Silence lingered for two seconds.
Raymond was momentarily dazed as he looked at the young man before him.
Under the lamp, Klein’s profile bore a seventy to eighty percent resemblance to the man in the old portrait on the study shelf. The contours of his brow and eyes were similar, but it was the intensity in his gaze when he looked at someone that truly matched—not the shape, but the spirit.
His father had been the same way. Even when discussing something of great importance, his eyes remained relaxed, as if nothing mattered, yet you knew with absolute certainty that every word he spoke was earnest.
The same applied to his speaking habits.
He would use a casual, light tone even when discussing serious matters.
It was as if he wrapped truly important things in the most nonchalant manner to prevent them from feeling heavy.
He had been the same way when speaking to Klein’s mother.
The old steward’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly.
“Master,” he said, his voice half a notch lower than usual, so deep it seemed to sink into his chest.
“Mm?”
“You... truly are very much like your father.”
Klein was taken aback.
He opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say something—perhaps a few humble words or a trivial joke to deflect the topic. But in the end, he said nothing.
“He was the same with the late Madam—your mother.”
Raymond stopped there, not continuing the thought.
He lowered his eyes and bowed slightly, returning to his usual, rule-abiding self. The movement was natural, like a door pushed open by the wind being gently pulled back into place by a hand.
“I understand. We shall proceed with the wedding according to your wishes,” he said, his voice returning to its normal volume, perhaps even steadier than usual—as if he were using decorum to tighten the momentary lapse in his composure. “I will arrange every detail properly; there will be no oversights.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
His steps were steady, his heels clicking rhythmically against the floor.
He paused for a moment by the door.
His hand was already on the handle, his back to Klein, the lines of his shoulders taut beneath his dark jacket.
Silence lasted for a breath or two.
“That you and the Madam are able to be together,” he said softly, as if talking to himself, “perhaps it truly is destiny.”
The door opened and then closed. The sound of the lock clicking was so faint, it was as if he feared disturbing someone.
The sound of footsteps in the corridor gradually faded, disappearing rhythmically around a corner deep within the old manor.
Klein sat alone in the laboratory.
The lamp was still lit, the flame steady. The distant sound of water had stopped—Ophelia was finished washing up. The old manor grew quiet again, so quiet he could hear the faint creaking of the wood within the walls—the breath of an old house as it cooled during the night.
He stared blankly at the lamp for a while.
Destiny.
He thought of the portrait on the study shelf. The man in the painting was not much older than he was now, wearing a half-worn jacket, standing under the old oak tree at the manor entrance with a faint smile on his lips. The artist’s skill was average, but that smile was well-captured—neither overly bright nor deep, just the kind of smile that said, “I’m quite satisfied with my life as it is.”
His mother’s portrait hung nearby, separated from his father’s by the width of a bookshelf. As a child, he had asked Raymond why they weren’t hung together, and Raymond had said, “That is how the Master hung them when he was alive. Each had their own place, but the bookshelf between them was filled entirely with books they bought together.”
At the time, he thought that explanation was a bit silly.
Now, he felt he understood it a little.
Two people didn't need to be glued together every moment, but the distance between them could be filled with shared things.
Klein looked down at the items on the table: the blue settling in the blood collection tube, the hurried handwriting in the data log, and the sketch of the garden layout Raymond had left behind.
Three things crowded the same table, seemingly unrelated.
Deep-sea pollution, an unfinished experiment, and a wedding yet to be held.
He folded the sketch and placed it in the drawer along with the data log. Then he extinguished the lamp and stood up.
As he reached the door, he looked back. In the darkness, the tube of blue blood on the centrifuge rack gave off a faint, indistinct glimmer, like an eye quietly watching the room from the shadows.
He closed the door and walked toward the washroom.
Destiny.
An interesting way to put it, he thought.
But whether it was destined or not...
He quickened his pace.
...
...
Days passed quickly.
Before Klein even noticed, several pages had been flipped on the desk calendar.
Progress on the medicine was smoother than expected. It wasn't lightning-fast, but every step was solid, with no wasted effort.
The wedding dress was also nearing completion.
