Alan had to admit—Medi’s master was right, at least about fiancées. What Medi said was technically correct… she’d just skipped the whole process.

Alan felt he should clarify the part about love her master left out. He gestured for her to walk and talk. Medi didn’t catch it. She stayed rooted in place, looking wronged, eyes glistening with unshed tears as she stared at him.

Sighing inwardly, Alan gently took her right hand and led her forward. Taking advantage? Nonsense. It was just a hand—soft, delicate, almost boneless.

His calm voice drifted down the street: “Medi, what you said is partly right, partly wrong. Yes, a fiancée marries and has children. But there’s a prerequisite: you must *like* the man. *Love* him. Not just bind yourself by contract and casually give away your…”

“I like Alan. I love Alan. So, Alan—marry me. Have children with me. I’ll be a devoted wife and loving mother.”

Medi cut him off, eyes blazing. She *knew* love. Love was possession. To love someone meant making them entirely yours. At least… that’s how Master explained it.

Alan nearly choked. She couldn’t even tell liking from loving—yet claimed both? If he believed her, he’d be a fool.

He took a slow breath. “Medi. Since you say you like me… love me… tell me: what *is* liking? What *is* love?”

Without hesitation: “Liking is possession. Love is possession. Master says—if you like someone, love someone—you make them yours. Sleep with them. Ride them. Whip them every single night.”

*Pfft!*

Alan mentally spat blood. *What kind of master is this?!* He’d thought his trap-setting dad and scheming grandpa were bad luck. But Medi? Truly unlucky. To have such a bizarre teacher—and her worldview still intact? A miracle.

“Alan? Don’t you agree with me and Master?” Medi asked, seeing his silence.

Alan gazed at her delicate features, bewitching eyes. What could he say? Her master had already spilled every word—appropriate or not.

*Sleep him. Ride him. Whip him nightly.*

…Impressively direct.

“Medi, let’s go. It’s late. We should get to the shopping district for your clothes.”

“Mm. Don’t worry, Alan. After I marry you, I’ll follow Master’s teachings exactly: sleep you, ride you, whip you every night.” An innocent, flawless smile bloomed on her face.

Alan’s body trembled—almost imperceptibly. Staring at that pure smile, he silently cursed his grandfather.

A little after five p.m., Alan and Medi returned from the shopping district. Back at Cloud Peak Guild, he greeted Haina and Emma, then headed to his second-floor study to write.

Emma stayed by his side, just like that morning—sitting quietly, head tilted, watching him work.

For the next three days, Alan cooked and wrote. Meanwhile, Haina and Medi remained locked in open rivalry and subtle clashes—their tension now gossip across the entire guild.

June 15, Year 5215 of the Yuan Calendar. Clear skies.

After three days of seclusion, Alan dressed formally: white embroidered arcane robe, staff in hand, Emma at his side. He carried his fifty-thousand-word manuscript toward Magic Weekly’s office on East Street, Newdali City.

Arcane robes were mage-exclusive. Non-mages couldn’t wear them. Colors denoted magic schools: blue for water, gold for metal, fiery red for fire, earthy yellow for earth, cyan for wind. Wind mages wore cyan; fire mages, fiery red. Dual-element mages? Choose either. Triple? Any three.

Alan was an all-element mage—free to wear any robe. But only a few Arcane Academy elders knew that. Publicly, he was a dual-element mage: light and ice. Both used near-identical white robes. Robes also differed by gender: men’s pentagrams on left chest and back; women’s on right chest and hem.

Normally, Alan skipped the robe. Today? Necessary. Formality mattered for submissions—and the robe saved explanations.

On Newdali City’s East Street stood a three-story blue building: Magic Weekly’s headquarters. Inside a third-floor editor-in-chief’s office—

“Editor-in-Chief Paros,” said Noah, a novel-section editor with three years’ tenure, “our revenue this half-year hasn’t reached half of those tabloids’. The novel section is the root cause. Our serialized stories can’t compete with their wildly fabricated ‘historical tales.’ If this continues, we’ll lose the entire year’s revenue—and readers are fleeing fast.”

Paros, a slightly plump middle-aged man with gold-rimmed glasses, clean-shaven face, and crisp black crew cut, listened intently. Noah had volunteered for this role out of passion for adventure and passionate storytelling. For two straight years, the novel section had operated at a loss—nearly edged out by Newdali’s tabloids.