Klein stood in the empty room, looking at the wilted flowers.
He did not panic.
That knightess didn't seem like the type of person who would run away from a marriage. When she stood in the hall, although she looked somewhat lost, if she had accepted this marriage, she would keep her promise. Knights were all like that—and this knightess especially so.
Klein turned and went downstairs.
The hallway on the first floor was quiet, the ashes in the fireplace were still grayish-white, the curtains were drawn, and the shadows stretched long across the floor. He walked through the hall and pushed open the door leading to the courtyard.
The night wind blew in, carrying the scent of grass and wood.
The moon had risen, hanging in the treetops and illuminating the weeds in the courtyard until they turned white.
Klein stood at the door, and then—he saw her.
Ophelia was wearing her silver-white suit of armor.
The dent on her breastplate looked like a black scar in the moonlight, and the buckles on her spaulders hung loosely, but she stood straight as a spear polished by the moon.
She was holding a sword.
The blade reflected the moonlight, carving arcs through the air. The edge split the air, letting out a low whistling sound—the kind of sound Klein had read about in books but had never heard in reality. Now he heard it; it was the sound of a blade cutting through the wind, sharp and resolute, carrying a sense of danger that made his heart skip a beat.
Her movements were fast, yet every step was steady.
The weeds beneath her feet were crushed into tracks, and the tip of her sword dragged shallow furrows into the ground. She lunged forward, the tip of her blade stopping in mid-air as if piercing the throat of some invisible enemy; she swung upward, her spaulders making a faint rubbing sound as the blade's trajectory left afterimages in Klein's eyes; she turned and delivered a horizontal slash, her golden hair flaring in the moonlight, and the weeds fell in unison where the blade swept past.
Klein leaned against the doorframe, forgetting to speak.
He had originally intended to remind her to eat, but now he didn't want to interrupt her.
Sweat slid down from her temples, flowing along her cheeks to her chin, looking like fine silver threads in the moonlight. Her breathing grew rapid, the breastplate rising and falling with her breath, but the sword did not stop.
She lunged once more, the tip of the blade halting in the air, held for a few seconds before she withdrew it.
She stood there with the sword hanging at her side, the moonlight bathing her figure.
Sweat soaked the golden hair at her temples, several strands sticking to her forehead and the side of her neck. Those pale golden pupils shone piercingly in the moonlight, like the last trace of residual heat on a blade that had yet to retreat from some invisible battlefield.
Klein stared at her for two seconds.
Then he realized one thing:
Those people hadn't lied to him. This woman had indeed slaughtered far too many sea monsters on the west coast.
But they hadn't told him that someone like this could be so beautiful.
The suit of armor on her body should have been a burden, and those dents and signs of wear should have made her look disheveled, but the way she stood in the weeds was like something else entirely—Klein had seen descriptions of blood-stained battle standards and knights who refused to retreat in books, but words on paper had never possessed such impact.
The moonlight stretched her shadow very long, the tip of the shadow almost touching Klein's feet.
Looking at that shadow, he suddenly remembered a saying: "The sword is a knight's second life."
Now he believed it.
Klein took a deep breath, looked away, and cleared his throat: "Ahem."
Ophelia turned her head and saw him.
Her hand tightened around the hilt, then relaxed. Moonlight fell on her face, and sweat dripped from her chin onto the armor, making a faint sound.
"Dinner," Klein said, trying to make his voice sound a bit more normal. "I haven't made it yet."
Ophelia looked at him and said nothing.
She simply stood there with her sword still in hand, the moonlight illuminating her like some ancient statue.
"Are you hungry?" Klein asked again.
She looked down at the sword in her hand, the blade still showing fine cracks. She sheathed the sword, the movement crisp and efficient, like stowing away something dangerous. Then she stood tall and looked toward Klein.
"Yes," she said.
Her voice was calm, but Klein heard something else in it—she was indeed hungry, and likely had been for a long time, but she wouldn't say it of her own accord.
Honesty was a knightly virtue, but knights did not complain.
This made Klein feel inevitably awkward.
After all, Ophelia was his wife in name, yet she hadn't even been able to eat since arriving here and had to practice her swordplay in the courtyard on an empty stomach until now. If word of this got out, Klein would be considered a scoundrel, if not a total bastard.
