacking the reserve or probing often found in aristocratic ladies; she simply looked at him, as if confirming whether he was telling the truth.

Klein felt a little uncomfortable under her gaze and scratched his head. "How about this, I'll take you out to eat. There's a little tavern near the manor; the owner is a veteran, and his roast meat is really authentic. They also have some desserts, which are quite good."

"Go out?" Ophelia repeated the word, her tone tinged with doubt.

"Yes, let's go out," Klein said. "Actually, I'm not a very good cook, so I usually eat out. If you don't mind..."

He was speaking when he suddenly remembered something, and his gaze fell on Ophelia's armor.

The silver-white armor gleamed coldly in the moonlight, the dents on the breastplate clearly visible, and the shoulder guards' buckles hanging loosely. If someone wore this outfit on the street, they'd definitely turn heads.

"Um," Klein hesitated for a moment, "would you like to change your clothes first?"

Ophelia looked down at herself.

She glanced at the dent in her breastplate, then at the scabbard in her hand, and remained silent for a few seconds. Then she raised her head and shook it: "No need, I'm used to it this way."

Klein was taken aback.

He wanted to say, "But it's a bit strange to eat while wearing armor," but he swallowed the words back.

He suddenly realized that for Ophelia, armor might be more like "normal clothing" than those gorgeous gowns. She had worn armor on the battlefield for who knows how long; for her, armor was not a burden, but a source of security.

Just like how he feels comfortable wearing work clothes stained with medicine.

"Okay." Klein nodded. "Then, shall we leave now?"

"Okay," Ophelia replied.

She turned and walked back, then stopped after a couple of steps, looking at Klein: "Aren't you going to change your clothes?"

Klein looked down at himself.

His white shirt had a few drops of blue medicine on it, the cuffs were scorched by flames, and his trousers were covered in dust and black powder that had somehow gotten on them. He had spent the whole day in the lab, and this outfit was definitely not suitable for going out.

But after thinking about it, he shook his head: "Forget it, let's leave it at that. If you won't change it, I won't either."

Ophelia looked at him, a hint of confusion in her eyes: "Why?"

"Because..." Klein scratched his head, "If I were in your shoes, wouldn't it look even stranger if you were walking down the street alone in armor?"

He paused, then shrugged. "Anyway, the tavern owner knows me, knows I'm an alchemist. It's normal for alchemists' clothes to be a little dirty. You wear armor, I wear work clothes, neither of us should look down on the other."

He spoke casually, but Ophelia remained silent for a few seconds.

She didn't speak, but just looked at Klein. The moonlight shone on her face, and a complex emotion flashed in her golden eyes—like surprise, like confusion.

Then she turned around and continued walking.

"Let's go," she said.

Klein followed behind her, locked the door, and the two walked out of the manor.

The path was quiet at night, and the moonlight shone on the stone slabs, casting long shadows.

Ophelia walked ahead, her armor gleaming coldly in the moonlight. Her footsteps were particularly clear on the empty road—the sound of metal gaiters scraping against each other and boots clattering on the stone slabs, regular and steady, like the rhythm of a march.

Klein walked behind her, watching her straight back.

The moonlight shone on her shoulder armor, making the wear and tear marks exceptionally clear.

Klein stared at the marks and suddenly remembered something.

"By the way," he said, "you were practicing your sword in the yard all afternoon?"

"Um."

"How long have you been practicing?"

Ophelia thought for a moment: "From this afternoon until now."

Klein calculated the time; it was at least four or five hours.

He couldn't help but click his tongue: "Aren't you tired?"

"I'm used to it," Ophelia said.

Her voice was calm, as if she were stating something perfectly natural.

As Klein listened, a thought flashed through his mind: No wonder this young lady knight was able to fight so fiercely against sirens on the West Coast; the intensity of her training was indeed ruthless.

"Now that we don't have to fight anymore," Klein said, "we can take a break."

Ophelia did not answer.

Her hand tightened slightly on the sword hilt, then relaxed. The moonlight shone on her hands, making the calluses on them particularly noticeable.

“When there’s no war,” she said, her tone still calm, but Klein detected something else in her voice—like a kind of obsession, or fear—“that you need to train even more.”

Klein understood the meaning behind her words.

When there is no war, swords will rust.

But once the sword rusts, it will be unable to save anyone the next time it is needed.

He didn't say anything more, but just followed behind her and continued walking forward.

The tavern was just ahead, warm yellow light shining through the windows, and the wooden sign hanging at the door swaying gently in the wind.

Klein pushed open the door.

……

The tavern door was pushed open, and warm yellow light poured out, carrying the aroma of ale and charcoal.

It wasn't noisy inside. A few wooden tables were scattered around, with small groups of guests sitting there, speaking in hushed tones, as if afraid of disturbing something.

The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, the firewood crackling, and the oil lamp hanging on the wall cast a flickering shadow on the ceiling.

The sounds stopped when Ophelia went in.

The silver-white armor gleamed coldly under the light, and the dents on the breastplate were clearly visible—marks left by some kind of sharp weapon, deeply embedded in the metal, casting tiny shadows under the light.

Her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor, click-clack, each step steady, the result of years of training. Even in full armor, there was no swaying.

The scabbard hung at his waist, the hilt showing signs of wear under the lamplight. The marks were dense, as if it had been repeatedly rubbed by something; Klein knew they were the marks left from long hours of wielding the sword.

The two men sitting by the window looked up, their forks hovering in mid-air. One of them, a burly man with a thick beard, paused for a moment, his gaze lingering on Ophelia's armor before quickly looking away and whispering something to his companion.

The waitress behind the bar, holding a wine glass, looked over and almost dropped the dishcloth in her hand.

The old man in the corner took his pipe out of his mouth, squinted at her, and his lips twitched as if he wanted to say something but then swallowed it back.

Ophelia stood at the door, her golden eyes sweeping across the entire tavern.

She didn't avoid those gazes, nor did she explain anything. She simply stood there, as if on a battlefield—her back straight, her breathing steady, her right hand hanging naturally near the hilt of her sword.

Klein walked in behind her and closed the door. The door slammed against the frame with a dull thud.

He glanced at the people staring at Ophelia and felt a little uneasy. He should have expected this—a female knight in battle-damaged armor walking into a tavern was strange enough in itself.

But he simply walked up to the bar and said in his usual tone, "The usual, two orders of grilled meat and some bread."

The waitress behind the bar snapped out of her daze, blinked, and nodded: "Okay, okay."

Her voice broke the silence, and the people in the tavern lowered their heads again to continue eating.

But his gaze would still occasionally drift towards Ophelia—a mixture of scrutiny, curiosity, and confusion.

Klein found a table against the wall and sat down. The spot had a wide view and could see the entire tavern.

Ophelia came over and sat down opposite him.

The chair creaked slightly, and her armor scraped against the wood, producing a faint metallic sound. The edges of her leg guards grazed the chair legs with short, sharp scrapes.

She sat very upright, her hands on the table, fingers interlaced, and her sword rested beside her chair with the hilt facing upwards, ready to be drawn at any moment.

Klein looked at her posture and suddenly thought of the veterans in the army. He had seen several retired mercenaries who sat down like this—always alert, always with their weapons within easy reach.