Lillian had sent word two days ago through a messenger, saying the final hemming and waist adjustments were finished and they should come to pick it up whenever it was convenient.
The message was written on a scrap of leftover fabric, a few crooked lines of text with light pen strokes, as if the writer feared that applying too much pressure would puncture the cloth.
At the end, there was even a small drawing of a spool of thread—it was unclear if it was a signature or just a doodle. The loose end of the thread was drawn in a winding way that, upon closer inspection, actually looked a bit like a flower.
When Klein showed the strip of cloth to Ophelia, she stared at the spool for a long time. Her lips twitched slightly, but she offered no comment.
It was common for young girls to have such cute little whims; it was quite lovely, wasn't it?
The wedding venue was also mostly arranged. Raymond’s efficiency was beyond reproach—the frames for the flower stands were set up, the carpenter’s chairs had received their first coat of paint, and a small patch of ground under the old oak tree in the back garden had been cleared. The blacksmith had forged a semi-circular archway and stood it there, waiting for the florist to entwine it with vines and flowers.
The fabric work was also finishing up—tablecloths, silk ribbons for the chair backs, and several small flags.
When Raymond showed him the samples, Klein said they were fine. Raymond then showed them to Ophelia, and she also said they were fine.
Raymond put the samples away and left with an expressionless face, only letting out a sigh of relief once he was out the door. If both said they were fine, then they were truly fine. It would have been much more troublesome if one said it was fine while the other remained silent.
Everything was going unnervingly well.
Sometimes, while sitting in the laboratory, Klein would catch himself wondering if some kind of mishap ought to happen for things to feel normal.
There was an unwritten saying in alchemy: when every step is perfect, either your luck is heavenly, or you simply haven't discovered where the problem lies yet.
However, the way the peace was broken was not something he had anticipated.
That afternoon, Klein was in the third-floor laboratory organizing the previous day’s experimental records. Sunlight streamed in through the window at an angle, falling on the desk and casting a long shadow from the ink bottle.
He stopped his pen.
The ink on the tip hadn't dried yet, blooming into a small smudge on the paper. He didn't mind it.
His attention had been drawn away by something else.
Outside the manor, an aura was approaching. It was neither hurried nor slow, moving with a steady pace. It was coming from the road leading from the town to the manor, about three or four minutes away at a normal walking speed.
It wasn't an ordinary person.
The aura of an ordinary person wouldn't be perceptible to him from the third floor. More importantly, the visitor was not suppressing or concealing it; they were walking over quite openly. It was as if they were specifically saying, “I am here,” or perhaps they simply didn't care who knew.
This level of aura concentration was something Klein had only felt once in his life.
The last time was on the west coast.
Klein set down his pen, closed the record book, and went downstairs.
As he passed the second-floor corridor, he ran into Ophelia. She was leaning against the window, holding a book she had barely started, her gaze already fixed outside. The page she had opened was being blown upward by the wind, but she didn't reach out to press it down.
“You felt it too?” Klein asked.
“Mm.” Ophelia’s right hand rested on the window frame. She paused for a moment, as if confirming something, before speaking. “It’s definitely her.”
Klein didn't ask further.
“I’ll go down and take a look.”
Ophelia nodded, showing no intention of following. She turned back toward the window, her golden eyes watching the direction of the manor gate.
But after Klein took two steps, she suddenly spoke.
“Klein.”
“Mm?”
“...It’s nothing.” Her gaze didn't return to him. “Go ahead.”
Klein glanced at her. Her profile was framed by the window, the afternoon sun bathing her golden hair in warmth, but her right hand—the one unaffected by pollution—tapped the wood of the frame twice, unconsciously.
He said nothing and continued downstairs.
Just as Klein reached the main entrance of the manor, a figure appeared at the end of the flagstone path.
A black robe.
The hood was pulled low, hiding the entire face in shadow. The hem of the robe dragged on the ground, its edges stained with a bit of mud—likely from passing through a stretch of unpaved road that hadn't fully dried after the rain.
The Sage stood at the entrance, making no move to enter or knock. She just stood there, as if waiting for someone to open the door, or perhaps hesitating over whether to knock.