Ophelia looked at him, likely sensing his thoughts.
"It is fine," she said, her tone remaining calm as if stating a perfectly ordinary fact. "Back in the army, we often couldn't manage to eat because of training. Sometimes while traveling, it was common to eat only one meal a day. Supplies were scarce on the west coast; once we were trapped on a sea cliff and only ate two pieces of hard bread in three days."
Her eyes didn't flicker as she spoke, as if telling someone else's story.
As Klein listened, he felt even more guilty.
While she was fighting for her life on the battlefield, he was tinkering with potions in his laboratory. While she was slaughtering sea monsters on an empty stomach, he could at least eat on time. Now that she had finally retired, she ended up being ignored on her first day of marriage without even a hot meal.
What kind of nonsense was this?
"That won't do," Klein said, his tone firmer than before. "The past is the past; now is now. You are no longer in the army, and you aren't on the west coast; you should eat when it's time to eat. And—"
He paused and added: "And today is... ahem, a special day. We can't have you going through the first day of our marriage on an empty stomach."
Ophelia didn't speak, only watching him.
The moonlight fell on her face, his reflection mirrored in her golden pupils. Her gaze was direct, lacking the reserve or probing common among noble ladies; she just looked at him simply, as if confirming whether he was being sincere.
Feeling a bit uneasy under her gaze, Klein scratched his head: "How about this? I'll take you out to eat. There's a small tavern near the manor; the owner is a veteran, and his roasted meat is very authentic. They also have some desserts that taste quite good."
"Go out?" Ophelia repeated the word, a hint of confusion in her tone.
"Yes, go out," Klein said. "To be honest, my cooking isn't very good, so I usually eat out. If you don't mind..."
He stopped halfway, his gaze falling on the suit of armor Ophelia was wearing.
The silver-white armor gleamed coldly in the moonlight, the dent on the breastplate clearly visible, and the buckles on the spaulders were still hanging loosely. If she walked down the street dressed like this, she would certainly turn every head.
"Uh," Klein hesitated for a moment, "do you want to change your clothes first?"
Ophelia looked down at herself.
She looked at the dent on her breastplate, then at the hilt of the sword in her hand, and fell silent for a few seconds. Then she looked up and shook her head: "No, I am used to this."
Klein was momentarily stunned.
He had wanted to say "but wearing armor to dinner is a bit strange," but the words died in his throat.
Because he suddenly realized that for Ophelia, armor might be more like "normal clothes" than those magnificent dresses. She had worn armor on the battlefield for who knows how long; to her, armor wasn't a burden but a source of security.
Just as he felt comfortable in his potion-stained work clothes.
"Alright," Klein nodded. "Then, shall we go now?"
"Alright," Ophelia replied.
She turned to walk back, took two steps, and then stopped to look at Klein: "Aren't you going to change?"
Klein looked down at himself.
His white shirt was stained with a few drops of blue potion, the cuffs had burn marks from flames, and his trousers were covered in dust and some black powder he'd picked up at some point. He had been in the laboratory all day; this outfit was indeed not very suitable for going out.
But he thought about it and shook his head: "Forget it, I'll go like this. Since you aren't changing, I won't either."
Ophelia looked at him, a flicker of incomprehension in her eyes: "Why?"
"Because..." Klein scratched his head, "if I change and you're the only one walking down the road in armor, wouldn't it look even stranger?"
He paused and shrugged: "Anyway, the owner of that tavern knows me; he knows I'm an alchemist. It's normal for an alchemist's clothes to be a bit dirty. You wear your armor, I'll wear my work clothes; neither of us can look down on the other."
He spoke lightheartedly, but Ophelia remained silent for several seconds.
She didn't say anything, only looking at Klein as the moonlight illuminated her face, a mix of complex emotions—like surprise and confusion—flashing through her golden pupils.
Then she turned and continued forward.
"Let's go," she said.
Klein followed behind her, locked the door, and the two of them walked out of the manor.
The path at night was quiet, the moonlight shining on the flagstones and stretching their shadows long.
Ophelia walked in front, her armor glinting coldly in the moonlight, her footsteps exceptionally clear on the empty road—it was the sound of metal greaves rubbing together and boots striking the stones, rhythmic and steady, like some sort of marching cadence.
Klein walked behind her, looking at her straight back.
The moonlight fell on her spaulders, making the signs of wear and tear vividly clear.
Staring at those marks, Klein suddenly remembered something.
"By the way," he began, "were you in the courtyard practicing your swordplay all afternoon?"
"Yes."
"How long were you practicing?"
Ophelia thought for a moment: "From the afternoon until now."
Klein did the math; that was at least four or five hours.
He couldn't help but click his tongue: "Aren't you tired?"
"I am used to it," Ophelia said.
Her voice was calm, as if stating something that was only natural.
Listening to her, a thought flashed through Klein's mind: No wonder this knightess could slaughter sea monsters so fiercely on the west coast; this training intensity was truly brutal.
"There is no need to fight anymore," Klein said. "You can rest for a bit."
Ophelia didn't answer.
Her hand tightened slightly around the hilt of her sword, then relaxed. Moonlight fell on her hand, making the calluses on it appear particularly prominent in the light.
"When there is no war," she said, her tone still calm, but Klein heard something else in it—like a form of obsession or fear, "it is even more important to train."
Klein understood the meaning behind her words.
When there is no war, the sword will rust.
And if the sword is rusted, when it is needed again, it will be unable to save anyone.
He didn't say anything more, simply following behind her as they continued forward.
The tavern was just ahead, warm yellow light spilling from the windows, and the wooden sign hanging by the door swayed gently in the wind.
Klein pushed open the door.
...
The door to the tavern was pushed open, and warm yellow light poured out, carrying the scent of ale and charcoal fires.
It wasn't noisy inside. A few wooden tables were scattered about with guests sitting in groups of two or three, their voices kept low as if afraid of disturbing something.
The fire in the fireplace was burning brightly, the wood crackling, and the oil lamps hanging on the walls cast shadows that swayed across the ceiling.
When Ophelia walked in, those voices stopped.
The silver-white armor glinted coldly in the light, the dent on the breastplate clearly visible—it was a mark left by some sharp weapon, sunken deep into the metal, casting a small shadow under the lamplight.
The sound of her footsteps rang out on the wooden floor, clack, clack, every step steady and firm, a gait formed by years of training; even in full armor, there was not a hint of swaying.
The scabbard hung at her waist, the hilt revealing signs of wear under the light. Those marks were dense, as if repeatedly rubbed by something; Klein knew those were the imprints left by long-term sword-holding.
The two people sitting by the window looked up, their forks stopping mid-air. One of them, a burly man with a thick beard, froze for a moment, his gaze lingering on Ophelia's armor before quickly looking away and whispering something to his companion.
The barmaid behind the counter was holding a glass and looked over, the rag in her hand nearly falling to the floor.
An old man in a hat in the corner took the pipe out of his mouth and squinted at her, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to say something but swallowed it back down.
Ophelia stood at the door, her golden pupils scanning the entire tavern.
She didn't dodge those gazes, nor did she explain anything; she simply stood there as if on a battlefield—back straight, breathing steady, her right hand naturally hanging near the hilt of her sword.
Klein walked in behind her and closed the door. The door frame and panel collided with a dull thud.
He glanced at the people staring at Ophelia, feeling a bit uncomfortable. He should have expected this—a female knight in battle-damaged armor walking into a small tavern was a strange enough image on its own.
But he simply walked to the bar and said in his usual tone: "The usual, two servings of roasted meat and some bread."
The barmaid behind the counter snapped out of it, blinked, and nodded: "O-okay."
Her voice broke the silence, and the people in the tavern lowered their heads again, returning to their meals.
But gazes still drifted toward Ophelia from time to time—appraising, curious, confused, all sorts of looks.
Klein found a table against the wall and sat down; that position offered a clear view of the entire tavern.
Ophelia walked over and sat down opposite him.
The chair let out a faint creak as her armor rubbed against the wood, making a subtle metallic sound. The edge of her greaves brushed against the chair leg, producing a short scraping noise.
She sat very straight, her hands placed on the table with fingers interlaced, her sword leaning against the chair with the hilt upward, ready to be drawn at any moment.
Looking at her posture, Klein suddenly thought of the veterans in the army. He had seen a few retired mercenaries, and they were like this when they sat—always maintaining alertness, always keeping their weapons within reach.
Rate on N.U.