A row of low shrubs grew on either side of the flagstone path, their new leaves budding a tender green this season. The Sage’s black robe created a jarring contrast against that fresh greenery, like a drop of ink falling onto a watercolor painting.
Klein leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms.
“Quite a rare guest.”
The Sage’s hood moved slightly. Her expression was invisible, but that small movement—a slight tilt of the head—made her look less like a profound and mysterious figure and more like a passerby who had been suddenly called out to.
“You’ve come at a good time,” Klein said. “I just brewed a pot of tea.”
The Sage didn't respond to that.
She stood in place, her black robe swaying gently in the afternoon breeze. Beneath the shadow of the hood, a pair of eyes quietly watched Klein.
“Here for an inspection?” Klein took the initiative to speak, his tone casual. “I haven't really started on the research regarding the sirens. That stuff is still a bit dangerous for me; I can’t rush it.”
“No.”
The Sage interrupted him.
Her voice came from beneath the hood, cold and clear.
But after those words, she didn't immediately follow up with the next sentence.
Silence lasted for several seconds.
The wind at the manor entrance blew through the shrubs on either side of the path, making a fine rustling sound. Birds chirped intermittently in the distant fields. A bee buzzed past the hem of the Sage’s robe, completely unaware that it had just flown past someone capable of destroying half a city.
Klein waited.
He had one virtue—he was very patient.
The Sage’s fingers extended slightly from her sleeve and then retracted. The movement was so fast that if Klein hadn't been watching her, he wouldn't have noticed it at all.
She was nervous.
When this realization surfaced, Klein himself was taken aback. The Sage—the one who had beaten a siren into a cube on the west coast—was nervous.
“I came to...”
She spoke, her voice a bit lower than before.
She paused. It was a very brief pause, too short for an ordinary person to notice. But Klein heard it—it wasn't a pause to organize her thoughts, but a pause to gather her courage.
“...attend your and Ophelia’s wedding.”
After saying that, she didn't move.
Her body beneath the black robe stood perfectly straight, as if saying those words had exhausted all her resolve, and she could only maintain her dignity by freezing in place.
Another gust of wind blew, lifting a corner of her robe and revealing a section of dark boots. The style of the boots was ordinary, not some high-end item, and the soles were stained with the same mud as the hem of her robe.
Klein looked at her.
The expression on his face slowly shifted from casual to something hard to define. It wasn't surprise, nor was it confusion. If he had to describe it... it was likely the kind of expression one would have when looking at something that clearly made no sense but was impossible to refuse.
He thought for a moment.
“I don’t recall sending you an invitation.”
“...”
“In fact, I haven't sent an invitation to anyone.”
The Sage was silent for two seconds.
“I know.”
There was a hint—truly just a hint—of a guilty conscience in her voice. Her cold tone cracked for an instant, and the thing that leaked through the gap almost made Klein laugh out loud.
To hear a guilty conscience from the most powerful mage on the continent, Klein felt that opening the door today had been worth it.
He straightened up, taking his shoulders off the doorframe.
“How did you know we were having a wedding?”
The Sage didn't answer.
Her eyes beneath the hood shifted slightly—not to avoid him, but more like she was seriously considering how to answer without giving herself away.
“Where did you come from?”
Still no answer.
But this silence was different from the last. The last one was “I don’t know how to answer,” while this one was “you wouldn't believe me even if I told you.”
Klein wasn't annoyed either. He stepped back, clearing the doorway.
“Come in, then.”
“The tea is going to get cold,” Klein said.
He turned and walked inside for a few steps, then suddenly stopped and glanced back.
The Sage was still standing outside the threshold.
One of her feet was already raised, hovering above the threshold—but it didn't descend. She looked down at the threshold for about a second.
Then she stepped in.
The sole of her boot made a soft thud against the stone.
What Klein didn't see was that the moment she crossed the threshold, the lips on that obscured face beneath the hood moved slightly.
Soundlessly.
As if she were saying a word only she could hear.
By the second-floor window, the book in Ophelia’s hand had closed at some point.
She watched the backs of the two people walking into the manor one after the other, her golden eyes narrowing slightly—not in wariness, nor in hostility.
For some reason, she couldn't bring herself to feel that way about the person before her.
Rate on N.U.
